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littlegochu · 1 month ago

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"just friends" part 4 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

The message is already there when I wake up.

[Jungkook]: your place?

I stare at it for a while. Blink. Roll onto my back and let the sunlight hit my face like punishment. My head isn’t aching, but it might as well be—my thoughts are loud enough.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I toss my phone somewhere into the mess of sheets and blanket, drag myself out of bed, and plant my feet on the cold hardwood like it might shock something useful back into my brain.

He’s not my boyfriend. He never was. It was stress relief. Graduation anxiety. A mutual understanding. A warm body and a sharp mouth and a habit that got too familiar.

So why does my chest feel tight?

I shower like it’ll rinse it off. Like it’ll undo the way he looked at me from across the couch—like I was someone he wanted to forget and couldn’t. I don’t even remember washing my hair, just that my fingers shook when they brushed my collarbone.

[Jungkook]: or u mad i didn’t chase you down last night

I still don’t answer.

Mira picks the coffee shop—tiny, overpriced, with oat milk and weird lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a Lana Del Rey music video.

"You look like you haven’t slept in three weeks," she says, sipping something with cinnamon foam and zero empathy.

I shrug. "Just a rough night."

"Oh? Because of Theo? Or because of a certain black-haired menace who texted me asking where you went?"

My eyes narrow over the rim of my iced matcha. "You talk to him?"

"Not really. He just said, and I quote, 'your friend disappear or just dramatic?'" She lifts her brow. "So. Which was it?"

"Neither," I say, leaning back. "It was just time to go."

Mira watches me too closely. Like she’s waiting for a crack to show.

She leans her chin into her palm. "You know, for someone who’s not supposed to care, you’re acting weird."

I exhale slowly. "I’m not acting weird. I’m just... over it."

She snorts. "You’re over it the way people are over their ex but still check their stories."

I say nothing.

She softens a little, like she knows she’s pressing too hard. "You know I get it, right? I’m not judging you. It’s just—when you walked out last night, he looked like someone just stole his lighter."

I blink. "That’s oddly specific."

"It’s Jungkook. He’s attached to stupid things."

I huff a laugh, finally. "Yeah. Like bad decisions."

She smiles, then sighs. "He’s not easy. Never has been. Even as a kid. Always intense, always quiet until he wasn't. People thought he was cool, but really he was just… complicated."

"Sounds familiar."

Mira lifts her brow. "Exactly. You two speak the same language. Which is probably why it’s a disaster."

"We were just hooking up," I say, quieter now. "It helped. When school was insane, when everything felt too loud—he was just… there."

"But now school’s over. And he’s still there."

I don’t respond.

"So what now?" she asks, more gently this time. "You ghost him? Pretend it didn’t matter?"

"We weren’t anything."

"You keep saying that. Doesn’t sound very convincing."

I play with my straw. The ice has all melted.

"You’re really on both sides, huh?"

"Unfortunately," Mira says, rolling her eyes. "I like you both. But don’t make me pick if this blows up. Seriously. I’ll vanish. Witness protection. New name, new life."

I crack a smile. "You’re dramatic."

"And you’re deflecting."

I lift my cup. "Cheers to that."

"No promises," I murmur.

"You know," she says casually, stirring her drink like she isn’t aiming straight for my jugular, "I know you think this thing with him was just about stress. But finals are over. Graduation happened. You don’t look very relieved."

I look away.

The coffee shop smells like vanilla syrup and someone’s overly ambitious cologne. My fingers tap restlessly against my cup. The straw squeaks.

"We used each other," I say finally. "It was mutual."

Mira hums. "Sure. Mutual. That’s why you look like he hit you with a truck made of bad decisions."

I glare. "You’re enjoying this."

"A little. I like when you have feelings. It makes you human."

I roll my eyes.

"So what now?" she asks, sipping again. "You just ghost each other? Pretend it never happened? You know we’re all friends, right? You can’t unsee each other."

"We don’t need to." I pick at the lid of my cup. "He’ll move on. Probably already has."

That comes out too bitter. I try not to let it show.

But Mira doesn’t miss a beat.

"Right," she says, slow. "And that doesn’t bother you at all? Him with someone else?"

I scoff. "No."

"Hmm." A beat. "You sure?"

I don’t answer. Because if I do, I might say something stupid. Like I saw him with someone last night and it felt like swallowing glass.

My apartment is too quiet when I get home.

The walls hum with silence, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the hallway clock. I toss my keys in the bowl by the door and set my phone face down on the counter like it might behave better that way.

I wash a dish. Then another. Then stare at the sponge like it holds answers.

What if he did go home with her? What if that text this morning was just routine? Just checking if I’d let him use me again?

What if I want him to?

I’m about to spiral again when there’s a knock on the door.

Three short raps. Confident.

I freeze.

The air feels thicker. My skin prickles.

I open it.

Jungkook stands on the other side.

He’s in dark joggers, a fitted tee that clings to his arms, and a zip-up that he didn’t bother zipping. His hair’s slightly messy like he ran a hand through it a few times, and there’s a faint line across his neck like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t mean to take.

He looks stupid hot.

Which is deeply unfair.

I lean against the doorframe.

"What."

He tilts his head. "You ignoring me now?"

I lift a brow. "Were you expecting a thank-you card for last night?"

His lips twitch. "Didn’t think I needed one. But you dipped without a word."

"So?"

"So?" He steps closer. "You gonna tell me why?"

I shrug. "Didn’t feel like staying."

"That all?"

I meet his gaze. Cool. Level.

"Why? You miss me already?"

He smiles. Slow. Sharp.

"Are you jealous?"

I scoff. "Of what? The girl with the wandering hands? Please."

He laughs—quiet, throaty. He looks at me like he knows he’s getting under my skin.

I hate how much he is.

"Stop acting like that," I say flatly.

He quirks a brow. "Like what?"

"Like you didn’t do anything wrong."

Jungkook leans against the frame beside me. Close enough to feel. The scent of his cologne hits—clean, faint spice, warm skin underneath. It curls into my lungs and sits there.

"Did I?"

I want to scream. Or kiss him. Or slam the door.

Instead, I roll my eyes and step back.

"You coming in or just here to admire yourself in the peephole reflection?"

He smirks. Follows me inside.

It starts all over again.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he’s done it a hundred times—which he has—and glances around the room like something might’ve changed in the last twelve hours.

I fold my arms. "You here to sulk in person? Or did texting me twice not feed your ego enough?"

He tosses a look over his shoulder. "I brought you something."

I blink. "What?"

He holds up a plastic bag. Inside: two cups of boba, condensation slicking down the sides.

"Figured you were still mad," he says. "You always want something sweet when you’re mad."

I don’t move right away. Just stare at the bag. My throat feels too dry.

Right. Of course he brought boba.

Because I’m just a casual fuck to him. That’s why he’s here. That’s what this is. Don’t be dumb.

But my chest pulls tight anyway, like my body didn’t get the memo.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

I can find someone else easily. If I wanted. If I cared. I don’t.

I grab the drinks without thanking him. It doesn’t stop the flutter in my chest.

"You think this fixes anything?"

He shrugs and drops onto the couch, legs spread like he owns the place. "Didn’t know I broke anything."

I roll my eyes and sip the boba. It's my favorite. Obviously.

He watches me over the rim of his hand as he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. The veins in his forearms stand out when he stretches, and I hate that I notice.

"You keep looking at me like that," he says, "people might start thinking you like me."

"Keep talking like that and you’ll be the only one thinking that."

He laughs, quiet and low. "You missed me."

"You’re delusional."

"You didn’t block me."

"Bad karma."

"You opened the door."

"Out of curiosity."

He leans back, arm resting along the top of the couch, one leg bouncing slightly. Every move is lazy, comfortable, and way too attractive.

"So what’s the deal?" he asks. "We just don’t talk anymore?"

"That was the idea."

"Doesn’t seem to be working."

I cross the room slowly and sit across from him, curling one leg under myself. I keep the boba in my hand like a shield. He watches every move like it matters.

His gaze lingers a little too long. My skin warms. My pulse kicks.

"Don’t look at me like that," I say again, quieter this time.

"Like what?"

"Like you miss me."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps his eyes on me. Heavy. Dark. Focused.

"Maybe I do."

The silence sits thick between us. I should say something sharp. I should laugh it off. But I don’t. I just stare at him, my breath shallow.

He taps his thigh. "Come here."

I don’t move.

"You’re scared," he says, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a fact.

"Of what?"

He tilts his head. "Of how bad you want this to not be casual anymore."

I scoff, but it sounds thin. "You’ve got a big head for someone who couldn’t even keep my attention past midnight."

He smirks, stands slowly, and walks toward me.

"Want me to try again?"

I swallow. My heart hammers.

He stops just in front of me. Not touching. Just close. The kind of close that’s magnetic.

"Say the word," he says, voice low. "And I’ll back off."

I look at him. I really look at him.

And I don’t say a thing.

He leans in. His lips ghost over mine. I feel his breath. My hand grips the edge of the couch, knuckles white.

The boba is long forgotten on the table.

When he kisses me, it’s soft. Testing. But underneath—heat.

It’s about to get messy. Again.

He kisses me like he’s trying to remind me of something—his mouth slow, tongue teasing, hands still annoyingly patient. And I’m over it.

I push forward, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and shove him back until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He lets himself fall with a low grunt, looking up at me with something between surprise and amusement.

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice slightly rough. “Didn’t think you were in the mood.”

I climb over him, straddling his thighs, pulling his jacket down off one shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His hands hover at my hips, not quite grabbing—like he’s waiting for permission, or maybe just enjoying watching me lose it first.

“You still mad?” he asks, tone mocking. “Still jealous?”

I drag my nails along his collarbone, just hard enough to leave a mark. “Shut up.”

He groans low, like he likes that too much. “Fuck, you're hot when you’re pissed.”

“You don’t know me pissed.”

“I’m starting to.”

I grind against him once—slow and firm. His breath stutters.

His jaw tightens, hands finally clamping down on my waist. But he doesn’t guide. Doesn’t take control. He just holds on, letting me move how I want.

Which is worse.

Because it means I’m doing this to myself.

He looks up at me with his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dark. It’s infuriating how good he looks like this—messy, controlled, completely at ease beneath me like he owns this whole situation without doing a damn thing.

“You gonna keep teasing?” he says lowly.

“Maybe.”

“Figured.”

I lean in, mouth grazing his. “You don’t get to act bored when you’re this fucking hard.”

His breath catches. “Didn’t say I was bored.”

I kiss him again, rougher this time. There’s nothing sweet about it—just teeth and tongue and too much tension pressed into skin. He kisses back with heat but holds himself steady, letting me take.

That’s what pisses me off the most.

He doesn’t try to dominate me. Doesn’t flip us over or take charge.

He lets me have it.

Because he knows I want it.

I pull at the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms just enough to help but never stops watching me—like he’s curious how far I’ll go before I break.

I push his shirt over his head, toss it somewhere careless. His chest rises and falls, inked skin flushed. My hands drag down his stomach, lower.

“You still think I missed you?” I ask.

He exhales through his nose, smirking. “You act like it.”

“Ha,” I scoff.

His breath catches again when I palm him through his sweats. I don’t look away. I want to see it. Want to watch the tension unravel.

His fingers dig in at my hips. A groan rumbles low in his chest.

“I’m not gonna stop you,” he mutters. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t need you to.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

His hands slide up my thighs and under my shirt, slow but confident, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just under my ribs. He tugs the fabric up inch by inch until I lift my arms for him to pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, and he doesn’t waste time—he palms my chest roughly through my bra, lips dragging along my jaw.

I arch slightly. He grins against my skin.

"You’re easy to rile up," he mutters, mouth ghosting over the top edge of the bra.

"You talk too much."

He slides one strap down, then the other, dragging the cups away to expose me. His mouth is hot when it wraps around one nipple, tongue swirling once before he sucks hard. My fingers tighten in his hair.

He hums against me like he enjoys it. The sound vibrates through my chest.

He switches to the other side, bites gently, then soothes the sting with his tongue. My breathing goes shallow. His hand kneads the side of my breast, rough and greedy.

"You like this?" he says against my skin.

"I like shutting you up."

He smirks, but the way he looks at me now is darker. Hungrier.

"You gonna return the favor?"

I blink down at him. Then I shove his chest.

He falls back with a grunt, smirking as I move down between his legs.

"You’re dangerous like this," he says.

"You talk too much."

I pull his sweats down, slow and deliberate. His breath hitches. I don’t look away.

His cock is already hard, flushed, the kind of perfect that makes my throat dry. I stroke him once, twice, loving the way his hips twitch.

When I finally take him into my mouth, he groans—deep and raw, head falling back.

"Fuck, that’s..." He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

I go slow at first, then pick up the pace, tongue working him over as he grips the edge of the couch. I press my palm flat against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump.

He mutters something, curse and praise all tangled.

I don’t stop until his hand tightens in my hair and his breath turns ragged.

"Y/N—"

I pull off, wipe my mouth, and climb back onto his lap.

His pupils are blown wide. His chest rises and falls like he just ran five miles.

I reach between us and guide him, slow but certain. He shudders under me, the sharp hitch in his breath making my head spin. I sink down inch by inch, every nerve lit up, every inch of him pushing into me like he belongs there.

His hands slide up my thighs again but stop at my hips. He doesn’t help. Doesn’t move. Just holds me in place and watches like he’s burning this into memory.

"You wanted control," he says, voice rough. "Then move."

So I do.

At first it’s slow, steady. Just enough to get used to the stretch again, to remind myself that I can take it. That I’ve done this before. That it shouldn’t feel this different.

But it does.

It feels too good.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are on my mouth. He looks like he’s fighting himself with every second that passes.

I roll my hips once and his fingers dig in, but he doesn’t stop me.

“Don't look at me like that,” I whisper. “I dare you.”

His voice is ragged. “I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

He laughs under his breath, but it dies fast when I move again. Faster this time. Harder. His mouth parts, a low sound dragging from his throat.

The couch creaks. My skin is flushed and damp. I can feel him twitch inside me and it just spurs me on.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

My hands splay against his chest. His skin is hot and smooth, his abs flexing with every shift of my hips. He’s trying to hold still but I feel it—every second closer to breaking.

“Why are you doing this?” he breathes.

I slow, stare at him. “Because I can.”

He groans again, eyes closing like it physically hurts to let me have this much power.

“You’re gonna make me forget this is supposed to be casual,” he mutters.

I bite down on his shoulder, not soft. “Shut up.”

He pulls me down to kiss him again—messy, hot, all tongue and teeth. This time, I let him.

Because if he wants to pretend this means nothing, then fine.

I can pretend too.

I ride him until both of us are shaking. Until the air is thick and the only sounds in the room are my breathy curses and his ragged moans and the slick rhythm of our bodies moving like we forgot how to stop.

And when I feel him start to lose it, I don’t slow down.

I want to watch him fall apart.

“Say it,” I whisper.

He grits his teeth. “Say what.”

“That I’m better than her.”

His hands fist in the couch. “Fuck.”

“Say it.”

He growls, snapping his hips up once, sharp and perfect. “You are her.”

'You are her.'

Hm.

“Louder.”

“You are her. Fuck, you’re—”

authors note (edit made after publishing): jungkook didn't get w that other girl, she was just seen flirting w him at the party hence why he said "you are her." since y/ns bringing up imaginary competition 😭 but also mind jungkook is free to mess around with whoever he wants! as long as he's practicing safe sex since him and y/n aren't anything serious/established!

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

He comes hard, body locked, face wrecked. And I don’t stop moving until I’m chasing it too, shaking, clutching him like I hate him for how good it feels.

We collapse in silence, both of us breathing like we ran a marathon.

My head drops to his shoulder. His arm slides around my back. Not possessive. Just there.

Like he forgot to think twice.

And I let him.

authors note: lwokey rushed this but comment and lmk what u think!

part 5 here

#bts x reader #bts smut #jungkook #bts army #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook scenarios #bts #jungkook smut #jungkook ff

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littlelamy · 2 months ago

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the french-style café smelled like cinnamon and espresso, soft music playing overhead and the sound of milk steaming in the background. you were already buzzing, even before your drink—just from being with him. your oversized pink hoodie slipped off one shoulder, hair bouncing as you tugged him inside by the hand. rafe looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“why are we here again?” he muttered, squinting at the chalkboard menu. “you know i don’t drink this overpriced hipster shit.”

you gasped, clutching your chest. “rafe…you can’t say that here.”

he rolled his eyes. “what, like they’re gonna kick me out for calling a five-dollar cup of milk with cinnamon foam a scam?”

“it’s oat milk,” you said, giggling, bouncing on your heels. “and it’s not a scam if it makes me happy.”

he grumbled under his breath, but he followed you to the counter. you ordered first—iced lavender oat milk latte with sweet foam and pink syrup drizzle. the barista smiled like she knew you and she probably did. you came here almost every week. rafe stared at the menu in complete confusion.

“what’s the least stupid thing on this list?” he asked, deadpan.

you leaned in, whispering, “just get a cold brew, grumpy bear.”

he did. black, no cream, and no sugar. when you sat down by the window—little round table, two chairs, sunlight making your skin glow—he took one sip and made an obnoxious, disgusted face.

“this tastes like burnt sadness.”

you laughed, snorting a little as you stirred your drink with your straw. “you are such a drama queen. it’s coffee.”

“no, that is dessert in a cup,” he said, nodding at your pink-glazed concoction. “mine tastes like suffering.”

“try mine.”

“pass.”

“come onnnn,” you whined, holding your cup out to him with both hands. “just one sip.”

“i’m not drinking that..it’s got sparkles.”

“it does not have sparkles. it’s just the syrup. it’s pretty.”

“it’s pink.”

“so’s the inside of my pussy,” you said sweetly, blinking at him. “but you don’t seem to complain about that.”

his jaw clenched. he looked away, jaw ticking like he was holding in either a laugh or a groan. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“sooo you’re gonna try it?”

he sighed, grabbed the cup like it might bite him, and took the tiniest, most reluctant sip. his lips puckered. his brows drew together while you watched him like a hawk. “you love it, don't you?”

“i didn’t say that.” he says, with a reluctant smirk.

“you love it.” you giggle at him, smiling at him.

“i said it’s fine.”

“you said it tastes like sadness and now you’re going for a second sip.”

“accidental.”

“you’re full of shit.”

he took another sip, slower this time. lips lingering on the straw. “rafe.”

“what?”

“you like it.” you clasping your hands togther.

he shrugged. “it’s not the worst.”

you grinned, heart fluttering. “oh my god. are you…are you turning into a coffee girl?”

“absolutely not.”

“you’re gonna get your own next time.”

“i’d rather die.”

“you love the foam.”

“i don’t even know what foam is.” he sips your drink again for the third time.

you leaned across the table, your tits pressing together just enough to catch his eye, lips parted in a teasing smile. “you can admit it, baby. i won’t tell the guys.”

he stared at you. dead serious. “you breathe a word of this to barry and i swear to god—”

“what, you’ll make me buy two lattes next time?” you giggled.

he reached across the table, tugged your hand into his lap, and squeezed your fingers. “no..i’ll make you drink it off my cock so you never forget who introduced you to it.”

your mouth dropped open.“rafe!”

he just smirked, sipping your drink like it was his all along. you shook your head, heart racing, thighs clenching, and laughed so hard people turned to look. but you didn’t care..he’d tasted the pink and now he was hooked.

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norrisradio · 3 months ago

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IN THE DETAILS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Don't you think that maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?" - Lady Bird (2017)

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: a case study: to be loved is to be known ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: requested by @princesspiastri007 ꨄ babe you have given me so many phenomenal ideas but this one.... grabbed my by the neck and didn't let go. sometimes, love is in the details...

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Oscar knows you’re having a bad day before you do.

It’s not in the way you sigh or shut your laptop a little too hard, not even in the bite of your voice when you say you’re fine—though he catches all of that too. It’s in the way you make your tea.

Usually, you let it steep for three minutes. He’s timed it—curiosity at first, then just habit. You add just a little honey, enough to coat the spoon but not drip. Oat milk, two swirls, no more. But today, you dunk the teabag three times and toss it. No honey. Milk straight from the carton like it doesn’t matter.

Oscar watches all of it from the kitchen doorframe, shoulder leaned against the wood, still in his hoodie from media day, the one you stole two nights ago and returned this morning with a yawn and a kiss.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too busy staring into the mug like it holds some kind of answer.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slips past you and pulls out the jar of honey, the spoon, the milk from the fridge that’s been open too long. You let him take the mug. You don’t ask questions when he remakes it properly. Three minutes on the clock. He hands it back to you warm and right, and that’s when you finally breathe.

“Thanks,” you mumble, curling into the corner of the couch.

He sits across from you, ankles brushing yours, arms folded loosely. He doesn’t press. You’ll talk when you’re ready. You always do.

Oscar has learned to read you in the quiet.

You chew your lip when you’re solving something. You bite your straw when you’re bored. You fiddle with your ring when you're overthinking, and you wear his hoodie when you miss him but don’t want to say it out loud.

He keeps an eye on how your playlist changes depending on your mood. Bon Iver when you’re homesick. That one ridiculously long Taylor Swift mashup when you need a cry. You claim you’re not predictable, but he’s learned your patterns like racetracks—memorized them turn for turn, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Oscar knows you hate crowds but love airports. You like being picked up from arrivals because it makes you feel chosen. He shows up every time, even when you insist you’ll get an Uber. He gets there early, waits with a sign that always says something different—once it said “Hot Person I Missed a Lot.” You blushed the whole ride home.

He watches how you always tuck your left foot under your right thigh when you're cold. How you pull your sleeves over your hands when you're overwhelmed. He carries spare hair ties in his pocket just in case. Buys extra lemon sherbets because you get weirdly nostalgic for them once every few months. He keeps your favorite lip balm in the glovebox of his car because you once forgot it before a long drive and sulked for two hours.

Oscar knows when you’re happy because your whole face goes quiet. Not loud like the movies say. Not bright and grinning and explosive. No, your happiness is softer. It's in how your shoulders drop a little, like you’ve let the day go. It's in the way you hum under your breath, off-key and careless, usually something stupid like the jingle from that grocery ad you hate but sing anyway.

He hears it before he sees it—that little tune trailing from the bathroom while you brush your teeth or fold laundry. It always makes him smile, even if he doesn’t know the words.

When you’re happy, you talk to things. The cat that always sits on your windowsill even though it isn’t yours. The kettle. The plants you insist are thriving, even though they’re mostly brown.

“Don’t give me that look,” you’ll mutter to a cactus, and Oscar will peek over the rim of his book, just to watch you argue with a plant. That’s when he’s sure: you’re okay.

But when you’re mad—

Oh, he knows.

There’s a difference between being mad and being mad at him, and Oscar has mapped that line like a tightrope.

When you're just mad, everything gets fast. You clean like it’s an Olympic sport. You open drawers like you’re trying to win a fight against gravity. You text your group chat aggressively and then toss your phone face-down, muttering “Ugh, whatever,” as if that clears the air.

Oscar stays out of your way on those days. He keeps your favorite snack stocked and says things like, “Want to yell into a pillow?” which you’ve actually taken him up on more than once.

But when you're mad at him? That’s different. That’s colder.

You go quiet—not calm, but too still. You answer questions with one word. You say “Oscar” like it’s just a name, not his. And you do this thing where you don’t close doors all the way—just enough to not be open. That’s the part that kills him.

He’ll sit with it. With the silence and the space and the ache. He’s not someone who pushes. But later, when the worst of it has thawed, he’ll crawl into your space and bump his nose against yours and whisper, “Still mad?” like a secret, like an offering.

(He always lets you win, even when you're not keeping score.)

And when you’re getting sick—

God. He catches it before you do.

You get stubborn about it, like your body could be tricked. You’ll insist you're just tired or cold or definitely not getting a sore throat, while Oscar is already grabbing the lemon and the cough drops and setting your favorite blanket out on the couch.

You get clumsy when you’re coming down with something—drop your phone, bump into corners, forget where you put your glasses. Your nose twitches when you sniff, and your voice gets this quiet rasp to it, like you’re speaking from underwater.

He never says I told you so.

He just bundles you up like you’re made of paper, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, “You always get like this right before the rain,” even if there’s not a cloud in sight.

He reads you in the way people read their favorite novels—by heart, by instinct, by the dog-eared pages and the parts where the spine is softest.

Because you don't need to say it out loud.

You never really have.

He knows.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Love isn’t in the big declarations. It's in the noticing. The remembering.

It’s in all the things you don’t have to ask for.

And Oscar knows when you’re in love.

You don’t say it either. Not much, anyway. Not in so many words. But you do all the little things.

He notices. Of course he does.

You set your alarm ten minutes earlier when he’s home, just so you can make him tea the way he likes it. Something floral, but not overpowering. Strong, but not bitter. You pour it into the mug he always reaches for, the chipped one from Melbourne with the faded logo and the worn handle that fits his grip like it was made for him.

You let him ramble about tire degradation and strategy calls and wind tunnels, even when you have no idea what he’s talking about. You nod, lean in, ask questions. Sometimes you draw little race tracks on the corner of your grocery lists, and he finds them stuck to the fridge and stares at them longer than he should.

You pack snacks in his carry-on, even when he tells you not to fuss. Always the same ones: the protein bars he pretends not to like but always finishes. The mints he chews during press. The weird sour candy from your hometown that he claimed was “mid” the first time but now hoards in his glovebox.

He knows you always fold his hoodie and tuck it beside your pillow when he's away. You try to hide it, like you don’t want to seem too soft, but he’s seen the way you bury your face in it when you think he’s not looking.

And when he’s stressed—after a race that went sideways, after a flight delay or a wrong headline—you don’t ask if he’s okay. You just sit beside him, legs tangled up in his, and let him be quiet. You bring him orange slices, his favorite vinyl, your hand resting on his knee like a promise. Like I know. I’ve got you.

You kiss his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. You whisper things like “drive safe” and “text me when you land,” and you mean it like prayers.

You don’t say I love you every day.

But you wait up for him every time. You press kisses to the back of his neck when he’s brushing his teeth. You memorize his schedule. You ask how he’s really feeling, even when he’s trying to hide it behind a half-smile and a shrug.

Oscar knows you’re in love because you see him.

The way he sees you.

You once asked him what he thought love looked like.

He didn’t know then. Not really.

Now he thinks maybe it looks like remembering. Like paying attention. Like making tea the way someone likes it, even when they forget how to make it for themselves.

Oscar doesn’t say I love you often. He’s never been great with words. But he watches you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a loud, fast world.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Maybe it always was.

#formula 1 #f1 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri fanfiction #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x yn #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri writing #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula one imagine #⚡︎ race day #event -> line by line

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sunshineyuyu · 7 months ago

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friends with benefits a roommate (p. sh)

★ summary: after hooking up with mingi, you wake up the next morning and share a coffee with his attractive roommate seonghwa. a one night stand suddenly turns into a recurring thing—is the sex with mingi really that great? or are the mornings after with the roommate even better? ★ pairing: seonghwa x f!reader (ft. mingi) ★ genre: fluff ★ word count: 3.2k ★ tags/warnings: consultant!seonghwa, grad student!reader, fem!reader, grad student/best friend!mingi, references to sex but no descriptions, references to drinking, corporate grind woes, intentionally lowercase ★ notes: beta'd by the bestie @starhwas-bunny. also this is my first time posting :') ★ masterlist

like most grad students, you like to work hard, play hard.

which is why you’re at the dingiest bar on campus with your cohort, drunk out of your mind and grinding against your friend mingi to some doja cat song. and once it ends, you tug on mingi’s arm to presumably get more drinks, but instead drag him to the hallway near the bathrooms and stand on your tiptoes to slot your lips over his.

(thankfully, he reciprocates.)

and so, stumbling and giggling, the two of you call an uber back to mingi’s place.

⋆⋆⋆

the first thing seonghwa notices about you are your legs.

after all, how could he not? when all that’s there to cover them is the frayed hem of mingi’s ratty old high school football shirt. and you’re not shy about it—the fact that you’re walking around the apartment in nothing but a shirt that barely reaches the tops of your thighs.

the second thing seonghwa notices about you are your eyes.

surprisingly big and round for so early in the morning, and the fact that they’re trained straight on him.

“‘morning,” he says casually.

“good morning!” you reply, seemingly cheered by his acknowledgement. you scamper to the barstools on the other side of the large kitchen island and plop down on one. “i’m y/n.”

seonghwa is a little surprised at the introduction. he’s used to mingi bringing home girls often after living with him all through college until now, but he’s not used to interacting with them beyond catching a flash of their hair as they make a hasty exit.

the name is also unique, yet familiar.

“oh,” seonghwa says. “mingi’s mentioned you before. you’re in his cohort, right?”

“yup,” you say, popping the p at the end. “we’re besties.”

seonghwa hums, and then realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. “i’m seonghwa. you want some coffee?”

“yes, please,” you say.

“an iced latte okay?”

“um—yeah…?”

seonghwa can hear the apprehension on your tongue. the unsaid question��can he make a latte?

it’s silent for a little while as seonghwa flits around the kitchen, fetching the bag of fresh guatemalan coffee beans he’d picked up only yesterday and meticulously grinding them down into a powder. he presses it in the portafilter and then locks that into place in the group head of his shiny chrome silver espresso machine. it’s a relatively new purchase—or investment, as he likes to call it.

mingi had been wary about the whole thing—understandably so, since buying an espresso machine on a grad student budget is frivolous to say the least—so seonghwa had paid for it. they’d reached a mutual agreement that while the machine belongs entirely to seonghwa, mingi can pay for the beans to earn his share of the coffee it produced.

regardless, the espresso machine is an immediate hit with you, who oohs and aahs as the machine whirs and espresso drips out into two small porcelain cups.

“so fancy,” you say dreamily.

smiling, seonghwa opens the fridge. “milk?”

“do you have oat?” you ask.

“of course,” seonghwa says, pulling out the carton.

with practiced hands, he pours the oat milk into a metal cup and then takes it over to the milk frother attachment. afterwards, he portions the frothed milk into two glasses filled with ice, before topping them off with the espresso shots. from a drawer, he retrieves two glass straws and then slides the finished drink over the counter to an awed you.

“it’s like a personal coffeeshop!” you squeal. “hold on, i have to take a picture!”

you dash back into mingi’s room, and for a second the spell is broken. seonghwa remembers that you’d come home last night with mingi—that you’d presumably had mind-blowing sex with mingi, that you slept over in mingi’s bed.

when you return to the kitchen, seonghwa has already swirled his drink together and sips on it a little impatiently. you beam as you take a photo of yours, before following his lead. when you take a sip, your eyes brighten and widen and suddenly, seonghwa is back into it.

back into you.

“omygod!” you say.

“nice, right?” seonghwa says.

“delicious,” you moan. “what beans did you use?”

“oh,” seonghwa says, unable to hide the surprise in his voice at your curiosity. “it’s a new guatemalan blend. i know a guy.” he hands the bag over to you so that you can read the description on the sticker.

you laugh. “‘i know a guy,’” you mimic. “are we talking about drugs?”

“might as well be,” seonghwa says. “i definitely have a caffeine addiction.”

“that’s okay,” you say. “so do i.” you say it conspiratorially, and seonghwa likes the theatrics.

he likes you.

seonghwa’s current project at work has him traveling to utah during the week, and while he loves mingi, coming back on the weekends to a dude just doesn’t really do anything for him. and seonghwa’s been so busy for the past two years—working 70 hours a week and commuting across the whole continent—that he’s never taken the time to consider that maybe there’s something missing.

something like—

sharing a coffee with a pretty girl on an early saturday morning.

something nice. domestic.

something that makes flying back to new york feel like coming home.

but seonghwa is shaken from his out-of-character introspection by sloppy footsteps coming from mingi’s bedroom. the man himself slogs into the kitchen, wearing only low-slung sweatpants and yawning like a heathen.

“no coffee for me?” he pouts at seonghwa.

“didn’t expect you up so early, sleeping beauty,” seonghwa says.

“fucking rude,” mingi grumbles. he turns to you, “you staying for breakfast?”

you peer suspiciously at him. “can you cook?”

“he can’t,” seonghwa says before mingi can reply. “but i can.”

the grin that you flash him is so breathtaking that he has to set his glass down.

“okay, then,” you say, clapping your hands. “i’ll stay!”

seonghwa hides his own grin by ducking into the fridge for the eggs.

over breakfast, seonghwa tells you about his glamorous (derogatory) life as a consultant, and you respond by enthusiastically explaining the research you do at the university. mingi interjects occasionally, but mostly he just scrolls through twitter on his phone.

seonghwa easily deduces that you’re close friends, but the vibe feels mostly platonic.

he wonders if last night was a one-off, or the beginning of something. if there’s any hidden unrequited feelings.

he’ll have to sus it out of mingi later, but for now, he’s content with discussing the ethical sourcing of coffee with you.

⋆⋆⋆

two weeks later, after another two grueling visits to utah, seonghwa wakes up to the scent of coffee.

it’s pleasant, and then jarring, because seonghwa knows that mingi doesn’t have the patience to use the espresso machine on his own (he drinks the instant stuff when seonghwa isn’t around). seonghwa leaps out of bed, all thoughts on his precious, pristine espresso machine child.

but the scene he finds in the kitchen is very much the opposite of a catastrophe.

first he sees the afterthought of a bun. hair tossed carelessly into a topknot that bounces as you move.

and then he sees the underwear—baby pink and lacy—and the perfect, round ass sticking out of the fridge.

“oh shit,” he croaks, before clapping a hand over his eyes and spinning around.

he’s rewarded with tinkling laughter that makes his ears burn red. he could get used to that sound, but maybe under different circumstances.

“good morning!” you call.

“um, morning.” seonghwa removes the hand and opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn around quite yet.

“sorry, i would put on some pants, but i wasn’t wearing any last night,” you says. “i’m decent now, though!”

true to your word, your bottom is as covered as it can get with that godforsaken high school football shirt. seonghwa really wishes mingi would get rid of it, but he knows that making varsity is still one of mingi’s proudest accomplishments.

“sorry about that.” seonghwa has to cough to get all the words out properly. his throat hasn’t quite woken up yet (the rest of his body, though, is thrumming with adrenaline, and his brain is working overtime figuring out the morality of saving that image of your ass).

“no worries,” you say breezily. “coffee?”

having the script flipped on him—someone else offering him coffee in his own goddamn apartment—is unsettling. even more unsettling is how similar the scene unfolding is to his brief daydream of domesticity the last time he encountered you.

“you, uh, know how to use the espresso machine?” he asks stupidly. he registers belatedly how his question might sound condescending, but you seem to take it all in stride.

“i was a barista for a bit in college,” you say.

“nice,” seonghwa says, just for something to say.

“i hope it’s okay that i used it,” you say. “i just really needed some caffeine after last night.”

at seonghwa’s questioning gaze, you explain, “we went way too hard.”

“any occasion?” seonghwa says, sliding dutifully onto a barstool when he realizes that you really do know what you’re doing. you have the oat milk out on the counter, the same glasses he used last time—pre-prepped with ice—and the new bag of orange-infused coffee beans.

you hum as you froth the milk. “made it past our first thesis deadline.”

“that’s exciting,” seonghwa says.

“barely,” you sigh. “we’re just waiting around to get our asses handed to us during critiques.”

“oh, well,” says seonghwa sympathetically. “i can relate. i routinely get my ass handed to me. some internal organs too.”

it’s not his best work, but it makes you laugh, so seonghwa considers that a win. it’s been a long time since he tried charming someone, and he’s more than a little out of practice.

but he can barely mull over it as his brain finally moves past its previous mental exercise (that image of your ass is burned in his memory forever now, intentionally or not) and finds a new problem to turn over: if you’re here, in the morning, wearing mingi’s shirt, then you must have stayed the night. and if you stayed the night, then you must have—

“here! hope it’s as good as yours,” you say, passing the latte over the island to seonghwa.

the moan that he lets out is involuntary, and it makes you beam.

“what do you think of the new beans?” seonghwa asks.

“mm, it’s nice,” you say. “sweet.”

in spite of the alarms firing in his head, seonghwa ventures a: “is there full-service breakfast with the coffee?”

“ooo,” you say, “taking advantage of me while i’m the one in the kitchen, i see.”

seonghwa instantly regrets it, as he says, “oh, i was just joking. i can make—”

“oh no, mister,” you say. “you sit your ass down. i’m about to blow your mind. this girlie can do much better than eggs and toast. now, where’s the flour?”

over the next twenty minutes, seonghwa watches in awe as you prance around the kitchen, unearthing ingredients and kitchenware that seonghwa barely even knew existed in the apartment. you tsk at the state of the stovetop, manage to reorganize their poor smattering of spices, and utilize takeout chopsticks expertly as a whisk.

and at the end, you present seonghwa with a plate of fluffy pancakes and perfectly soft-scrambled eggs.

when he takes a bite, he’s transported instantly back to his childhood. to picturesque mornings, eating homemade sunday brunch with his family to the lazy twittering of birds and under the warmth of a midmorning sun.

it tugs at his chest as he drenches his pancakes in potentially expired syrup from the back of their fridge, pours hot sauce over his eggs—

a nostalgia and a fondness that he thought he lost to the corporate grind.

“how is it?” you ask.

“marry me,” seonghwa says.

and despite being more serious than he’s ever been, you laugh at him.

“the patriarchy really popped out there for a second!” you say, digging into your own pancakes.

seonghwa opens his mouth to explain that he really did mean it, but as per usual, mingi decides that now is the perfect time to ruin everything with his presence. he’s at least wearing a shirt this time when he emerges from his lair, and you pop up to throw together a plate for him.

“thanks, mommy,” mingi sighs as he slides into a barstool.

“ew,” you wrinkle your nose.

“not what you were saying last night,” says mingi, with a disgusting amount of scrambled egg shoved into his mouth.

“don’t listen to him,” you say to seonghwa, but seonghwa has already turned his attention to scrolling through the news on his phone.

“kinky,” he throws out casually, not even bothering to look up.

breakfast goes like that this time—seonghwa as the one glued to his phone, while mingi and you gripe about having to regrade midterms because of a cheating scandal.

⋆⋆⋆

by the fifth time seonghwa encounters you in his kitchen on a saturday morning, you’ve fallen into a routine. seonghwa makes coffee, and you make breakfast; seonghwa makes sure to keep the fridge well-stocked as you begin making increasingly elaborate dishes, and you gift seonghwa a package of your favorite coffee blend.

you enjoy these stolen moments alone, bustling around the kitchen to the soft crackling of whatever record seonghwa chooses to play that morning. the two of you have the first few sips of coffee, first few bites of eggs, first few spoons of porridge alone, until the smell finally draws mingi out of his bed.

and then there’s three of you sitting around the dining table. it’s always pleasant, always comfortable, but it always feels like just one person too many.

sometimes it’s mingi, who is hungover or tired or grumpy; sometimes it’s you, who doesn’t like star wars or follow sports; and most of the time, it’s seonghwa, who doesn’t go to grad school, who spends most of the week, month, year in a different city—

who falls asleep alone at night.

seonghwa knows he could ask just mingi about it. are you just hooking up? is it a situationship? does mingi have feelings for you?

but he won’t, because somehow ignorance is bliss, and he’d rather live in limbo than risk a dive into hell. anyway, he’s not around enough for anything to flourish; he can barely keep the small succulent on his windowsill alive, least of all a real, adult relationship.

and eventually, you always have to leave.

⋆⋆⋆

seonghwa is exhausted.

his flight had been delayed three times, and it’s already almost midnight by the time he toes off his shoes in the entryway of the apartment. his watch buzzes furiously, and seonghwa knows that it must be either mingi or you, drunkenly asking where he is. a few days ago, he’d promised that he would finally go out with you two, but he’s far too tired for those frivolities now.

instead, he shoots mingi a brief but apologetic text and hops into the shower.

what he intended to be a quick wash turns into a long one, as he lets the warm water pelt him—he’s never gotten around to fixing the abnormally aggressive water pressure of the shower head. but it feels nice now. jolts some feeling back into his system.

when he steps out of the shower, he feels clean but oddly raw. he treats himself to his favorite set of silk pajamas and decides that he has just enough energy to do some of his animal crossing daily tasks.

before he can slip into bed with his switch, he hears a series of frantic knocks on the front door.

operating under the assumption that mingi probably forgot his keys at the bar or something, seonghwa doesn’t check the peephole and just unlocks the door. he doesn’t even bother opening it before turning back towards his room.

but the thing swings open so abruptly that it bangs against the wall.

“jesus!” seonghwa says. “be careful with that—!”

except it’s not a drunk mingi standing in the threshold, it’s—

“you!” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “you didn’t text me back. why didn’t you come out tonight?”

you look different tonight.

you’re wearing real clothes, for one. jeans and a top that makes your tits look great (not that seonghwa is focusing on that).

your facial features look sharper, outlined and defined by makeup that’s usually washed away by morning. and you’re angry—eyes narrowed to near slits and hands on your hips.

seonghwa sighs. “i just got back. i was too tired to go out. i told mingi that i’m sorry.”

“well you didn’t tell me sorry!” you huff, stepping into the apartment and letting the door shut harshly.

“sorry,” seonghwa says.

you square each other up just then. the smaller but furious you against the bigger but drained seonghwa.

“what are you doing here?” seonghwa finally tries. “where’s mingi?”

“last i saw, he was making out with sarah kim on the dance floor,” you say.

“oh,” seonghwa says. this must be why you are so mad. “i’m sorry.”

for the first time tonight, your anger drops just slightly. “for what?”

hesitantly, seonghwa says, “aren’t you mad?”

“well, yeah,” you say. “but not at mingi.”

and then before seonghwa can ask who exactly you’re mad at, you smack yourself in the forehead.

“oh my god, what was that for—?”

“seonghwa—do you think mingi and i are together or something?”

“well, you two have been hooking up for at least two months now,” seonghwa says.

“fuck,” you mutter, and then you round on seonghwa. “i’ve been trying to hang out with you, and we were supposed to tonight, until you bailed.”

seonghwa is so preoccupied with defending himself, that he barely picks up on the subtext of your words. “i told you—i was fucking tired! my flight was delayed, like, three—”

“the only i reason i was hooking up with mingi was to hang out with you!” you wail.

the statement is so ridiculous that all seonghwa can do is stare at you in stunned silence.

“you- what—?”

“and for the record! we never even really hooked up!” you continue.

faintly, seonghwa wonders if he’s having a heart attack. with every word that comes out your mouth, seonghwa can feel his heart rate spike dramatically. but none of this adrenaline is making its way to his brain, so his processing power is still slow.

“what are you saying?” seonghwa croaks.

your expression softens, and you take a step closer.

“i like you,” you say. “i really like spending the mornings with you, and i’d like to spend nights with you, too. but only if you—”

“yes,” seonghwa says immediately. “yes.”

the edges of your eyes crinkle as your face splits into a large grin. “so, you like me, too?”

seonghwa replies by surging forward and finally, finally kissing you.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, seonghwa and you wake up early, but you don’t get up to make coffee or breakfast. you stay in bed for as long as you can, until you hear timid knocks on seonghwa’s door.

“guys? how do you work the espresso machine?”

#seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa fic #ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #[sunsh writes]#sunshineyuyu fic

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faguscarolinensis · 29 days ago

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Uvularia perfoliata / Perfoliate Bellwort at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC

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lostintransist · 4 months ago

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Noona's Dukedom Gave Me Brain Worms

@beloveds-embrace legit gave me brain worms. We aren't going to talk about how long this damn thing got. Can be read without context of the Dukedom AU but it makes more sense if you've read all the possible endings. Shout out to @strangergraphics for the cute divider. ***It got a little bit away from me... Word count: Shy of 6K AO3

Sneaking into the stable of the noble house of Price was a bad idea. He knew it. The hunger gnawing at his spine pushed him forward despite his mind’s warnings. Due to the starvation, his body was smaller than it should have been. He used that advantage to sneak between the slats in the fencing and to hide below the edge of the empty stalls.

Voices and clopping of hooves lifted over the walls. The grooms were rotating the horses in the paddock, he would have a few moments to scrounge for something to eat. He would even take the horse’s oats at this point.

Darting from the stall he scanned the walls for a full door; the horse food would most likely be up to keep away the rodents. His hand nearly touched the handle when a swish of skirts had him unlatching a stall with a large black horse and hiding. The horse did not care for his presence and began to flick its ears and swish their tail.

The swishing of skirts continued, nearer and nearer to the stall with the upset horse. It stopped and he ducked further down, holding the door shut but not letting it latch for fear that the sound would travel. Three loud breaths in his ears and the horse pawing at the straw were all the sounds that he could hear.

“Child, I need you to come out of there. Now.”

The voice held the commands with familiarity. Shutting his eyes tight the boy wished that God listened to orphans. He did not complete another breath before he was hauled out by the collar of his shirt. The damn thing ripped as the woman slammed the door closed to the angry sounds of a horse.

“Ma’am!” A groom, dressed in nicer clothes than should ever be used to care for horses, came running in. He skidded to a halt at the sight of the boy. “Do you need me to take care of him, my Lady?”

Hells beyond, of course, he had been found by the lady of the house. The devil must want his soul something fierce.

“No. Thank you, Benjamin.” You must dismiss him with a nod for the groom eyes him warily before heading back outside.

Chancing a glance upward he saw a lovely dress, must be the height of fashion because none of it made sense to him, and a sad face.

“What is your name child?” You ask him kindly, despite the hand still gripping the ripped portion of his shirt.

He thought about running, leaving his shirt behind in your hand.

You let out a small hiss of reprimand and the thought is abandoned.

“David, ma’am.”

Even in those two words, he knew his low-brow accent could be heard.

“And what are you doing in the stables and with my husband’s horse, David?”

He thinks about lying. You must see it in his face for the small bit of tension in your shoulders falls away, as does your hand.

“Come with me, David. And before you tell me the lie on your tongue, make up a story. Tell me the most unrealistic reason of how you came here, and then we can discuss the truth.” You gesture to the bright light beyond the stable and begin to walk.

You make it several steps before you turn around and lift a brow at him. Trained by society to listen to his betters David scurries after you.

He tells you a tale, of how fae had stolen him away from his family and left him for dead in the woods because he never seemed to grow. He spun the story so neatly that he nearly missed that they entered the side door of the grand manor on the property. A maid passed in front of you, long strides taking her down the hall.

“Mary,” you state her name, waiting for her to pause with a quiet, ‘yes ma’am’ before you continue. “Please send a tray of bread and cheese to my room. Also, have someone open the old trunks in the nursery to see if there are any clothes that would fit this child.”

Mary’s eyes flick to him and back to the lady, the confusion only thinly masked.

“And if his Lordship asks?”

David knew this wasn’t usual; his last posting would have called that cheek and seen him dismissed. You handle it with almost an ease of familiarity.

“Then send his Lordship to my room.” You settle a hand on his shoulder, directing him to the stairs, “Come, David.”

He moves where you direct, curious and cautious in equal measure. He had no training for how to act when the lady of the house pulls him into her sitting room and directed him to sit on a wooden chair near a writing desk. You disappear into what David assumes to be your bedroom for a moment.

Taking a moment to observe the room he notices a stack of books next to a comfortable chair with a blanket draped over the back of it. There is dust in the corners of the room and along the windowsill. Your maids were terrible at their jobs.

His mother had been a maid before she had been forced to put him in the orphanage due to illness and probably dying from consumption. She would be ashamed to claim this room as clean. For a duchess no less? Disgraceful. David could feel his brows pull down in a glare as he looked more. No stack of wood near the hearth, and a large collection of ash in the grate spoke of negligence.

When you return you are carrying a pitcher of water, a bowl, and a rag. Setting all of them on the floor you settle yourself down next to them. David had never seen a lady deign to sit on the floor before.

Pouring some water into the bowl, you wet the rag and wring it out before gently lifting it to his face.

“Where are your parents, child?” You ask in kindness, he flinches anyway.

He was a bastard of an earl and a maid who could not refuse. A knowing enters your eyes at the set of his chin.

“They do not care for you here.” His tone is serious.

It is your turn to flinch. It does not stop you from wiping the dirt from his face.

“What makes you say that?” You ask in a quiet voice, eyes not straying from your task.

“The maid was cheeky, and the state of your sitting room. Any maid worth her salt would not let dust collect like this.” He is still scowling as you rinse your rag and begin on one eye.

“Mmm, the staff were chosen by my husband before marriage. He is…resistant to change,” you hedge.

David does not reply other than to watch you in silence. Something here did not feel right. He would know, he had served in a great house once before. The lady of that house had been a mean and hateful woman, nothing like what you had presented yourself as. No one in the gentry would have saved him from a horse or brought him into their space to dress and feed him. He decided he would stay, ask for a position, and see if you were as good as this first impression.

A light knock at the door did not prevent you from finishing your task.

“Enter,” you called as you started on his hands.

“Found these in the nursery ma’am, a few moth holes but they will serve for now.” Mary, the cheeky maid from earlier glared at you as she settled the clothes across the settee. The tray of bread and cheese rested on the cushion next to the clothes.

David glared at her over your head. Mary jerked back when she saw his black look. She returned a sneer and breezed from the room as easy as you please. Acted like she owned the damn place.

“You need new maids,” David near as growled as his child’s voice would allow. Confusion washed over him like sacrament water at your soft smile, both hands holding his.

“Let’s get you in some clean clothes and get some food in your belly. I can hear it from here,” rising from your position on the floor you settle the water on a side table and join him near the settee.

David fingers the fabric. It is finer than anything he has ever worn, even with the moth holes. Glancing up you are looking at him with expectation. He had not grown much since the orphanage at eight but he knew that changing in front of you would not be wise. In response to the single brow you lifted, he held up the clothes in answer.

“Use the antechamber,” you point to the same door you had used to bring back the water.

Soon enough David is changed into new clothes and is seated on the settee stuffing his face with bread and cheese in alternating bites. Sleep overtook him with the strength of an executioner. When he stirred next he could feel your fingers parting his hair. The deep voice came again, that is what had woken him.

“Are you sure this is what you are willing to bargain for, wife?”

“John, as I am your wife in name only, I am asking for a compromise. Let me take the child as a ward and I will delay choosing a lover until he is grown and managing his own affairs.”

You present the option as if it makes sense and is the only logical choice. David slits his eyes open, taking in the pattern of your dress up close.

“I am not allowed,” David heard the fury in your words, he wondered if the duke did. “To take a lover for fear that he will feed the roses. But none of you would stoop so low as to murder a child. Heaven forbid I get to feel a modicum of love in my own home.”

“You tread a dangerous line, wife.”

Shifting fabric from behind his head has David tensing to leap up and defend you from a blow. Your fingers dig into his hair enough to give a warning, ‘Stay still.’

“No more dangerous than your lovers do, husband.”

The silence is laced with danger, it wrings his neck as if he were the queen. Your fingers tighten almost painfully on his skull. David breathes, slow and steady, matching the lie of your calming breaths.

“Are you threate—”

“I am again repeating my offer. I care for the boy as my ward; in return, I delay taking a lover so you may continue to enjoy your three without worrying about my behavior.”

David thinks not even the queen could keep her composure in this situation. You maneuvered your husband magnificently.

“You would have been a good general wife,” the Duke replies coolly.

“How fortunate for me then women are property and not people,” you reply with equal chill.

He grew, and grew, and grew. Regular meals and exercise saw David immediately falling into several growth spurts. He only wore short pants for three months before you had a tailor taking in some of your husband’s older and discarded clothes. He still wonders how much you paid the valet to sneak them out of John’s room.

David had taken to calling everyone by their first names. John and Simon were not ‘my lord’ or any other superfluous title they did not deserve, for they did not treat you as a gentleman should. Dinners were stilted in silence. You sat at one end of the great table, David seated next to you; eight chairs separated the pair of men at the end from your bright smile. They never attempted to usurp convention and sit closer, or invite either of you to move up and forgo the distance.

Your days were split between bringing David’s reading and math skills up to speed as you secured a teacher for him. Or rather David flourished under your tutelage until several teachers arrived to teach him math, French, history, Latin, and even science.

The house never suffered under the reduction in your attention. That did not stop the head butler from calling attention to the delay in requests being fulfilled.

Mr. Kyle Garrick could be no older than you. While twenty-four appeared ancient to his twelve the head butler being no more than thirty. He had never heard of such a thing below stairs, and the servants would have gossiped about it.

Kyle stood now in your office, eyes trained above your head as he spoke to you. David watched from his place at a side table; chalk pinched between his fingers and letters abandoned.

“The staff have reported that the expected deliveries have been delayed,” he clasped his hands behind his back, still not looking at you.

“Are the staff in need of an item urgently?” You look up from your correspondence. While John might manage the land, you managed the people and the tenants and the local clergy and did so without ruffling any feathers. David had to say you worked harder than your husband.

Kyle’s nose scrunched as if the question were one he would rather not answer.

“No. Not as of yet ma’am”

“And have you confirmed that the deliveries will arrive before the matter becomes urgent?” You arch a brow at your head butler.

The angry shift of his jaw tells David you are a master at stepping through this house without any of the blood you let fall onto your skirts.

“Yes,” comes the terse reply.

“Then is there anything else you need from me, Mr. Garrick?” Your face is innocent and open as Kyle’s eyes flick to you.

“No, ma’am. Thank you,” Kyle turns sharply on a heel, every line of his suit pressed to perfection.

Both you and David watch Kyle as he pauses at the door. Without turning he broaches the subject.

“Ma’am the staff have all been wondering…about the boy.”

David glances to Kyle’s hand on the doorknob. His arm shakes with the force with which he is holding it.

“David is my ward. He is confirmed as such in my will and by John’s own solicitor. If any of the staff take issue with the decision they can be dismissed immediately with a letter of recommendation and their wages due,” you reply, the chill in your tone removing all heat from your office.

The words land like arrows in Kyle’s back from the way his spine straightens.

“Yes ma’am, thank you,” he flings open the door and is gone with only a soft click of the shutting door to mark his departure.

Kyle was added to his list of people in this place who were not safe, right next to John and Simon. The head chef joined that list on the selfsame day.

Nipping down into the kitchens for a bite to eat, for feeding his hungry body only seemed to fuel more hunger, David listened to Johnny rant and rave about the lady of the house and her ‘particular tastes’ and her unwillingness to eat any meat presented to her. Something in his tone hinted that his anger grew from something deeper than a delicate palette. David did not raid the kitchen when any staff might be present from now on.

Observation was a tool that kept David safe on the streets after he had escaped the orphanage. Between his teachers and his daily meals with you, David witnessed a deepening sadness he could only attribute to your husband and his lovers.

Each night you tucked him into bed in the room next to yours. Reciting the Lord’s Prayer, reading a chapter of whatever book he had been reading, and laying a kiss on his brow were the standard. One night you laid an especially long kiss on his brow.

“I think I would have taken to my bed and never left if you had not arrived when you did David. Thank you for allowing me to save myself for you,” were the whispered words against his forehead.

Having no words for the overwhelming feelings in his chest David sat upright and hugged you tight.

“You’re the best mother I could have asked for,” came his own whispered reply.

Neither of you commented on the tears in the others eyes.

Nearly a year passed in that building others called home and he thought of it as a shared prison. At thirteen he had put on nearly a stone in weight and could hold his own academically with any boy his age who had been nurtured from the womb to stand among the peerage.

A letter from your desk, and a preemptive payment, secured him a spot at Eton in London. The household held its breath as you directed both your items and David’s to be packed for the move. John preferred the country estate but kept a home in the city for when Parliament was in session. David had missed the frigid argument that must have ensued before you were allowed to leave.

The years at Eton were grueling. Being a no-name ward to the Lady Price did not buy him the safety he would have received at being an acknowledged earl’s son. He often returned to the home he shared with you each weekend littered with bruises and with a sour mood.

It only took three weekends for you to call on your friends with children at Eton to run interference and to hire a pugilist to teach David how to handle the rest. Things didn’t get easier for nearly a year.

Returning as a fourteen-year-old with a bit more weight on his bones David channeled the attitudes he had seen both John and Simon wield to great effect and used his fists to even greater effect. His attitude and willingness to scrabble with even the boys who could be called men made the rounds. He walked away from every fight. Limping and spitting blood still counted as walking away.

Only once did David pull the attitude of the duke out with you.

“I will not be attending the picnic this weekend.”

David looked down his nose at you where you sat reading a Jane Austin novel. He stood, to give himself the illusion of height. He didn’t really mind either way about the picnic but he wanted to test his powers against you. When he looked back on the moment as a fully grown man he could see that he wanted to be sure that you could, would, still love him and keep him in hand as he grew. He wanted to know if you would protect him, even from himself.

A single finger slipped between the pages, turning it.

“David, if I do not let my husband speak to me so, why would I let you?”

The lack of emotion in your question sent sparks of fear up his spine, akin to the fireworks he had seen last year.

He remained silent and unsure how to reign in the wild horse of his mistake.

Closing your book softly you lift your eyes up to him. A wall of neutrality sat in your eyes that he hadn’t seen since leaving the country estate. Patting the seat next to you twice you waited until David sat to prune his behavior.

“Command is something given, not taken. If you wish to be a leader among men they first will need to want to follow you.” Only the sounds of carriages on the cobblestone outside the window break the silence. “My husband commands because of his birthright. I command because I have been trusted to do so. All of the charitable works I accomplish while you are in school, the lives I change, the directives I lead? These have all been trusted to me because I have proven I will not abuse them.”

David swallowed hard, lip starting to quiver.

“I’m sorry, mum,” his voice is small, a dandelion of admitting he had been wrong.

You reach up behind him, and despite the years between then and now being filled with nothing but love and gentle guidance, he still flinched. The hand on his head pulled him to your breast, soothing him as he cried.

“Trust I will care for you. Trust that I love you, David. If you have concerns we can discuss them, but no one deserves high-handedness unless they have proved themselves worthy of its censure.”

College had been his goal, the plan he would dare say. That plan flew out the window when John called David to his London office and handed him a letter.

“I have need of my wife, and our bargain has come to a conclusion. This is your commission. You will be serving under Admiral Wishart. He is expecting you on the third. The Royal William sets sail on the fifth,” John said all this with a wild gleam in his eye.

David snatched the letter from John’s hand, scanning over every word. His stomach sank further with each line he reread.

John Price had purchased a commission for him. As no law stood in the way of paying for a commission for any man, David had been promised to the crown as a soldier against his will.

Straightening to his full height David took three deep breaths to prepare his thoughts.

“She will not forgive you for this.”

“Maybe,” John shrugged, “But a woman of her age yearns for a child and with you gone, I can provide her with one.”

Civility fled with the thought of this man, so long abandoning his wife, touching her in any way filled David with nothing but rage.

“You would have better luck stealing the king’s trousers from his still awake body than bedding your wife. Good day, sir,” he infused the word sir with every ounce of hate he held for the man.

David had searched you out after leaving John’s office. Eighteen had once felt so grown, but now he knew he could be nothing more than a child masquerading as an adult. He had found you having tea with the neighbor. Pacing the front hall his hands worrying at his cuffs David swallowed hard to force the acid back into his stomach. The butler, this one old like every other butler was, announced him.

Rodgers opened the door wide for David to pass through. Instead, he caught your eye, the tears in his own clear even from the distance. Rising without removing your eyes from him you took your leave. Sliding your hand into the crook of his arm you nod for Rodgers to open the front door.

The door is not fully shut when David whips out the commission letter for you and tears streak down his face. Reading the letter three times all color leeches from your face.

“He didn’t,” you whisper, aghast.

“Mum, I’m scared,” David hugs himself, trying to keep the pieces of himself from flying in every direction. “He said you yearned for a child, and he could give you one with me gone.”

The pallor of your panic disappears until all that is left is a Duchess. You take his hand, squeezing it tight.

“You have all the skills to get through this. Wishart is a solid man to serve under and despite all his faults, John did purchase you a commission which will keep you safer than if you had volunteered. Now come and lay down in my bed and let me read to you.”

David laughed out a sob. You had not read to him like this since he went to Eton. The offer is all the sweeter because soon he won’t have a chance. Holding your hand up all the stairs he settles into your bed, arms wrapped around your middle. The soothing effect of your voice lulls him into sleep.

When he wakes he is alone in your bed and a soft sobbing drifts from the closet. He never doubted your love for him, but to hear you weep for him nailed it to the center of his soul.

He would survive the war.

Better yet he would come back decorated and rich beyond measure.

Six years passed before David could settle his feet on soil and not track his eyes around the port waiting for the bell to drag him back. He had clawed his way through the ranks; he saved so many men that when he had received his own ship as a captain he had nearly a full crew from volunteers alone. He had been made one of the youngest captains in the Navy.

Your last letter had reached him four years ago. He doubted any of his had reached you, spread out along the coasts as they were.

He and his men had eight weeks of leave while their ship was dry-docked and fixed. The first thought that crossed his might was to find you, Duchess Price, his mum.

The lamp lighters were working their way down the street as he approached the last non-floating home he had. Music drifted to the street from the open windows. Laughter and a cacophony of voices told him that a party was in full swing. Bounding up the stairs David knocked twice, loudly.

Hawthorne, the man who had served as butler when he left for the sea opened the door with an imperious look.

“Yes?” He lifted a brow.

“Hawthorne is that any way to greet the prodigal son?” David grinned and lifted both brows.

All servant’s decorum fled when Hawthorne realized who stood on the stoop.

“Master David? We all thought you dead.”

Stepping into the door David pushes it open forcing Hawthorne to let him in.

“Is the duchess in my good man?” He pats the butler on the shoulder.

“She is entertaining, bu—”

David does not wait to hear what other words might have followed. His long strides ate up the distance to the sitting room. And there you were, dressed in starlight. A healthy look on your face and a gentle smile at your current conversation companion ease the tightness in his chest that had lingered since you waved him off at the docks all those years ago.

The woman you are speaking with glances at him as he moves closer. Turning you follow her gaze. Your brows pull together as you look him over.

He had been so familiar with your thoughts when he left he can see them now. ‘This is not a guest I invited. Could he be my husband’s invite? Why does he look familiar?’ And there it is, the recognition.

“David?!”

No sign of a woman trained in moderation here, only a mum welcoming her son back from the dead. He catches you as you fling yourself into his arms. David spins you twice before settling you back on your feet.

“‘‘ello mum,” he whispered down to you.

Blinking away the tears you remember all of your guests. Turning you address the room.

“My friends, let me reintroduce you to my ward, David. He has been serving in the Royal Navy and has just returned to us,” your hand settles on his arm, fingers digging into the muscle below his sleeve.

Nodding to the room David settled his other hand on yours. That is when he shifts his head enough to find Simon and John standing together, staring daggers at him. He gifts them with a saccharine grin. They scowl all the harder.

The instant you let go of his arm they bully David into the hall and further into the study.

“When I sent you to war I did not expect you to return a captain,” John flicked at the brass on David’s chest.

“I didn’t expect you to still be holding tighter to your lover than your wife,” David eyed Simon before dropping his eyes back to John. “She never did forgive you, did she?”

David had gotten taller than he realized. Simon had towered over him as a child, now he looked down to make eye contact with the man.

“We’ll make this fast. Are you the duchess’ paramore?”

Recoiling as if he had been shot, David stared at the two men agog.

“This is the longest I have been on land since I left to fulfill my commission and you are asking if I am bedding the woman who I view as a mother?” Disgust dripped off every word. “What in the nine hells led you to that conclusion?”

John and Simon share a look.

“There is a report that the duchess took a lover. A man of large stature who has not been seen in polite society before,” John explains, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

Smirking, David can’t help the rush of pride that fills his chest. You were still holding your own.

“Must burn you up inside, both of you, that she continues to hold you at bay,” David gloated.

“And how would you know that so recently returned to land?” Simon snapped at him.

“It’s clear from this conversation.” David gestures between them, “You waited too long to offer her love and she found the idea of your bitter fruit repugnant, didn’t she?”

The sour look on their faces had David folding in half laughing.

“And now she has taken a lover and you mistook me for her paramore,” David clutched at his stomach as the laughter continued. “Ah, this is such a better reunion than I had hoped for.”

“This is not a laughing matter, boy,” John chastised him.

Standing tall David wiped the tears that had leaked from his eyes.

“On the contrary I find this to be the funniest thing I have heard in nearly a year. When the duchess brought me into your home as a child she did so to fill the void you left her with. Had you loved her, any of you or your lovers, she would not have taken me in to fill that hole. But more’s the loss for you. Now when you can finally see the gem you threw away, I hope it burns.”

David threw open the door of the study. He left behind him two men who would forever regret not seeing the gem in their midst. Rejoining you in the party he answered your questioning look with a smile and a shake of his head.

When at last all the guests are tucked into their carriages and heading for home you pull David into your sitting room and lock the door. It is here you are able to take his face between your hands and study him like a vicar does the bible. Seated on the settee, he lets you examine him and ensure for yourself that he is well.

“You scared me, David. I thought you were dead. No one could confirm if you were alive or dead for so long I went into mourning for you.”

The thought of you wearing black for him tugged at his heart.

“We were pulled into a series of secret missions, our still being alive was not reported anywhere. I doubt even your husband would have been able to find the information on us if he had asked,” David bumped your forehead with his own.

Letting his face go with a laugh he can finally appreciate the fact you are more beautiful than when he took to the sea. It’s no wonder there are rumors of you taking a lover.

“Is it true you have taken a paramore?” David leans back into the seat.

His eyes go wide as you squirm slightly. He sits straight again and stares at you as you grab a shawl left within reach.

“Mum?”

“It is not that simple, David,” you hedge.

“I am a smart man, you made sure of that. Now tell me, please,” he took one of your hands between his.

Heaving a great sigh you look at the man your son had become.

“After John signed you away to death I nearly perished. My heart had been broken and I knew deep in my soul you would not return to me.” Curling your fingers around his you look at them as you continue, “The crown asked that I help host a collection of the Austrian aristocracy. The task gave me something to focus on. It was no more than something to fill my time until the fourth set of visitors. I meet one Lukas König, a lord.”

Your words peter out as your shifting and squirming increase.

“Go on,” David encourages.

“It did not begin as it has progressed. He makes me laugh and listens and values my opinion,” you speak as if pleading your case before a judge.

You look up at him, searching for something. He must not provide the answer you are looking for because you tuck your chin to your chest again.

“Mum,” David frees one hand to lift your chin to see your tear-stained eyes, “What do you need from me to be free of this prison? A divorce? I know men close to the Archbishop and am willing to call in all my favors to see you happy.”

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, so different from the ones earlier squeezed from his eyes by laughter.

“You would do that for me?” The breaks in your voice hurt him deeply.

“For the woman that saved me time and again? For you who became my mother when you did not need to? I would do anything for you, including delivering you to Austria myself.”

“David, my son, I think I will take you up on that offer.”

Before he heads back to the sea, David will see you to the arms of a man who loves you. He will know you are safe and when he returns to you he expects to have at least one sibling. He keeps that thought tucked behind his smile.

Masterlist

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #dukedom au #noona inspired this #konig x you #konig x reader #lostintransist writing #x reader #poly 141 #angsty au #but it ends happy

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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.”

feedback always welcome :) reqs are closed.

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daycare-care · 2 months ago

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FNAF themed activity set!

Coloring pages

Activity sheets

Quests:

Freddy’s Showtime Set-Up

Story: Freddy’s going on stage tonight, but the band’s stuff is all missing! Quest:

Gather toy instruments or draw them.

Line up your plushies like a band (Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, etc.).

Put on a mini “concert” — dance, sing, or play a music video for them.

Extra: Make tickets or posters for the show!

Bonnie’s Guitar Hunt

Story: Bonnie lost his favorite guitar backstage! Quest:

Hide or draw a guitar and “find” it by checking rooms (closet, under bed, behind pillow).

Each place gives a clue to the next.

Celebrate when you find it!

Chica’s Pizza Party Planner

Story: Chica is throwing a pizza party and needs your help! Quest:

Draw or craft a pizza with paper or felt (add toppings!).

Make a snack version (mini bagel pizzas, crackers + cheese).

Decorate a pretend party table for her.

Extra: Invite plushies to the party!

Plushie Night Shift

Story: You’re the night guard… but the animatronics are just lonely. Quest:

Use a flashlight and check on plushies in different “rooms” (pillows, shelves).

Tuck each one in or give a hug so they stay happy.

Finish your shift with a star sticker or a little reward!

Extra: Use a clock or timer for each “hour.”

Pirate Cove Cleanup with Foxy

Story: Foxy’s cove is messy from all his treasure hunting! Quest:

Find 5 “lost treasures” (toy coins, buttons, shiny things).

Clean/tidy a small play area or shelf with Foxy.

Build a treasure box from a container or cardboard.

Extra: Make a pirate map to track where things are hidden!

Mini Pizzaplex Missions (Security Breach Style)

Story: You’re helping Glamrock Freddy protect the Pizzaplex! Quest:

Pick a mission card (draw, find, build).

Examples:

“Fix the arcade machine” = Stack blocks or tidy toys.

“Sneak past Monty” = Crawl quietly across the room.

“Recharge at a station” = Snuggle under a blanket!

Extra: Use a flashlight or toy camera for pretend security gear!

SNACKS AND DRINK RECIPES!

🍕 1. Chica’s Mini Pizzas

Inspired by: Chica the Chicken (queen of pizza!)

Use English muffins, mini bagels, or tortillas.

Spread on pizza sauce, cheese, and toppings (pepperoni, olives, veggies).

Bake until melty!

Little Twist: Cut into shapes with cookie cutters if you want star or heart pizza!

🍪 2. Freddy’s Fudge Bear Bites

Inspired by: Freddy Fazbear

Use chocolate pudding or fudge.

Top with whipped cream and bear-shaped cookies (like Teddy Grahams).

Add sprinkles if you like!

Alternative: Make chocolate Rice Krispies shaped into little bear heads!

🍩 3. Glamrock Sprinkle Donuts

Inspired by: Glamrock Freddy & friends

Plain mini donuts or donut holes.

Dip in frosting or melted white chocolate.

Cover with colorful neon sprinkles.

Add a Star: Use edible glitter or star sprinkles for that pizzaplex flair!

🍫 4. Moon Drop Popcorn

Inspired by: Moondrop (Security Breach)

Pop popcorn and mix with a little melted white chocolate.

Sprinkle with blue and silver sprinkles or edible stars.

Let cool to harden slightly.

Optional: Add mini marshmallows or cereal stars for a dreamy vibe.

🧺 5. Bonnie’s Bunny Munch

Inspired by: Bonnie the Bunny

Trail mix with pretzels, bunny grahams, raisins, chocolate chips, or pastel M&Ms.

Mix it all up in a bowl or mini snack bags.

Pretend Play: Package it as “backstage bunny snacks” for plushies!

🥤💫 FNaF-Themed Drinks

🌈 1. Freddy Fazbear Float

Root beer or cola

A scoop of vanilla ice cream on top

Optional: chocolate syrup swirl on the rim

Little Idea: Use a striped straw and call it “Freddy Fuel!”

🧃 2. Chica’s Party Punch

Lemonade + a splash of fruit punch or strawberry soda

Add fruit slices or gummy rings

Serve in a cup with a party hat sticker!

Sugar-Free Tip: Use flavored water and fruit instead.

💙 3. Monty’s Gator-Ade

Lime or blue sports drink (or Kool-Aid)

Ice cubes with gummy worms frozen inside (optional!)

Name it “Monty’s Swamp Juice!”

🌙 4. Moondrop Milk

Cold milk or oat milk

Add blue food coloring or a drop of vanilla

Sprinkle edible glitter on top

Nighttime Cozy: Serve in a cup with a moon or star sticker. Great before bedtime!

☀️ 5. Sunrise Smoothie

Orange juice + banana + yogurt

Blend until creamy

Add a straw and a paper sun cut-out on the rim

Sunny Tip: Call it “Sun’s Power Potion” and drink it during playtime!

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cornliastreett · 30 days ago

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ALREADY OVER ⎯⎯ chapter two

george clarke x singer!reader

NAVIGATION !

ALREADY OVER MASTERLIST !

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

001. NOTE

just a reminder this is set in 2022!

It was a rare kind of sunny afternoon in London — just bright enough to sit by the patio doors at Simon and Talia’s house and let the sun shine through the glass onto the dining room table. The room smelt like garlic and toasted wraps, and the playlist running through the speaker was an easy mix of R&B and pop.

Y/N was stirring an iced oat latte with a straw that Talia had made her, half-listening to Freya rant about something Josh had done.

“If Josh tries to get me to drink one more protein smoothie that tastes like wet cardboard, I’m going to throw his blender out the window.” Freya dropped onto the chair opposite Y/N at the table, her oversized hoodie nearly swallowing her whole as she grabbed her coffe like it was a lifeline.

Talia, halfway through slicing cucumbers at the kitchen island, didn’t even look up. “Is this about the ‘bulk phase’ again?”

Freya groaned. “Yes. He says I ‘don’t support his fitness journey’ because I won’t drink his chalk-shake monstrosities. I said if he wants support, he can have it with a side of oat milk and flavour.”

Y/N burst into laughter as she leaned over to grab a handful of crisps from a bowl in the middle of the table. “Didn’t he try to convince you to do a couples workout last week?”

“I’m still sore,” Freya deadpanned. “Emotionally.”

Talia finally looked up, smirking. “You say this, but at least he didn't ask you to film it.”

Y/N snorted into her drink. “Honestly, that’s so true. Both of you are so lucky you can keep most of your relationship private.”

Freya rolled her eyes dramatically. “But all I wanted was a nice Sunday lie-in. Instead, I ended up doing jumping lunges while he shouted things like ‘Let’s go!’ in my face.”

Talia had finally finished in the kitchen, placing the chopped cucumber into the salad bowl and bringing it over to the table. She placed it in the middle before sitting down beside Y/N.

“How brave of you. You’re both survivors,” Y/N added, holding her iced latte in a mock toast. “To dating Sidemen.”

They all clinked drinks in a very uncoordinated, very on-brand moment of solidarity before bursting into laughter.

The three of them dissolved into conversations about life as the late afternoon sun streamed through the patio doors. The table was scattered with wraps, crisps, and half-finished salad prep, as casual and familiar as any proper girls' lunch should be.

"You have been suspiciously quiet today," Talia had twisted herself to face Y/N, arm resting on the back of her own chair. "What's going on?"

"Me?" Y/N raised her eyebrows at the older woman.

"Yeah, you."

Freya nodded in agreement, leaning forward on her chair and resting her elbows on the table. "She's right, not like you to be so quiet. You've barely spoken about yourself all afternoon." Not that Y/N was so self-absorbed that she was constantly talking about herself, but it was weird that she hadn't told the girls anything about what was going on with her lately, especially when the whole idea of lunch was for a proper catch up.

Y/N shrugged. "There's not really anything to say," which was nothing but the truth. "I haven't been up to much, or anything at all." Y/N hadn't exactly done anything exciting recently. She had been in the studio working on songs but nothing solid enough to tell the girls about.

"No disaster dates to tell us about?" If there was one thing Y/N always had up her sleeve, it was a date story that had the girls either gasping in complete shock or on the floor crying with laughter, so Talia was surprised she didn't have anything to say.

"I actually haven't been on a date in months, and, I don’t know… it’s been nice not answering to anyone.”

Freya tilted her head. “No flings? No dating app disasters? Not even a tiny crush?"

"Nada." Y/N replied, taking a long sip from her drink—her second coffee of the afternoon. "Haven't met anyone in months who’s even made me think about dating again." She was ready to pivot the conversation, already searching for a new topic, but then a face flickered in her mind. Just for a second—brown eyes, crooked grin, that ridiculous laugh. And apparently, her expression betrayed her, because Talia was suddenly leaning in, eyebrows knit with suspicion.

"Well, that was a big fat lie, wasn't it?"

And it seemed Freya had noticed too. "Spill. Right now."

Y/N let out a sigh, knowing there was no point even attempting to pretend it was nothing with those two. They could read her like an open book. “Okay… maybe there was someone.”

"You need to tell us, immediately." Talia said, already grinning.

Y/N hesitated, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “I mean… it’s was nothing. I don't even know him.” She glanced across at Freya, who had her eyebrows raised. Y/N exhaled, gave up the fight, and unlocked her phone. “His name is George Clarke. We met at the XIX party last week.”

Freya leaned in. “Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?”

“Because I didn’t think it was worth bringing up,” Y/N said with a soft shrug. “But… he was cute. That’s all.”

Talia narrowed her eyes playfully. “Alright, well, who is he?”

Y/N pulled up TikTok on her phone and finding his profile, from her following, and handed the phone over to Talia first. She began scrolling through his videos, stopping on a few to watch and laughing quietly. When she was finished, she passed the phone over to Freya.

Freya's face lit up. “Oh, he’s funny.”

“And cute.” Talia added, nudging Y/N.

"He’s actually funny—not that forced YouTube energy.”

"But it's nothing. I barely even spoke to him." Y/N said, shaking her head and taking her phone back. She glanced down at George's face on her screen quickly, ignoring the feeling in her stomach. She then locked her screen, almost throwing her phone down on the table.

"This isn't nothing, Y/N/N. You're blushing."

Y/N's hands shot up to her face, fingers feeling her cheeks burning up. She hadn't even realised. "I am not blushing." Lying right through her teeth.

“You totally are,” Talia teased. “Your cheeks are one shade away from writing his name in your notes app with a heart next to it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t bother denying it.

Right then, the front door creaked open, followed by Simon’s familiar voice echoing down the hallway. "There better be some food left, otherwise there is going to be a problem."

Simon wandered in a few seconds later, hoodie slightly askew and hair flopped to one side and expression slightly suspicious. “What are we gossiping about?” He said, eyes scanning their expressions. Talia was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. Freya had a smirk carved into her face like it had been chiseled there. And Y/N… well, Y/N could feel the heat rising in her cheeks like a thermometer on the sun.

Simon leaned over the table, stealing the bowl of crisps before sliding into the chair beside Freya.

��Y/N/N met someone.” Talia said with zero hesitation.

Simon raised his brows. “Oh yeah?”

Y/N groaned, throwing her head back against the chair. If Simon knew, everyone was bound to find out and that was the last thing she needed. Everybody thinking she had a crush on George when she had only met him once.

"She met him at the XIX launch." Freya added.

"Oh my God, I know exactly who you're talking about." Simon said, his eyes lighting up.

Y/N's head shot back up to glare right at him. "What? No you don't."

"Oh it's so obvious. You're like the same person." He said, a large grin plastered across his face. He hadn't been aware that Y/N had met George at the party, but he would be lying if he hadn't been waiting for it. “You and George? You’re basically clones. If I locked you two in a room together and walked away, I’m convinced you'd either fall in love or start a podcast.”

Y/N groaned again, hiding behind her hands. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate,” Simon said, grinning almost proudly. “You both have the same dry humour, and main character energy."

"I do not have main character energy."

"You do," Talia said, nodding in agreement. "But in a good way, like Jess from New Girl."

"And he's exactly like Nick."

"Ugh, I hate this already."

Simon pointed with a crisp. “Still stand by it. You’re like if George had a skincare routine and stage presence.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was a reluctant tug of a smile at her lips. “We literally just talked. Once. For like twenty minutes. And it wasn't alone, Chris, Chip and Arthur were there too.”

“And yet here we are.” Talia said, shooting her a knowing look.

“Can we not make a thing out of this?” Y/N said, trying to sound annoyed, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her.

Simon stood and grabbed a fizzy drink from the fridge. “Too late. This ship has sailed. The group chat will be informed.”

Y/N reached across the table and threw the kitchen roll at his arm. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, somehow, still your favourite,” he said with a wink.

As the laughter bubbled back up around the kitchen, Y/N glanced down at her hands as they twirled the rings around her fingers.

Maybe this was becoming a thing.

A small thing, sure. But still… a thing.

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The bar was already buzzing by the time Y/N stepped through the doors. Warm lights glowed over rustic wooden tables, music hummed low under the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses, and the place smelled faintly of chips, spilt beer, and good memories.

She spotted the group near the back—two pushed-together tables covered in half-drunk pints and chip baskets. Chris and Shannon were tucked into the corner, laughing about something on his phone. Will had an arm lazily draped around Mia, while Freezy, Chip and Harry were mid-debate about football. Arthur was animatedly recounting a story to Becky and Sabina, who looked like they were both invested and slightly alarmed.

“Y/N/N!” Mia beamed, waving her over. “We thought you were bailing!”

Y/N slid into the seat between Sabina and Becky with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly considered it. But then I remembered you lot are unbearable when I miss things.”

Josh grinned. “Fashionably late. Popstar behaviour.”

“You know me,” Y/N said, grabbing the full glass of wine that Becky had just passed her. “Main character syndrome.”

Just as she took her first sip, the pub door creaked open again.

“Speak of the devil,” Will muttered under his breath, nodding toward the entrance.

Y/N glanced up—and there he was.

George Clarke, in all his charming glory, strolled in with Arthur Hill by his side. George wore a black tee layered under an open flannel, his hair a little messier than they probably had been when he left the flat. Arthur, equally cool but quieter in energy, followed with a relaxed smile.

Y/N straightened a little in her seat, trying not to be obvious.

“Oi oi!” George called, voice rising above the hum.

A chorus of greetings met him as he and Arthur made their way over. George’s eyes found Y/N's almost instantly, and something about the way he smiled—sharp, boyish, like he already had something cheeky planned—sent a quiet spark down her spine.

George started to say hello to everyone, as well as introducing them to Arthur. He made his way around the group till he reached Y/N.

“Well, look who it is.” Y/N said as George slid into the seat beside her, that Sabina had since deserted.

“Didn’t think I’d see you twice in a week.” he replied, nudging her knee under the table as casually as if he did it all the time.

She smirked. “And yet here you are. Are you stalking me or just conveniently everywhere I am?”

George leaned in slightly. “Could be fate. Could be really good location-tracking.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. “How romantic. Shall I send you my live location to make it easier?”

“I already have it,” he whispered with mock-seriousness. “Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”

But before Y/N could respond, there was a cough from beside George, as if to gain their attention. Y/N's eyes darted to the man beside George.

“Oh, shit—sorry,” George said quickly, leaning back slightly to gesture between them. “Y/N, this is Arthur Hill—my flatmate. Arthur, this is Y/N.”

"It's nice to meet you, Arthur."

Arthur offered a small smile and a nod. “Nice to meet you. I’m a fan… of your music, actually.”

Y/N's eyebrows lifted, pleasantly surprised. “Really? That’s sweet, thank you.”

"Arthur makes music too." George quickly added.

Y/N perked up immediately. “No way! That’s so cool.”

“I haven’t put out much yet,” Arthur said, scratching the back of his neck. “Still figuring out my sound. A lot of rough demos and late-night doubts.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “If you ever want someone to listen—honest opinion, no sugarcoating—I’d love to hear them.”

Arthur’s expression shifted with genuine appreciation. “Seriously? I’d really appreciate that.”

George looked between them, lips twitching. “Arthur’s just being modest. I’ve heard some of his stuff—it’s amazing. He just won’t let anyone else hear it yet.”

Y/N laughed before tilting her head. “So how long have you two lived together?”

“Only about a month,” Arthur replied, nudging George lightly. “It’s still that weird honeymoon phase where we pretend each other’s habits are cute.”

George scoffed. “You say that like I’m not the ideal roommate.”

“You left cereal in the sink yesterday.” Arthur deadpanned.

“And the only time I've done it!” George defended, eyes flicking toward Y/N like he wanted her to take his side.

"Oh, I know all about messy roommates, trust me." Y/N said, eyes focused on Arthur with a faint smile on her lips.

After a few more exchaged words, George and Arthur excused themselves to get a drink at the bar, allowing Y/N to catch up with the others.

When they finally returned, Y/N was deep in conversation with Becky, Mia and Will, her laughter carrying lightly over the hum of pub chatter. George noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear mid-sentence, completely absorbed. Rather than interrupt, he and Arthur took the seats opposite, sliding easily into the ongoing banter between Chip, Harry, and Freezy.

They were only a few minutes into the conversation—chatting about video ideas—when Chris, half-leaning across the table with a mischievous grin, raised his voice just enough to cut through the noise. "Hey George, I heard you went on a date a few weeks ago? How'd that go?" Chris had shouted across the table, gaining everybodies attention without meaning to.

The words hung in the air like a dropped pint glass.

Y/N's stomach dipped.

George blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. Uh—yeah, we went out. Twice, actually.”

“Ohhh,” Mia chimed in, dragging the word like a tease. “Repeat performance. Someone made an impression.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh with the group, eyes trained on the ice in her glass as she gave it a lazy swirl with her straw. Her face stayed neutral, but her stomach dipped — a gentle, unexpected twist.

“Not really a thing, though,” George said quickly, glancing around. “Just grabbing drinks. Chill.”

Y/N barely knew George. They’d only met twice. But there was something about him — the dry humour, the way he really listened when she talked, the way he’d looked at her earlier like he was remembering the shape of her smile.

It was probably nothing.

Still, she didn’t love the sound of “twice.”

Becky, ever perceptive, shot a quick look toward Y/N, but said nothing.

The conversation drifted again, and Y/N let herself get pulled into it. She joked with Becky about booking a girls' trip to Lisbon, teased Chip about still having his mom’s Netflix password, and even joined in when Freezy started ranking everyone’s “vibe” based on their drinks.

And then there was George.

He didn’t say much, but every now and then, their eyes met across the table. He smirked at one of her quips. She caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

At one point, George slid a fresh drink across the table to her and said, “You looked like you were rationing that last sip."

She raised an eyebrow. “Concerned for my hydration levels?”

“Just making sure you don’t fade mid-conversation. Would ruin the vibe.”

Y/N laughed, a little caught off guard by the softness in his smile.

They didn’t know each other. Not really. But she felt it — a little flicker of something, warm and magnetic.

Still, Chris’ words echoed faintly in the back of her mind: Went on a date… twice.

It didn’t mean anything. But it also wasn’t nothing.

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure what game they were playing—or if they were even playing the same one.

She didn’t know what George’s situation was. Two dates wasn’t a relationship—but it wasn’t nothing, either. And maybe she was reading too much into everything. But the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her like there was no one else in the room—it didn’t feel platonic.

ALREADY OVER TAGLIST !

tags: @lottiewills @sophiexxclarkey @sundarksposts @rkaya @lovingaphroditesworld @theresglitteronthefloor @golden-hoax @duolingofanaccount @courtjjade @dopeysunflowers @tyna-19 @madforgeorge @just-yazz @madsclarkey @justheretoreadthxxs @happyclifford @hey-there9-its-me @clarkey4life

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