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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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5 times Riddle has a bit of trouble adjusting to cohabitation + 1 time he falls right into place.

Notes: Riddle Rosehearts x GN!reader, friends to roommates to lovers, i wrote this for myself but y’all can read it too, there’s no plot lol

CW: Food, Riddle has a little bit of imposter syndrome, Riddle’s mom neglecting him

Riddle moves in with you after completing his undergraduate degree, not because he’s had the biggest crush on you since what seems like forever (since his freshman year of college), but because he’s now a med student and under crippling debt with no way to afford an apartment himself.

Sure, he could have probably found another med student on his school’s Facebook page to room with, but he’s never been great at sharing personal spaces with complete strangers. He’s just a little bit shy, somewhat awkward, and knows that someone who doesn’t know him will think he’s some sort of control freak even if he’s been trying to get better over the years.

In theory, you’re Riddle’s ideal roommate. He’s known you for long enough and spent enough late nights with you in the library stressing over his GPA to know that it takes a lot for you to get tired of him, so when you offered to split rent, he’s more than eager to agree. He only thinks of the pros early on before the move: the place is equal distance away from your job and his school, it has two separate bedrooms, and there’s a grocery store nearby for reasonable cost. He doesn’t consider the cons, or rather, he can’t imagine there being any cons with you in the first place.

When the move-in process and organizing is complete, however, Riddle is equal parts nervous (because he realizes late that he’s now living with you for an indefinite amount of time) and surprised (because he realizes he’ll be seeing you a lot more than before and is way happier about this than anticipated).

Granted, he doesn’t really know what to do now. He’s always valued his personal time, but he also doesn’t know how much personal time you need and whether or not relationships change when you move in with a friend. Would him striking up a conversation with you scrolling silently on your phone on the couch annoy you? Or is it something you’re waiting for while trying to be considerate for him? Are you worried that he’ll be the one who snaps at you, because then perhaps it’s then his fault for not making the message clear that he would never do something like that.

Riddle’s confused so he shuffles awkwardly toward his room and settles on his chair. He makes a mental list of possible conversation starters but figures that he’s better off staying quiet and playing it safe. He doesn’t want to create problems only after just moving in.

“Riddle?” he hears you call from the living room and almost jumps out of his seat.

“Y-yes?!” It comes out close to a shriek, and he wants desperately for both himself and his heart to shut up. “Do you need something?”

“No,” you say, trying to peak through his door. “Just wondering if you want to chill on the couch. There’s enough space for the both of us, you know?”

Riddle spirals into a new set of concerns, because he’s not sure if you’re just inviting him to be polite or if he’s already being rude for leaving you alone. He can’t believe living with another person is so difficult, but when you call for him again, he decides walk back out, arms stuck to his side and smile rigid. He’s stiff, and he knows you notice this, but he can’t help it. Even the way he settles himself onto the couch is mechanic, leaving a significant gap between the two of you that doesn’t feel quite right to him. It’s just a few centimeters that he wants to close. He stays still as stone.

“You know,” you say absentmindedly. He needs to find a better, quieter way to express surprise. “This is kind of like when we used to study. Not that it was that long ago, but I thought I’d miss us just sitting around doing our own stuff. Good thing we moved in together, huh?”

Riddle feels ridiculously stupid for being so worried, because you’re absolutely right. Why on earth was he so nervous about sitting on the couch with you when he already had spent four years across from you at a library table without a single worry about whether or not he was acting as appropriate company. And during the time, he didn’t worry, because he figured if you bothered to go back to that spot every day without fail, then that was enough. He supposes that if the only thing that’s changed is the setting, then perhaps it still is enough.

“You don’t need to think too much about it,” you murmur quietly, almost as if you were reading his mind. Of course. You always knew what to say to him. “Just do whatever feels comfortable to you.”

Currently, what feels right to him is sitting just a smidge closer to you, so he scoots over until shoulders brush against each other like they always had on the bus back to the campus dorms. It’s a little strange to Riddle, because he finds that everything and nothing has changed at the same time. Yes, he’s still nervous, but it’s the giddy kind of nervousness where happiness and maybe excitement start bubbling through. For a brief second, he thinks that everything will be okay.

He will, though, have to work on the surge of disappointment that hits him when you leave the couch first even though it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. It’s a process of telling himself that it’s not because he’s boring but that it’s just how people live their own lives during cohabitation. It’s a process like most things, but he can’t help but worry why it’s giving him such a difficult time.

And as if he’s not already having to go through mental Olympics to figure out the fine line between comfortable silence and friendly conversation, he comes back on his first day of med school on the same day you finish orientation at your new job. It’s not a big deal except for the fact that he finds himself reaching the entrance with you at the same time.

“Hello,” he says awkwardly, gripping his bag so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He watches as you fumble around with the keys, unlocking the door. The door to the apartment where you both live in, he reminds himself.

“Hey, Riddle,” you respond, not nearly as concerned as he is. “Doctor school doing you good?”

“Thankfully.” He walks in behind you, standing straight as pole while you take off your shoes. For some reason, he doesn’t move to do the same until you walk further in. “Unfortunately, it won’t stay this way. How was work?”

“Boring,” and just as you predict, Riddle rolls his eyes, because as he always says, boring is better than things spiraling into chaos. In fact, boring might be the best thing you could ask for on your first day. “Was the school nice?”

Riddle answers your question with ease, talking about how much quieter the library is compared to your undergrad days, how good the quality of the lecture hall is, and how neat the well-trimmed bushes outlining the main entrance walkway are. It’s only when he reaches the part about how much he appreciates the shine of clean linoleum floors that he wonders if he’s boring you.

It’s like cold water to his face when he realizes that the two of you now walked very different paths. For starters, you’re now fully employed and working a steady 9-5 job, but he’s still in school, same as always. He doesn’t have the excuse of being classmates with you anymore to talk about everything and anything related to his academics. From complaining about difficult professors to proofreading each other’s papers, he doesn’t have any pretext to talk to you about his life, and by extension, you don’t have any reason to listen to him. A pit forms in his stomach when he confronts the fact that he’s always unchanging, always the same, no matter how hard he tries.

(This is especially scary to him, because the more he watches you grow, the more he worries that you’ll leave him behind).

“Looking pretty troubled there,” you comment after Riddle abruptly stops in the middle of his rant. “Were the bushes that life-changing?”

He clears his throat. “No. I was just…worried that you find it dull. You don’t go to school anymore, after all.”

“Oh, but you know I love a good gossip session about the worst people aspiring to be doctors,” you reply with a mischievous grin. And he does know this, because it was the venting sessions with you that got him through the worst parts of his undergraduate years. “Plus, you know you can talk to me about anything right? That’s why I asked.”

“I’m sure you weren’t curious about how the floors of the auditorium looked,” Riddle says dryly with disbelief.

“Not true,” you protest, frowning. “I’m glad you don’t have to walk on cobblestone anymore, because I don’t think you’d last that long in heels without me being there to catch you anymore.”

“My heels got stuck one time.”

“And I caught you before you faceplanted onto the floor that one time,” you add. “That’s why you have to tell me everything, even if I’m not trying to be some fancy doctor like you are. I’m sure I’ll find a way to use it against you.”

“You will absolutely not.” He huffs and crosses his arms. “And I find this exchange rather unfair seeing as you haven’t told me anything about your job yet beside the fact that it’s boring.”

“Didn’t think you’d be interested.” You only notice how ironic it sounds when it leaves your mouth, much to Riddle’s amusement and slight upward quirk of his lips. “Fine. I guess you’re just dying to hear about how close my desk is to the nearest vending machine.”

Riddle, you discover, is indeed thoroughly invested, because even after you’re done describing your office layout, the people you came across during orientation, and what your project manager is like, he asks even more about your commute there and what your work will be like even though he doesn’t understand anything about computers. He thinks this is a one-time thing, of course, because once he actually starts school work, there’s no way you’ll care about what his textbook says or how his professors are, but the following day, when he comes home to you, you ask him about his day again. And again. And it’s strange to Riddle, because even without pretext, he finds how easily he can talk to you about anything even if you seem worlds apart from him.

“Look at this leaf!” you text him one day on your walk to the train stop. “It’s so ugly.”

“Good morning to you too,” he texts back as he walks to his next class. He hesitates on sending his next message, because he hates nothing more than double texting. “I’m on my way to my biochemistry of medicine class. Take care on your way to work.”

Admittedly, you have no idea what the biochemistry of medicine is or what it consists of, and Riddle knows that, but he holds onto the sliver of hope that you’ll ask him about it when he comes home later.

(You do ask him about it later and tease him when he starts nerding out. He doesn’t mind).

Neither of your schedules really match on weekdays with you being gone at work for the day and Riddle at school; he’s sometimes gone first thing in the morning and sometimes back when you’re almost ready to go to bed depending on the day. Even on weekends when you have the luxury of a break, Riddle’s off on his 12-hour shift in the ER from 7 AM to 7 PM. Much to Riddle’s dismay, he thinks he might see you even less than he did before moving in with you.

One thing, however, is guaranteed—or at least becomes guaranteed—when he comes back home Saturday night at 8:30 PM, and you’re sitting at the dining table.

(It’s not actually a dining table but a round desk made for children that you managed to fish from IKEA, because the entire apartment layout is Not Very Big).

He glances, basically stares, first at the warm smile you greet him with and then at the two plates of food with plastic wrap covering them. He raises an eyebrow in question, especially when he notices that the plates are still warm.

“I thought you said you were going out with your friends today,” he comments, not really registering what was going on. He always made sure to memorize your schedule and is worried that he’s slipped up for the first time. “Why are you here?”

“I’m your roommate?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he retorts, and you laugh. “I meant why aren’t you out right now, and why haven’t you eaten?”

“Well, I got tired of being out for the entire day so I came back,” you explain very matter-of-factly, “and then I noticed that some of the things in the fridge were going to go bad, so I made dinner.”

“But why haven’t you eaten yet?” Riddle repeats, scrambling around the apartment to put his bags and jacket away. This is something new he’s learned how to do, talking to you without necessarily being in the same room. The first few times, he does it by accident and apologizes immediately, but with the understanding that he’s tired and busy, you reassure him that it’s no big deal at all and that the apartment is small enough for you to hear him loud and clear anyways.

“I was waiting for you,” you respond. He pauses. “Duh.”

Riddle doesn’t know what to say after except a soft, “Oh,” that escapes his lips and makes his way toward the table, carefully pulling the chair out so that it doesn’t scratch against the floorboards. He watches you, unsure, and copies you when you start removing the plastic wrap off your plate. You take a bite. He follows. You take a sip of your water. So does he.

Truth to be told, he can’t remember anybody waiting for him. Sure, he’s made plans to eat with people before, you included, which would mean that he and another party would meet at the same time and agree to eat at said time.

This is new unplanned and uncharted territory. He always figures that with a temper like his that flared up at any possibility of being late, anybody who knows him would hold him up to that same standard. He never expects anyone to weave him into their time, especially when he hasn’t always been the most flexible.

This combined with the fact that not even his own mother would wait for him makes this experience feel utterly foreign. He can only recall her always eating dinner at 6:00 PM. If he was stuck doing his workbooks because he couldn’t complete them quickly enough, then that was his fault. More than often than not, young Riddle would walk out of his room at 6:30 PM, peering into the empty dining hall and then climbing onto the seat only to be met with a cold, unwrapped bowl of bland soup. He’d sip on it as slowly as possible to delay being reprimanded.

“I’ll…wash up,” he says finally, eying at your nearly empty plate. “It’s the least I could do since you went through all this trouble.”

You shake your head. “I told you, Riddle. I just wanted to get rid of some ingredients before they went bad. Plus, we get to spend some time together. Two birds with one stone, really.”

It’s almost ironic how lonely he realizes he was when living with his mother even though he spent nearly every second of his adolescence under her watchful eye. Compared with how just ten minutes sitting across from you makes him feel, the contrast is almost laughable.

“Thank you.” He wonders if he’s able to convey exactly how grateful he is. Expressing himself was never his strong suit. “I mean it.”

“Yeah?” You place your utensils on your now empty plate and think for a bit. “We should do the dishes together. It’ll be done faster that way.”

Even though Riddle wants to tell you that it’s his duty to repay your kindness, he finds himself indulging in it today. In fact, like his childhood self, he finds himself eating slower than usual tonight to bask in your presence, waiting for him. He feels special, because even though you have all the rights in the world to just leave him there and continue your day off, you stay. It makes him feel like he’s worth something.

The following day after he gets off his shift, he texts you that he’s bringing home desserts from a bakery on his way back. You text him that you’ll be waiting for him, and he thinks that this is something he could get used to.

It’s admittedly very strange to say, but Riddle develops a love for Post-It notes. They’re not for himself to keep track of tasks, as he already has his own trusty pocket book to jot down things he needs to keep in mind, but he finds them rather endearing when you start leaving them all over his door.

He swears he’s trying to see you as often as possible, but with final exams looming over him, he spends all of his free time in his room, studying for hours on end and with minimal breaks. He appreciates you for being so considerate and understanding of his circumstances, entering the apartment as quietly as possible and making little noise in the kitchen. He knows you like leaving the TV on from time to time just to have some white noise, but he hasn’t heard it for a while and figures he owes you a lot after he’s done with his work.

One morning about three days from his first final, he leaves his room for a bit to get water from the kitchen and finds a little neon orange note stuck to his door. Blinking his dry, tired eyes, he leans in to read it.

“This is the last stretch! Good luck with studying! There’re some leftovers from the take-out I brought home yesterday, so help yourself!”

And like everything you do, it makes his heart flutter. He wonders if this is something he should respond to formally, like a letter from an acquaintance, but he’s not even sure if he can consider this a letter. He walks back into his room briefly, rustling around his drawer for a small pack of sticky notes he received for free at school fair and scribbles his response.

“Good morning,

I hope this note finds you well and in good health. Thank you very much for the leftovers. Once I’m done with my exams, I’ll take the proper measures to make this up to you.

Best regards,

Riddle Rosehearts”

It’s still early in the morning, earlier than when you usually needed to wake up to barely make it to work on time, so he very gently places his note on your door and continues on with his day. Between quick sips of water or tea and sticking his head out an open window to take in fresh air, Riddle studies and studies until the sun is down. He decides finally that he needs to stretch his legs and opens the door of his room to pace around the shared area. Another sticky note.

“LOL.”

His eyebrows raise, scrutinizing the small piece of paper and flipping it over just to make sure he isn’t missing any other writing. What was so funny?

“Good evening,

I’m glad you’re finding something amusing. I would find a little context very helpful in this scenario. Feel free to let me know when you have the time.

Sleep well,

Riddle Rosehearts”

There’s a lot more he wants to write like how much he wants to eat with you again or asking you if your work is going well, but he realizes that he has neither the time nor the space to fit the essay he has drafted in his mind for you. He settles for this instead, sticks it onto you room door, and goes back to study when he finishes circling the kitchen ten times. He’s not having the most fantastic time right now, but he’s eager to find another note from you when you wake up tomorrow morning.

Riddle takes a break day, not because he realizes that finals week had run him through the wringer, but because you all force him to take a day off from his shift at the ER by taking a day off yourself. He feels a little guilty for having you throw away your plans for the day, especially when he doesn’t have a single clue on what he wants to do. He’d prefer not to leave the apartment, being worn out from running on four hours of sleep each night for the past week. Frankly, it seems like a waste for you now to be watching him solve crossword puzzles in complete silence.

He’s not ashamed about his hobbies, but he does acknowledge that not many people particularly enjoy watching others write in boxes for hours on end without doing anything else. You tell him you’re just making sure that he’s resting properly, and he understands your concerns, but did you really need to be so close to him? He’s not a child that needs to be surveilled, and he certainly is having just some problems concentrating knowing that if he moves toward you any closer, he’ll feel your breath down his neck.

And then, you choose to rest your chin on his shoulder, still watching him as he ponders on five-lettered synonyms for ‘fictional book.’. He startles from the slight slouch he’s fallen into during his earlier concentration, but you don’t say a word. Riddle thinks you’re teasing him, but something about how your warmth radiates against him settles his rapidly beating heart. It’s entirely different from the brief shoulder-to-shoulder bumping or the electric that rushes through his body whenever his hand brushed against yours while handing you a box of tarts. All of those had been quick, fleeting moments he considered accidents. This was absolutely deliberate.

“Are you…tired?” he tries, wondering if this was perhaps your way of telling him to choose a different activity to do. “You can always go about your own day and do as you like-.”

“I’m just comfy like this,” you murmur, voice tinged with sleep. It tickles his ear, but he tries his best not to yelp. “Should I move?”

“N-no,” he stammers, shy. “If you’re sleepy you could…”

Riddle pauses. The sane, sensible answer he could provide is to tell you to go to bed and take a nap, to tell you not to worry about him because he knows how to take care of himself and is a proper adult. For some reason, though, the thought of losing your weight against him makes him feel a little empty. He can’t really comprehend it, but he knows that the moment he tells you move from him, he’ll be left feeling lonely, and he doesn’t want that.

“If you’re sleepy, I’ll just move,” he starts, changing positions so that he’s no longer facing the arm of the couch and instead properly resting against it, “and you can lean on my shoulder like this.”

You only hum in content, also readjusting yourself, and Riddle cycles through exactly three stages of emotions.

The first stage is obvious nervousness, but the good kind where his stomach does flip flops and everything feels fuzzy. You’re so close, and he can’t help it, becoming finely attuned to your breathing, the smell of your shampoo (which, much to his delight, is his shampoo, too), and the way your eyes struggle to stay open.

The second stage settles down the first. It’s the wave of relief that floods through him once he realizes you’re comfortable enough to fall asleep on him. He feels strong and reliable, but more importantly, he finds satisfaction that he’s able to help you rest. He tries his best not to wake you up, dutifully staying still as a log.

The third stage is more of a cumulative realization of all his concerns since he moved in with you. It’s his embarrassment at the fact that he’s still been so nervous around you, making a big deal out of his inadequacies even though he knows you consider him enough. He doesn’t know why it takes so long for him to realize that even through all his concerns, he falls easily into your affection every single time and that you have never once pushed him away.

Loving you and being loved by you has always been the easiest thing in this world, and he almost laughs at himself for taking this long to understand.

+1.

Riddle rearranges his work schedule during his break so that his weekends align with yours. He figures that there isn’t any point in being home on the days you’re at work, so for the rest of his summer, he has the best weeks of his life.

It’s 9 AM on a Sunday morning, and Riddle groggily wakes up in his room. Normally, he’s up at the crack of dawn, but he wakes up late today—or at least what he considers late—for two reasons. The first is that he stayed up late with you in your arms the night before while marathoning bad reality TV. Personally, it’s not quite his cup of tea, but he’s more or less watching you laugh the entire time rather than actually focusing on the show anyways. The second reason is that he knows that there’s no way you’re able to sleep past 9 AM today, because like clockwork, the garbage truck rolls by for the weekly trash disposal, waking up the entire apartment complex.

He listens from his room to the creaking of your bedroom door and the shuffling of your feet against the wooden floor before getting out of bed himself. Peering into the shared area, he sees your back turned away from him at the kitchen counter where you start to get breakfast ready. There’s never been a rule on who should cook breakfast or not, but Riddle’s a disaster of a cook and would much rather do the dishes in exchange for food that’s seasoned and unburnt.

“G’morning,” you murmur when you feel his arms wrap around your waist and his head against your back. “I hate that truck. They could’ve picked any other day when people aren’t sleeping in.”

“We could just nap together later,” Riddle proposes, slightly flustered, but with the both of you completely free all day, he can’t think of anything better to do. “That is, if you’re still tired, of course.”

“You’re becoming a lot bolder as of late.” Your chuckle resonates through him, and he remains silent for a moment. His eyes follow your hands as they insert bread into the toaster and reach for the cabinet above to grab strawberry jam. When the toast is ready, it’s his signal to start preparing the tea.

“Perhaps,” he muses, letting go of your waist after one small squeeze. Although, he’s not sure if he’s getting bolder or if he’s getting more comfortable. Or maybe it just feels right to be more honest with you now. “Sugar and milk?”

“Yes, please,” you respond, not really knowing why he asks when he knows how you like your tea by heart. You suppose he just always needs some type of affirmation, so with a grin, you smile and say, “Riddle? Love you.”

Without missing a beat, cheeks tinted with the slightest of pink, Riddle responds with a nod.

“Thank you. I adore you as well.”

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst wonderland #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #twst imagines #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #5+1 times #and they were roommates #twst x reader

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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Hey, just came in to say, your Trey fic is a Cay-Cay certified banger #poggersficbro

how did you know that i'm waiting for the day they localize cater to say pog

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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so glad ive found a trey lover hes everything to me

i can’t believe trey stans exist that’s so crazy to me. welcome to our community of two (2) people

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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cay cay certified banger!? Ehat😭😭😭 nope I take it all back n9w/j

the progression of your asks is so funny like i’m sorry i love trey so much but i also think it’d be an injustice to write him without cater saying outrageous things and trey not thinking anything of it because he’s surrendered to the fact that he can’t do slang

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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YOU ABSOLUTE BABE 💓💓 THAT TREY FIC IS SOOO 💖💖💖 A WHOLE ASS, PIPING MEAL, FRESH OUT OF THE OVEN I'M- 🥵🥵🥵🥵

Man's out there fixing us something to eat while I'm just 😍🥰🥰😍

YES SIR YOU CAN HAVE ALL OF MY POSSESSIONS LEMME JUST 😚😚🥺🥺

I'm wildin' over here let me rest from simping damn /hj

But srsly, that fic IS SO GOOD LIKE TOP-TIER STUFF RIGHT THERE👀👀

Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk and byeee~

the best part about trey being so hot is that nobody has gone after me for cay-cay certified banger yet

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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IM NOT A TREY STAN BUT GOD THAT FIC MAKES MY HEART FLUTTER FOR SOME REASON????? HAHahahahahahaHAHAHAHASJJCDICJSJJWNFJDJAJSND

i’m on a mission to convert people into trey stans thank you for enjoying him

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

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Asking someone in for a drink is boring, basic, and generic. Asking someone to help you figure out a cast iron pan is fun, attractive, and incredibly hot to Trey, your barista that you want to kiss very much.

Notes: Trey Clover x GN!reader, café!AU, barista Trey, office worker reader, mutual pining, Cater shows up as a wingman and a menace, i am a trey lover (evidently)

CW: frequent mentions of food, minor and brief mention of blood for when Trey cuts his finger while cooking, making out and suggestive during final part but everything before it is fluff

It’s almost a little tragic when you get off your train stop and see the street where your company building is for the first time, specifically the Starbucks across the street with a line trailing out through the doors and covering up the entrance of the café right next to it. You almost miss it completely had you not been so hesitant on joining the growing crowd. Sure, you have some time before orientation starts, but being late on the first day isn’t something you particularly want either.

So, you take a leap of faith and open the door to Cloverly, an empty coffee and pastry shop overshadowed by the popularity of Starbucks. You’d go in, order a hot coffee, and if it sucked, never come back again. No big deal.

“Welcome in.” Your eyes shift from the menu posted above the counter to a man with green hair unlike anything you’ve seen before, but somehow, it works. He’s been baking, you note, evident by the flour lightly dusting his apron and face with his glasses askew. “What can I get for you today?”

Something about him is so pretty that you almost forget to speak.

“Just one hot coffee, please,” you say after a prolonged pause. He nods and starts to turn around to start brewing.

“Feel free to make yourself at home while you wait,” he calls from over his shoulder. “You’re probably the first person to come here during the morning rush instead of next door.”

“Can you blame me for wanting to skip that line?” He seemed friendly enough, so maybe this wasn’t an awful idea after all. “I mean, I love supporting small local businesses.”

That gets a hearty laugh out of him. Incredible. How do you make that happen again?

“You won’t regret it.” He grabs a paper cup from the side. “I quite literally spent all four years of college coming up with this blend, and all my friends tell me it’s pretty good.”

“If I spent four years of my life studying beans, and all my friends said it was just, ‘Pretty good,’ I’d go insane.” It’s another joke that makes him chuckle. Yes, this is going well.

“Then I hope you come back again with a raving review.” He doesn’t have to, but he opts to walk around the counter to personally hand you your cup. You’re more flattered than you should be, and when you get up to leave, he even opens the door for you, telling you to watch your step because the entrance and the sidewalk aren’t exactly leveled but that’s how he got the lease for cheap.

Again, flattered.

“Well, in any case, even if I hate the coffee, at least I have something to say about the stellar customer service and the owner’s unending business-related wisdom.” Carefully, you make sure not to trip. “Thanks for not-an-awful morning…?”

“Trey,” he answers, patient smile turning into a grin with a raised eyebrow. “If you’re bothering to ask for my name, can I get my hopes up for my first regular customer?”

“Don’t hold your breath.” You laugh it off, but after interacting with this man for only ten minutes, you have a feeling that you’re already in too deep.

And you were right, because after taking a sip of what can only be described as the best coffee you’ve ever had, you find yourself waking up earlier than you need to and standing right in front of Cloverly again the very next morning. You don’t know why nobody’s ditching the Starbucks line, especially when Trey’s house blend is practically magic to your tastebuds compared to whatever the larger chain offered, but when you walk into the much more peaceful café, the calm does relax your morning nerves.

“Told you it was good,” Trey says, leaning on the cash register with a knowing look. It was almost as if he was expecting you to come back.

“Good morning to you, too.” You set your bag and jacket down at a seat in front of the counter. Trey looks delighted.

“And you’re dining in today?” he asks, grabbing a clean white mug. “What did I do to deserve such a fine morning?”

“I have some time today,” you respond casually as if you didn’t set your alarm an hour earlier the night before. “Can I get another coffee?”

“Anything else?” he asks over the coffee grinder. “No breakfast or anything?”

You pause and think. Two days of work definitely didn’t establish the income for both a coffee and food every morning. Not yet at least.

“Just a coffee, please,” you clarify, hoping it didn’t come off as too rude. He doesn’t seem to mind, humming in affirmation.

“So, are you new in town?” he asks once he’s served you your drink and is busying himself with setting up today’s pastry display. You eye at the croissants, sandwiches, and cakes behind the glass display. More tempting than you’d like, just like the person who made them.

“I just moved in a couple of weeks ago for a new job,” you say between slow sips. “Across the street, actually.”

“Pretty impressive,” he responds with a whistle. “I don’t think I’d ever be able to handle cooperate life. I used to go to an all-boys private school and couldn’t stand being stuck in a tie all day.”

“Well it’s only my second day, so who knows?” you joke. “Maybe I’ll end up hating corporate too and move back home.”

“Then I hope they treat you well over there.” You hear the sound of paper and the display case closing. A small bag finds its way next to your mug of coffee. “Would hate to lose my only regular.”

“And is this a bribe to keep said regular?” you ask, failing to contain the smile that spreads across your face. “Or are you trying to milk as much money out of me before I leave now that I’ve presented the possibility of jumping ship?”

“Yes?” he tries. Funny. “No, I’m just kidding. These are on the house. Consider yourself a guinea pig for my newest creations?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a guinea pig,” you say sarcastically. “But thanks. Really. I’ll make sure to consider it when I inevitably write a flaming review on Yelp about you.”

“Make sure to be detailed as possible.” Again, he walks around the counter to open the door for you, almost as if he’s been doing this for you for ages. “You know how popular this place is. If your review is a little too boring, I might not see it.”

And like you’ve known him for more than two days, you laugh, bid your farewell, and carefully step out so that you don’t trip and fall.

“Keep an eye out for one that starts with, ‘If I could give this place 0 stars, I would.’ I’ll be extra dramatic about it, just for you.”

And true to your word, during your lunch break, you sit out in the lobby of the office building with leftovers from a meal you almost burnt last night and the little paper bag Trey handed you earlier in the morning. When you open it, you’re greeted with small cookies decorated with what seemed to be like candied flower petals. They’re appropriately sweet, aromatic, and surprisingly light—so good that you do decide to install Yelp on your phone, create a profile, and find Cloverly’s exciting page with no ratings and zero reviews.

‘Pretty good’ becomes the first customer comment that launches Cloverly’s average to 5 stars.

Work, to nobody’s surprise, is tiring, especially as a young adult fresh out of college. You quickly learn that the things professors said were important in lectures aren’t important in the office and that the things professors said weren’t important are important in the office and everywhere else. It’s a delicate, anxiety-inducing balancing game, dealing with superiors that are alarmingly picky and not at all picky at the same time, and you feel like you’ve been thrown in cold water.

You’re satisfied with your team for the most part, however. While the team leader, an experienced employee, really only took questions during work hours to maintain a ‘healthy work-life separation,’ newbies didn’t receive this luxury. More often than not, you found superiors dumping so much dirty work on you during your shift with wildly unrealistic deadlines that you always had to do overtime or take home to finish. Again, the saving grace and perhaps the only thing that kept you sane was the fact that your team had other new hires. That, at least, prevented you and your struggles from feeling too alien.

And then three months after you’re hired, just when you think you’re getting the hang of everything and spending less of your personal time figuring out office agendas,

the building’s power fails and everybody is sent home early, walking back into the office the next day to discover that every and any saved files were gone for good. Amidst the company-wide scramble to redo everything from scratch and meeting unchanging, strict deadlines, administration had made the decision to change over to a new system. Specifically, one that auto-saved to a backup cloud.

“You look like you need an extra shot today,” Trey says, grimacing from the register when you walk in. “What happened to you?”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter rather dryly. “And not that it’d interest you, but the company decided to do a big switch, so I spent most of last night reading the system manual. I want to be prepared before today’s client meeting, or at least sound like I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, on the bright side, if your building loses power another time, we won’t have you pulling all-nighters to finish who knows what.” That’s the thing you like about Trey. Even if he could care less for corporate life, he never failed to listen to your almost-daily rants, bringing up things that even you might have forgotten about.

(“Excited for your meeting today?” he says offhandedly one time as he pours your coffee.

“What meeting?” you ask, alarmed.

“I thought you said last week that you have a meeting with a supervisor today.” He frowns. “Maybe I have it wrong.”

Except he doesn’t have it wrong, and to this day, still, you thank the stars that Trey is always so reliable. Perfect people do exist.)

“What’s for breakfast today?”

“Any recommendations?” you ask, taking your usual seat. You knew Trey thought about cooking 24/7 and practically dreamt about new recipes in his sleep, and the way his voice lilts when he asks you about your order today is the tell-all for you to know he wants you to test something for him.

“I’ve got a new breakfast sandwich idea.” His grin betrays his previous discretion. “Scrambled eggs, cheddar, spinach, and lightly caramelized apples in a croissant.”

“You know I’d eat anything you make,” you laugh, which was true. You were never a big fan of spinach, but Trey’s never failed to change your mind on your food opinions.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite regular.” He walks back into the kitchen. You can’t see him, but you know from routine what he’s doing from every sound he makes. The opening of the fridge, the setting of the pan on the gas stove, the rapid beating of eggs with his favorite $43 Williams-Sonoma nonstick whisk; you know this café inside and out.

And then a low hiss of pain. That’s a new one.

“Are you okay?” you ask a little loudly from your counter seat, craning your head to see if you could peak at him through the entranceway of the kitchen.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” Trey lies between his teeth. You hear the immediate rush of water from the kitchen sink and all but run from your seat, grabbing the first-aid kit from under the cash register. Catching Trey looking rather guilty with his finger under a stream of cold water, you sigh.

“I can’t believe you’d lie to your favorite regular.” Looking around, you find some paper towel. “Is nothing sacred?”

“It’s just a small cut,” he laughs. The blood that rushes from his finger the moment he removes it from the water isn’t very convincing. “It just looks bad, that’s it.”

You take his hand in yours, causing Trey to stiffen at the sudden physical contact. You don’t notice it, or at least you pretend not to and focus instead on applying direct pressure onto the cut with the paper towels you swiped seconds ago.

“Hey, easy there,” he chuckles. “My hands are my entire livelihood. Would hate to have my finger crushed.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty too,” you say, looking intently at his calloused palms and gorgeous fingers. Tens across the board. “Would hate to have these beauties scarred.”

Trey doesn’t say anything and simply watches you reach for the alcohol wipes in the first-aid kit, wincing slightly at the sting. It’s completely quiet, but you aren’t bothered by the silence much to your surprise.

“Yours are also…”

“Did you say something?” you ask, looking directly into his eyes.

“I asked if you do this often.” He tilts his chin toward the band-aid. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“You mean do I go into baristas’ kitchens when they cut themselves and wrap their bandaids for them?” You feel yourself about to laugh again. “No, only for you. Promise.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my favorite regular.”

Trey goes to bed that night, the image of your meticulous fingers on his hand, touching, making contact. He thinks of your laugh and searing gaze and how you smile when you bite into his newest sandwich and how he always gets a whiff of whatever shampoo you use when you walk past him by the door on your way out.

“No, only for you. Promise.”

He turns over in his bed, groaning. Reaching for his phone, he opens up Yelp and types ‘Cloverly’ in the search bar.

“Pretty good.” He reads it over and over again in his head like a mantra.

This is ridiculous.

“Three nights, huh,” Trey muses one morning sitting across from you. The two of you have fallen in the habit of eating breakfast together at one of the tables. “What’ll you be doing?”

“Just meeting with other branches and maybe some collaborating companies,” you muse in between bites of avocado toast. “Not really too sure, but it’s all expenses paid, so who even cares?”

“True,” he laughs. Something unreadable crosses his face.

“Don’t miss me too much,” you joke. “It’ll just be three days of eating breakfast alone. Try not to die.”

“Oh, the horror.” He sets his tea down and clutches his chest. Drama queen. “I can’t believe the worst three days of my life are happening in a week.”

(He hates that he means this.)

“Yeah, who else will listen to you rave about your favorite brand of flour?” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“I keep telling you that you’re opening Pandora’s Box when you ask me what’s special about what you’re eating.” He looks like he might start again, in fact. “Like, really, the muffins today-“

And you let him start, because when Trey gets going on his food talk, he always looks like he’s about to burst at the seams out of sheer excitement. He’s ten times more energetic whenever you comment on how you can taste something new, even when you don’t actually, but to get to see him so animated, so ecstatic—it’s a treat on its own every single time. Sure, you’re not a genius in the kitchen like he is, but he’s even happier when you ask questions. It’s your little way of spoiling him or even thanking him for all the freebies he’s given you in this past year.

“You’re right,” he finally says, as if true realization hits him this time. “What happens if I find a really good brand of oat milk when you’re gone?”

You pause mid-sip, and Trey raises an eyebrow. This is your chance.

“If only there was a way we could keep in contact, I don’t know, digitally?” you sigh in exasperation. He startles when you shoot him a very pointed glance before sighing again.

“Sorry,” he says regaining composure. “I told you, I can’t do corporate, so you won’t be expecting any faxed messages from me.”

“Only you would respond to me like this when I’m very clearly asking for your number, Trey Clover,” you mumble and send him a glare for extra emphasis. A chill goes down his spine, not because he thinks you’re actually mad but because you’re asking him for his number, looking at him rather intensely, and just called him by his full name. Again, ridiculous.

“I’m kidding,” he soothes, clearing his throat. “I hope you don’t mind me being a dry texter.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” You take your phone back after he enters his contact information in as ‘Trey Clover’. This is obvious, because what else is he supposed to write? You’re tempted to edit it to ‘Trey Clover (HOT Barista)’ but choose not to. Instead, you decide to be the first one to send him a text, a picture of the latte he made for you this morning.

“Don’t get mad when I text you in the dead of night about the texture of oat milk and the flavor it adds to lattes,” he warns jokingly. Your phone buzzes when he responds with a thumbs emoji.

“I welcome it, actually. Oh and one more thing.” He looks up from his phone to you with a smile that nearly stops your heart. It’s your turn to cough. “My team manager is picking up from the office next week and driving us to the airport. I want to get them some breakfast, so would you hate it if I pre-ordered six croissants, some homemade jam, and coffee?”

And to think his smile couldn’t get any wider.

“No problem. I’d love that actually.”

Trey wonders if he’s being too clingy and is overstepping boundaries when he decides to text you the night the two of you exchange numbers. He knows it was with the pretense of your business trip the following week, and he’d be seeing you tomorrow anyways. He doesn’t know if you only had meant for this whole texting thing to be for those three specific days, doesn’t want to ask, and doesn’t want to actually know.

“Well, tbh, it’s pretty weird that you guys haven’t done this sooner,” Cater says to him through the phone. When in doubt about phone-related fiascos, always ask Cater. “You’ve been besties for a whole year and haven’t exchanged numbers?”

And that’s Trey’s exact problem because he doesn’t exactly know what you consider him. Maybe not ‘besties,’ but could he even comfortably call the two of you good friends? He sure wants to, but at the end of the day, he figures he’s just some guy who cooks for you.

“Besties is a little…” Trey starts, but Cater cuts him off with a tsk.

“Trey, you dial me up every other day to talk about how this special customer of yours sampled something you made and said it was good.” Even without having ever met you, Cater feels like he, too, has known you for a year. “You don’t do that for other customers. Trey, you realize you have other customers right? Or else there would be no way for you to keep paying your rent. If you had one customer for an entire year, you’d be eating dirt off the street!”

Trey doesn’t say anything to that. It’s hard when Cater, per usual, hits the nail exactly on the head.

“So what I think is that you should send your crush a text about whatever,” Cater continues when he doesn’t get a response. “A person who’s been listening to you go off about bread crumbs is bound to consider you at the very least a friend. And you’re not a bad guy or anything, so go for it.”

And he does, sending you a photo of freshly baked cookies along with a simple message: “Hey, this is Trey, your barista. The chocolate pieces this time are the right size and bitterness.”

“Remember,” he recalls Cater’s words, “the worst response you could get isn’t no response but a, ‘K.’”

And he gets neither of these. What he gets is a notification that you’re trying to FaceTime him, and he’s so surprised (nervous) that he nearly drops his phone out of shock (butterflies).

His fingers are shaking when he accepts the call and becomes evidently aware of how bad he looks but also how good you look. Of course, he’s always known that you look good, but seeing you outside of office attire is new and like a breath of fresh air. And, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, it feels a little bit more intimate.

“I know I said I’d text, but,” you say through the screen. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Ridiculous. “It’s easier to talk like this, and I just know that you, Trey, my barista, have a lot to say about the chocolate or whatever.”

And for almost ten whole seconds, he forgets he initially messaged you to talk about his cookies, because wow. He’d have to bake Cater some meat pies later as a thank you gift.

(“Now these are Cay-Cay certified bangers,” Cater says in between mouthfuls and camera clicks on his phone. “So when are you gonna ask your crush out?”

Trey chokes. Cater also gets this part on camera.)

Trey, regrettably, doesn’t take into account that the days you’re away leads right into the weekend, and when the office is closed on the weekends, you don’t show up. Fair, because why would you?

It bothers him a lot more than he’d like to admit, even after exchanging now regular “Good morning” texts with you. Five days without seeing you in person is a lot, and he knows it’s probably not how he should be feeling about one of his customers. A comforting part of today, though, is the fact that it’s busier than usual.

Sure, a handful of new customers shouldn’t be this big of a deal, but when some of them come in and say off-handedly that one of their coworkers bought them a heavenly croissant before a business trip, he can’t help but smile.

“They’re a regular here,” he says proudly. Proud not so much at the idea of having a regular, but more-so that you, specifically, are said regular. He wonders if he’ll get more in the near future, getting his hopes up when he sees some people post his food onto social media.

And so, even though he’s feeling just a bit lonely, he closes down at 4 PM, cleaning and getting ready to go home. That is, until he hears a knock on the door and snaps his head to see you through the glass. Best day ever.

“Hope I’m not being too much of a bother,” you say sheepishly after witnessing him unlock the door. “I brought you back some jam as a souvenir, but I don’t really know how to store it, and I didn’t want it to go bad, so.”

“Thanks. It looks good.” Normally, he’d be pretty excited about a new ingredient to test out, but he finds himself caring less about the jam and more about seeing you for the first time in what feels like forever. Not even a late night call could beat the real thing.

“How have you been?”

“Good.” And then he remembers. “Thanks for advertising my stuff by the way. I think some of your coworkers came in today to buy more stuff. Surprisingly busy, but I could get used to it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you laugh, leaning against the wall. “I’m just, you know, supporting my favorite local business.”

“Well, I don’t do well with favors unpaid. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

“You could take me on a date,” you blurt out before you can even think straight, and you know for a fact that your face must be beet red, because who just says something like that? When there’s a brutal amount of silence, you feel like running away. “Uh, only if you want, of course. It’s okay if you don’t-“

“No,” Trey says barely above a whisper. His voice is shaking, and you’re not sure if he wants to cry because he’s so horrified at your confession or if he’s just mad at you.

“No worries. Really, Trey. It’s fine.” You spin on your heel, rushing to get away, to go somewhere and maybe hide for the rest of your life. A calloused hand grasps at your wrist, startles, and releases you at the drop of the hat when you turn back to look at him in surprise.

“No, I mean--I’d like that a lot.” He breathes in and out slowly, not knowing what to say next. He just knows he wants to be with you and see you all the time and hopes he can keeping going off of that. “We can go right after I finish cleaning up. If you want to. Anywhere you’d like. Also, my treat.”

“I want to.” You smile at him, and he gives you a goofy grin, because now the both of you are embarrassed. “I really want to.”

(Trey takes you out as promised to his favorite restaurant and explains what he likes about each dish, each ingredient, each flavor as they arrive. It’s fun, watching him nerd out about the things he’s passionate about and then to see him flustered when he catches himself. It’s even more fun when he treats you extra special, pulling your chair out for you, wiping any stray crumbs off your face, paying for the bill, and walking you home even though the train takes him in the complete opposite direction of where he lives.

He’s sweet, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly.

Meanwhile, Trey’s heart soars; after all, it’s the first meal he’s sharing with you since your brief absence, but it’s also his First Date with you. He must be special, he thinks, or at least insanely lucky, because when you egg him on to keep talking, laugh at his dumb jokes, and look at him so adoringly despite him being so plain and average and probably not as cool as other people, he’s genuinely the happiest man alive.

You’re so perfect, and he wants to ask to kiss you, but in a natural, not-creepy way.

“Can I kiss you?” he tries when he reaches the door of your apartment, not wanting to leave so soon but also careful not to make you uncomfortable.

“Yes.” Of course.

“Ok,” he says rather dumbly and leans in, hand awkwardly resting itself on your cheek. He stops just millimeters away, so close that you can feel his hot breath. “Really?”

“Trey, please,” you whine, dignity thrown out the window.

His first kiss with you is gentle, soft, and barely there, because he wants to be careful, and he wants you to be sure. It’s quick, and before your eyes can flutter shut, you already seeing him pulling away. Not on your watch.

You grasp him by his shirt collar with desire that’s been building up for the past year, lips crashing together again. It’s rougher than the first for sure, but something just clicks in Trey. He holds you closer, practically pulling you flush against his body, as he bites and tugs at lower lips, eating up the divine sounds you make. Everything about you is insanely addicting, and Trey is burning. Your lips are so soft on his, and he thinks it’s comparable to when yeast has time to ferment in bread dough. He doesn’t say this to you.

When the two of you pull apart, both of you are breathless with slightly swollen lips. You stare at him for a while saying nothing. Not being an experienced kisser, he gets nervous.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, frowning. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“No, you idiot,” you laugh. That’s a good sign. “I’m wondering what excuse I can use to get you inside.”

Also a fantastic sign.

“I can wait,” he jokes. “I’ll even take notes for future reference.”

“Want to come inside for a drink?” you ask, looking sheepishly to the side and pointing pathetically at your door.

“And I thought I was bad at flirting,” he laughs and is met with a smack to the chest.

“Okay then,” you reply, tone dry. “Want to come in and look at my floorboards?”

“Not really?”

“My TV remote?”

“Pass.”

“My kitchen?” and you can’t believe this is what does it when he grabs you again and asks if he can give you another kiss. Of course, you nod.

“You know I get freaky about kitchenware,” he says against your lips, and you feel the smile that grows.

“I bought a new cast iron pan a week ago.” He kisses you again, hard and rough. “I know I’m supposed to season it, but I don’t know how.” Another kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your head to press him closer into you. “I need your help taking care of my cast iron pan, Trey.” There’s some tongue this time.

“You don’t ever need an excuse to get me to see you,” he says, finally pulling away and admiring the mess he’s turned you into, “but those were some pretty hot things you just said. Lead the way.”)

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #trey clover #trey clover x reader #twst trey #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #cafe au #fluff

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

Note

AHH HII NEW FOLLOWER (≧▽≦)

I LOVED YOUR ACE UNIVERSITY AU

i cannot articulate into words how much joy it brought me (˃̣̣̥^˂̣̣̥`)

AND AHH THE ENDING im screaming

i’m glad you enjoyed it, especially the ending!! when i started writing it, i only intended to write about the sneaker part, so i didn’t have an ending in mind LMAO

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

Text

You’re the new manager to Night Raven College’s basketball team, and Ace is the wannabe-star player who takes an immediate liking to you.

Notes: Ace Trappola x GN!reader, actual university AU, light cussing, not actually that much on basketball or university

The first time the two of you meet is when Coach Vargas blows a piercing whistle amidst the squeaking of sneakers against the pristine gym floor. He promptly introduces you as the new team manager, a position you volunteered yourself for after deciding that you needed a resume buffer despite not knowing the first thing to basketball. It’ll be easy, you told yourself. All you had to do was refill water bottles and fetch stray balls, just like how they did it on TV shows.

The team makes its way through their very brief introductions, and you’re 100% sure you don’t retain a single name, much to your dismay.

“Ace Trappola!” someone says, flashing you a grin. Awkwardly, you return his smile. “I’m just a first year, but you’ll be seeing me a lot on court when I become a regular!”

“Crabby, I can’t believe you’d just lie to someone you’ve just met,” a taller guy drawls out. His teeth are alarmingly sharp, you note.

“I don’t want to hear that from you, Floyd,” Jamil, the vice-captain, hisses. “I’m sorry about those two.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m a first year too,” and before Floyd can snap back with a witty response about how awful it must be to be in the same year as Ace, the ginger is next to you with a heavy arm resting on the top of your shoulders.

“Finally!” Ace sighs in exasperation. “A first year comrade! I can already tell we’re gonna be best friends.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jamil warns, swatting Ace’s arm off of you. “He’s just going to ask to copy off your homework eventually. I think it might be better for you to ignore him completely, actually.”

“Hey, rude!” Ace retorts back. “And for the record, I am actually glad that we have another first year on the team.”

“Yeah, okay Crabby, let’s get you back to practice,” Floyd coos playfully before violently shoving Ace back onto the court and turning to you with a devilish glint in his eyes. “I sure enjoy some friendly hazing.”

“Floyd,” Jamil warns again, eyes narrowing. “I know this team has some odd guys, but they aren’t actually bad people. I hope they haven’t scared you off, because we really need a manager this year.”

“Do you mind giving me the run down again?” you ask nervously, suddenly feeling more pressure than when you haphazardly submitted your application. “I’m not really too familiar with…well…”

“That won’t be a problem at all,” Jamil replies, smiling. “We can start with the storage room.”

By the end of the first practice with you as the manager, you find yourself rolling a cart filled with basketballs back to the storage room. It’s crowded, and despite Jamil’s best efforts showing you where everything is, you still have trouble naming exactly where and what most of the stuff is used for.

“Boo,” a familiar voice says from next to you, and you suddenly feeling something cold and wet on your cheek. You let out a yelp and reach for your face.

“You scared me!” you yell a bit louder than you would’ve liked. You only met this guy about three hours ago, but you’re already starting to treat him like a thorn on your side.

“My bad, my bad,” he laughs, not apologetic at all. Instead, he takes the cool bottle off your face. “Here. I accidentally got two from the vending machine.”

“Thanks,” your murmur hesitantly and wonder how “easy” it must have been for him to accidentally feed the machine twice for an extra drink. “I guess you actually are as clumsy as Jamil said.”

“Damn, I can’t believe he was talking shit behind my back again,” and from the way Ace says it, you figure he’s probably the thorn in a lot of people’s sides.

“Good work today?” you try, changing the subject. “Well, not that I know much about basketball in the first place.”

“Then the first thing I should teach you is that my work is always good,” Ace says proudly, chest puffed out. His pride is enough to convince you that it’s nothing more than an exaggeration. “But, man, I can’t believe you’re not a basketball nerd.”

“And I can’t believe Coach Vargas was fine with that.”

“Well, you know what this means, don’t you?” Ace asks with a eerily mischievous grin. You shoot him a look that tells him something like, this is going to end terribly, but he ignores it. “Oh, you’re gonna be so busy with me watching old game recordings. I’ll show you all the ropes.”

“Forget about the rules, and just tell me where this cart goes first,” you sigh, shaking your head.

“Just leave it here. Somebody’s gonna find this thing.” He unceremoniously rolls the cart into a wall, leading to a clunk, and you’re scared you’re going to get kicked from the team after one day. As usual, he’s not nearly concerned as you and simply slings his arm around your shoulders like he did earlier today. “Now, let’s go already.”

“You’re awfully pushy even though we met today for maybe ten minutes max,” you scoff. Still, you take his lead, albeit a little hesitantly. It wouldn’t be too awful to understand the game you were supposed to manage. Plus, even if he was annoying to no end, he didn’t seem like he meant any harm.

“I’m telling you, us first years have to stick together. We’re gonna be best buds by tomorrow morning.” Suddenly, you find that his grin isn’t all that teeth grinding. “Oh, and I was wondering if you’re also taking Intro to Chem 1, because there’s this assignment due tonight that I haven’t started and-“

“You stink,” you say pointedly, shoving his arm off your shoulder and start speed walking ahead of him.

“I was just kidding!” he calls from behind you, and you have to stifle the laugh that threatens to spill from your mouth.

Floyd being the world’s most reckless player brings about good and bad things, most of these being bad except for the fact that you were almost never bored. Yes, it was always fun to watch the lanky boy defend the ball with his life, even if it meant him rolling all over the floor for no other reason than the fact that he found the horrified reactions of others amusing, but this also meant far more injuries than you expected. Typically, they were never Floyd’s though.

“Damn, you’d think you’d get the hang of this after what? The third finger Floyd’s jammed this week?” Ace comments from your side during a small break. It was only Tuesday.

“Look, there’s only so much I can learn from watching a Youtube video.” You don’t even have time to roll your eyes, because you’re too busy trying to tape and splint a third year’s finger after Floyd had all but hurled the ball at him without enough warning. “There! This should be good enough until you reach the nurse’s office.”

The third year, assisted by his friend, nods, gives thanks, and makes his way out of the gym. Meanwhile, Ace makes himself comfortable by leaning against you, much to your dismay.

“For the last time, you’re super sweaty and gross,” you groan, wanting to smack the ginger square across the face. You try your best, but per usual, you can’t lose him. He sticks his hand out in front of you. “What?”

“For practice,” he says simply, tilting his head toward the direction that the third year just left in. “A splint like that won’t help anybody. ‘Specially if we’re at an away game.”

“Oh, and you’re suddenly a finger taping master?” This time, you do roll your eyes. In fact, you flick his forehead good and hard for extra measure.

“Uh, no, but I’m not afraid to tell you when it’s sloppy and when it’s not,” he responds as if it’s the obvious. He moves the hand that he placed in front of you around, urgent. “Come on, there’s only five minutes of break left.”

“If i practice on you, will you please get your sweaty head off my shoulder?” Immediately, he’s off and looking at you eagerly. In fact, he looks like he’s practically shining, and you almost forget that he’s the same guy who covered you in sweat two seconds ago. “One smart-ass comment from you and I’m breaking your fingers for real.”

Carefully, you take his index finger and middle finger together, to which he responds with a dramatized grunt of fake pain, and apply the tape around them. It’s weird, you think, oddly conscious of the fact now that his hand is in yours. He’s always been a physically and casually intimate person with you and his teammates alike, but something about this you find fundamentally different. Even through the tape, you feel his warmth searing through. Or maybe it was you who was warm. That’d be embarrassing.

Working your way up to his finger pads, your thumb subconsciously grazes against them, and you swear he stiffens. When you look at him, however, he’s busy looking at his own hand, expression unreadable.

“What?” you ask, grin spreading across your face. “Actually scared that I’m gonna break your fingers?”

“As if you’d injure the team’s star,” he fires back, also grinning.

“Tell me that when you’re actually a starter.”

“It’ll happen before you’ll learn how to properly splint a finger,” and before you can ask him what he means, because you’re so sure that you’ve done a decent job, he manages to loosen the tape on his own, two fingers bending freely to hook around the fingers of your hand that hovers above his. You almost stop breathing, but neither of you make an effort to pull away.

“See?” he says, the cockiness still laced in his voice. To make a bigger statement, you feel his fingers move to the back of your hand, drawing shapes. It’s only now that you realize along with his feather-light touches, he’s looking at your face with such intensity, as if he’d pull away the moment you show any signs of discomfort. Again, you’re not sure if it’s his fingers that are burning or if it’s you, but the gym is a lot more stuffy than before.

“Alright, back to practice!” Vargas booms. You jolt, and Ace laughs.

“You should practice more,” Ace says, standing up to get back on the court. “Just give me a call, and I’ll be there.”

And for some reason, you listen to him and continue to practice in the following days even when you get the hang of it. Neither of you suggest to stop, even months well into your first year on the team.

Ace finally makes it as a season regular by the time his second year rolls around, which means he’s always on the bus with you during away games.

(“Why are you going but not me?” he’d used to whine after team practice. It had become a habit for him to do a little bit more solo practice each day, with you in tow to grab the stray balls much to your dismay.

“Well, I’m the team manager for starters, and you’re just some guy.”

“Just you wait. You’re never gonna be free from me when I become a regular.”)

You come to hate away games very early on, though, because not only are you the one helping haul bags of supplies and water bottles, but you also realize that if a game is scheduled to end at 9:00 PM, you’d end up home at 11:00 PM if everything went smoothly.

Thankfully, though, the bus rides back are always quiet simply for the fact that everyone is just so exhausted, and after tonight’s game against Royal Sword University about two hours away, that was exactly the case. Aside from the quiet munching from some players who were smart enough to bring their own post-game food, most people were sleeping the soreness and hunger off. This included Ace, of course, as he was your designated seat buddy. Not that there were assigned seats, just best friend code as Ace had put it.

So here he was, snoring away on your shoulder, and while he’s been resting on you since the beginning of time, what’s new is the grip he has around your wrist. It’s loose enough for you to wiggle out of his grasp, but still firm. His hands are incredibly calloused, and you know this from the countless times you’ve seen them through splinting his fingers, but something about them against your skin in absolute silence makes you feel ticklish. Giddy, even.

Eventually, his hair starts to actually tickle you, forcing your hand to brush the stray locks away. If only you had scissors, because no matter what you did, nothing helped. Rather, after a few minutes of musing with his hair, Ace shifts in his sleep, and you think you might’ve woken him up. He doesn’t, thankfully, but even in his subconsciousness, he takes a liking to the attention you’re giving him and nuzzles into the hand that you’ve placed on his head in the midst of your ministrations. It’s almost endearing if it weren’t for the fact that you were basically trapped in your spot now.

“Hey, Goldfishie,” a sing-song voice calls. Oh no. “Do you have any snacks in your bag? I’m just so hungry that I could eat about— Oh.”

You nearly jump in horror, hands flying out of both Ace’s hair and his grasp as Floyd peers into the aisle you and Ace were in before a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. He’s technically your senior, but you want to hit him so bad.

“Never mind,” Floyd mumbles, spinning on his heel to the back of the bus where his seat was. Floyd typically never kept to one seat per ride, but he always found himself in the back messing with Jamil, and you just know that he’s telling everybody what he saw on his very slow journey there.

You sigh, groaning into your hands, and you’re not sure why you’re so embarrassed.

“Damn, way to wake a guy up,” Ace mutters from next to you. He yawns and stretches his neck before sinking back into the bus seat. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought I was getting mugged or something.”

“And I should’ve let you get mugged by Floyd,” you hiss.

“Damn, if you’re this cranky, maybe you should be taking a nap too.” He checks the time on his phone. “We have an hour left anyways.”

“No, I’d rather not risk getting my face drawn over with marker,” you say pointedly, and Ace feigns hurt.

“I can’t believe you’d say something like that,” he gasps, mock shock, even though he, along with everybody on the bus, knows that it’s something he’d definitely do. “Come on, it wouldn’t hurt to get some shut eye.”

There’s an arm rest that separates the two seats which he quickly raises. You feel his arms pull you into him, hand gently pressed on your head once he positions you comfortably against himself. Your heart is bounding a thousand miles per minute, and you’re thankful that the bus is dark enough so that he can’t see your entire face flush all the way to the tips of your ears.

“What are you doing?” you ask rather dumbly. His laugh seems to resonate through his chest and into your ears.

“Consider it…returning the favor?” You want to scream.

“You were awake that entire time?”

“Well, not the entire time, but I was awake for long enough.” He coughs. “And for the record, you sure were moving around a ton.”

“Was not,” you mutter under your breath. “Why didn’t you move away then?”

He pauses. It’s a long silence.

“Just go to sleep already so that I can take my nap without having you wake me up again,” he grumbles. You try to pester him, but he closes his eyes, and even though you know he’s still awake, he stops responding. All you can do is sigh and give in to how oddly relaxing your current position is before dozing off.

And of course, you wake up to the click of a phone camera and Floyd’s cackle. Yes, he meant for you both to hear it.

Manager duty, as you have found out long ago, doesn’t mean manager mode during just club activities but also during your own free time too, which is why you find yourself in Ace’s grasp as he drags you down the mall on a fine Saturday afternoon.

“Do you really need me to be here for you to go shoe shopping?” you ask, already tired. “I wanted to study for one of my exams next week.”

“You have to take it easy once in a while, and I’m the one who’s gonna help you do that.”

“Says the guy who almost failed his way out of club activities,” you groan, recalling the midnight emergency cram session Jamil held out of sheer panic that they’d lose a regular right before the season started. “You should be glad that Jamil is the new captain.”

“I mean, I was close to failing, yeah, but I knew I wouldn’t actually,” Ace corrects very matter-of-factly. “And anyways, stop lecturing me about school. You’re supposed to help me pick out new sneakers today. You’ve seen Floyd’s new ones, right? I have to keep up or else I’ll look lame on the court.”

“I’ve seen his new ones, and I also remember him telling me that they cost way more than whatever budget you have in mind today.” You snicker a little at Ace’s frustration.

“Don’t worry. There’s no way I’m leaving without a new pair today,” he promises, swears even. You hate the grin he’s wearing.

“Ace Trappola, I do not care if this is best friend code or not,” you start, tone warning. “I will not be committing theft with you even if you cry to me.”

“Relax, relax!” he calms. “Promise we won’t do anything illegal. Just trust me.”

And even though you’re still suspicious of him, you just follow him into a Foot Locker where he all but drools over the highest priced, neon shoes. In your opinion, they’re a disaster to look at, but to each their own you suppose.

“What do you think about these babes?” Ace asks, and you want to hurl at what he shows you. “I’ve had my eye on them for a while now, you know?”

“Then just get it over with so that I can go home.” He frowns this time. “What? I mean, yeah, I love them so much. They look so good that I might go back on my statement on theft and steal them from you after you buy them.”

“Really?” He brightens immediately. “Then you should get these instead of me.”

“Absolutely not.” You’re so horrified that you can’t even lie about wearing them yourself, and judging by the knowing smirk he gives you, even he knows he’s caught you.

“Then maybe you should be a little more serious about my game fashion,” Ace sighs. “I need to look good for our team Instagram.”

“Your current sneakers are still fine though,” you try again, desperate.

“Well, Floyd said he was able to jump two feet higher in his new ones, so I figured if I bought the same brand, I’d be able to do some pretty sick slam dunks.” No matter what, Floyd always got Ace to believe his ridiculous lies.

“Fine, but can we leave if I pick one out?” You’re almost pleading at this point.

“Promise!”

So your eyes scan over all the shoes in the store, and while you can’t say you knew much about proper basketball footwear, you do find a design you like. It’s not particularly flashy like Floyd’s but it was still colorful enough to stand out on its own. Plus, the orange matched Ace’s hair.

“This one,” you say finally, handing him the pair you like. His immediate purchase without even trying them on makes you think he’s willing to buy just about anything so long as the brand was good, but you see him wearing those sneakers way more frequently than usual. He even wore them to class, which was unusual for Ace seeing as he always wanted to protect his basketball shoes from the daily wear and tear.

“Aren’t you gonna buy a new pair?” you ask him off-handedly months later over lunch.

“What, why?” you make out through his burger-filled mouth. He swallows. “They’re fine.”

You didn’t have to because you see him at practice every day, but you look under the table at his tattered sneakers and then back up at him to make a point.

“Ace, it looks like a dog chewed them up and then pissed all over,” you sigh. “Plus, you usually buy new ones if there’s so much as a tiny scratch.”

“I do not,” Ace says, playfully kicking you under the table. “These are fine. Plus, I’ve been making more three-pointers with these on, so there’s no way I’m trashing my good luck charm.”

“I can see it already,” you muse. “The next school paper is going to have the headline ‘Ace Trappola Scores with his Pissed-On Sneakers During Game’. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Trappola.”

“Well, if I make it to the front cover, people are gonna be busy swooning over my perfect form instead of shoes,” he corrects. “But, if you really are gonna make such a big deal out of this, then you’re just gonna have to pick out a new pair for me.”

“What, why?”

“I might buy those neon ones that you hate so much, and you’re gonna see them every day for the next few weeks at least. But to be honest, I might like having you disgusted at them so much that I’ll just keep buying the same pair over and over-“

“Fine, I get it,” you huff. Ace smiles from across the table and flips out his phone.

“So what about this weekend?” he asks, and even though it shouldn’t take the entire day, he urges you to clear your schedule, because what if you two have too much fun and lose track of time?

You only sigh again, but you don’t doubt him.

“You see that?” Ace says, pointing at the tablet screen. The video is paused, and you see him picking out one of the new first years. “I was the one who taught him how to jump like that.”

“Sure you did,” you say, mindlessly looking through clips of the team scheduled for next week’s game and taking brief notes.

“And him over here,” Ace points excitedly. “He couldn’t do a proper lay-up until our drills from Monday. Pretty good, right?”

You decide to shift your position at this, turning over to face the back of his head as he sits on the floor leaning on the bedside. He hears your rustle when you do this and looks behind him.

“Looking pretty relaxed there, Manager,” Ace fake-chides. “Like you might fall asleep in the middle of analyzing plays right before play-offs.”

“You’re so right about that,” you grin, eyelids feeling heavy as he peers at you. “I don’t know. Something about your bed just makes me so sleepy.”

“And if you fall asleep here, where am I supposed to go?”

“The floor.”

“You’re in my apartment!” he yells. “There’s no way I’m sleeping on the floor when I literally live here. You can go home and sleep. After we finish watching these plays, of course.”

“Yes, Captain,” you tease, faking a salute. “To think you ended up like this even though you were all talk when we were first years.”

“And you’re rude like usual.” He sighs, pressing a finger to your cheek. After all these years of his antics, you don’t even bother to react. “Don’t you want to make it to nationals this year?”

“I’ve wanted to go to nationals every year, actually,” you correct, but when he starts pouting, you add, “but I guess especially this year, since it’s our last.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ace hollers with a toothy smile. “And if, no, when we win, we’re gonna be so famous. Trust me.”

“I don’t think that includes me though,” you chuckle, making Ace frown. “I’m just a manager.”

“Well yeah, you’re not exactly a player, but you’re kinda really important, you know?” And of course you know, because he hasn’t stopped saying that to you in all these years. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” He nods dutifully, pleased that his almost-daily reminder is conveyed. “Kinda sucks that I don’t even get a participation medal, though.”

“Since when were you interested in prizes?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “I thought that was a me thing.”

“Since now,” you say playfully. “In fact, I think you owe me a prize right now, right here.”

“But we haven’t event started play-offs yet,” Ace teases knowingly. “Well, I suppose as the captain of this team, I should be providing motivation for all our members, manager included.”

“You’re so right,” you murmur, feeling his hand caress your cheek. He closes the gap between the two of you, lips pressed firmly against yours. It’s electric no matter how many times he’s done it, and you’re met with the same hunger every time. You hated to admit it but Ace Trappola knew what he was doing.

“Is that enough compensation?” he asks, finally pulling away, breathless.

“I feel like I deserve more than one kiss after being manager for so long,” you sigh, pretending to be upset.

“Well, you see, I’m just awfully busy with captain duties and all so-“

You don’t let him finish, pulling him by the collar and claiming your reward again and again. Not that he minded in the slightest.

(“Is this part of best friend code?” you tease after he gives up reviewing plays and opts to snuggle with you on his bed.

“It’s boyfriend code,” he corrects pointedly.

“I don’t know,” you respond, pretending to think. “You were pretty touchy when you were just my best friend too, though.”

“Then let me help you differentiate the two.”)

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst #twst ace #ace trappola #ace trappola x reader #university au #basketball au

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

Note

HI!!!! just wanted to say, I absolutely love your Casual Touches fic!!! it got me smiling and giggling so hard like omfg Azul is such a dense nerd I love him!!

anyways keep up the amazing work and I can't wait to read more of your writings!!

i’m glad you enjoyed it! every other week my mind goes brrrrr on one (1) specific twst character and i felt compelled to write about silly clumsy octopus man

#yuri talks

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yuriwritestwst · 2 years

Text

Casual Touches

Despite his cold and calculating ways, Azul comes to realize that you make him very nervous but also very happy; wherein you make physical contact with Azul, and each time is a new realization for him.

notes: spoilers for book 3, Azul x gn!reader

Exactly one week before exams, Azul wakes up just after an hour of sleep, but despite his exhaustion, he’s nearly brimming with excitement. After all, there was nothing more profitable than students desperate to pass their classes, and who would he be to ignore their struggles? His study guide that he had poured months into was freshly finished, edited, and priced so that the Mostro Lounge would be flooding with money very soon. All he had to do now was to get ready for class and play the pitying man’s act, contracts in hand.

He makes eye contact with you in the hallway, and with a scheming grin, he all but saunters over to you, the Leech twins following ominously behind. You’d be scared if this was your first time, but after countless supposedly random encounters with Azul, you’re pretty much used it by now.

“My, you’re looking awfully stressed over there,” he opens, feigning a look of concern.

“Stressed, but not nearly as worn out as you,” you respond almost immediately.

Azul pauses before he can even bring up the topic of exams and frowns. He was a man of routine, and like he did every morning, he always made sure to check his appearance before heading out. Today, too, he was sure that he looked presentable as always.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“It must be hard staying at the top of our class and keeping the Mostro Lounge running,” you comment, disregarding his previous statement. This time, it’s your turn to frown. “I hope you get some proper rest soon.”

Without skipping a beat, you reach to brush a stray strand of hair away from his face, fingers lightly grazing his skin. It’s almost tickling, and it takes everything Azul has in him to appear blasé despite the chill that runs down his spine. It’s an incredibly brief action, but he swears your fingers linger for a lot longer than they should (they didn’t).

“I have to get to class now, but I’ll catch you around, Azul. Maybe try taking a nap later?”

And with that, you’re dashing off to the room down the hall, leaving the house warden speechless and hand still inside his school bag where his contracts are. If he weren’t frozen in place, he’d surely reprimand the snickers and giggling from the two eels behind him, but he’s still short-circuiting.

Even so, he realizes with horror, he can’t say that he disliked feeling like this.

In normal circumstances, Azul doesn’t really care for others watching him during flying class. He’s a new land-dweller having only gotten used to using legs and feet for a little bit over a year. So what if he can’t figure out how to control a broom? He’s from the Coral Sea, and what didn’t they do down there? Fly.

“You’d think you’d get the hang of at least floating upright after all this time,” Vargas sighs, shaking his head.

“I promise you it’s my broom’s fault,” Azul replies rather pettily. “I’ll have you know that I can float perfectly fine on my own.”

“Yeah, in the water,” Vargas scoffs. “Well, at least try a bit today. It’d be a shame if you were caught flying left and right upside down when the first years come out.”

“What?”

“The other class is coming to this side of the field today,” Vargas explains, clearly not considering it a big deal. “I hear they’re redoing the lawn where they usually have class.

It is a very Big Deal to Azul, though, because for some reason, when he sees you walk out in your gym uniform with Grim and your magic broom in tow, he finally has the decency to feel shame for not being able to fly. His sea-related excuses instantly dry up, and he’s suddenly thinking about every single way possible to get out of class before you spot him, because he definitely was not going to successfully fly 50 meters today. Or ever.

“Go down,” he mutters under his breath, but his broom ignores him like usual. It doesn’t help that he’s getting more nervous by the second, palms growing clammy as his broom continues to spin him upside down. “Just for once, will you-“

“Azul!” he hears you shout.

The merman physically jolts and falls onto the ground without a single shred of dignity. His broom, as if to gloat, zooms away. He’d have to find it later, no doubt, but he’s more concerned about looking like an absolute fool. Luckily, he isn’t hurt and quickly adjusts his glasses so that they aren’t askew. Aside from the minor dirt stains, he’s fine.

“Are you okay?” you ask, running over to him.

“I meant to do that,” he says quickly. Anything for that shred of dignity back.

“I’m sure you did.” With a roll of your eyes, you pull him by the arms up onto his feet. “Can you walk okay? Does it hurt anywhere? Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

He says nothing. His brain is doing the weird short-circuiting thing again as he stares at your hands around his arms. What the heck.

“Did you hit your head?” you ask worriedly when you’re met with a blank stare and no response. “Wait, can you stand properly? I’ll go call Coach Vargas over and-“

“N-no! I’m fine.” He doesn’t even have time to mentally kick himself for the stammer. Instead, he clears his throat twice, breathes in air to straighten himself out, and takes extra care to make sure that his shoulders look much less tense than they actually are. “My name is Azul Ashengrotto. Today is a Tuesday, and I’m in second period, which is flying class. See? I’m completely fine.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, still concerned. “Azul, I think you’re shaking-“

“It’s just the adrenaline!” he denies immediately, all but ripping his arms out of your grasp. “Now if you excuse me, I need to fetch my broom. I’d hate to take up your precious class time, too.”

He storms off, face feeling hot, much hotter than when he was working up a sweat earlier. He said he was going to find his broom, but frankly, he doesn’t even remember in which direction it took off too. All he can think about are your hands and the way they grasp around his limbs. It was delicate but firm, and he finds himself thinking that he almost felt comfortable like that despite the disaster that led up to it.

“Ashengrotto, what are you doing wandering around? I told you that you needed to be upright in the sky by the end of class today, not on the ground-“

“Broom,” is all Azul can manage, head full of other scenarios where he’d much prefer you grasping onto him. For example, on the way to class or perhaps on a weekend in town. He nearly trips over himself when he realizes what he’s fantasizing about, and over a single casual, meaningless contact at that too.

He thinks he must be going crazy, because what the heck.

Azul overblots and the aftermath is equal parts horrifying and humiliating for him. Horrifying because he could have died, but he considers it not that daunting after realizing that he has 1) lost all his contracts 2) exposed his merman form, and 3) thrown the biggest tantrum known to man in front of his entire dorm. It’s extra salt to the wound when he’s taken to the infirmary at the behest of Jade and is all but interrogated on what had happened by the healers there.

He lies on the infirmary bed dwelling on mostly these three big things overnight along with other concerns eating at the back of his mind.

As much as he hates to admit it, he feels drained, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He’s left with no other option but to start at a blank slate again, and he finds it so devastatingly frightening. How could he go back and face the rest of the Octavinelle students? Would he even have the prestige of housewarden when returning? What did he really have now?

He hates uncertainty but is even more peeved with the fact that he knows with definite confidence the answer to his last question. Absolutely nothing.

“Azul?” a voice calls for him and snaps him out of his thoughts. He blinks, looking at the orange-red sky outside. He’s not sure if it’s early in the morning or late in the day. Either way, he’s still not quite back in top shape, and can only murmur something incoherent as a response.

“I hope you’re feeling better.” He turns to his side, eyes meeting yours. “I guess not.”

“Thanks,” he groans sarcastically before falling into heavy silence. He doesn’t know why his throat suddenly goes dry when he sees you. He knows he has so much to say to you, and to everyone else at that, but it gets stuck in his throat.

“I, um, got notes from your lectures today for you,” you offer rather awkwardly, setting some papers on the nightstand next to him. “I figured you wanted to stay updated, so take a look at them when you feel up for it…if you want, of course.”

“I see.” It’s a murmur again, and he looks at the papers to your hand that is now laid idly by your side. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling rather sheepishly. “I know. We all know.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, pain contorting his voice. So much to say, so few words falling out.

“Azul-“

“I can’t even offer anything to fix it,” he continues, struggling to speak. “I have nothing left. Nothing.”

Azul is, by nature, a crier, and he hates it so, so much, because once he starts, he can’t stop. That and the fact that his tears are dark black ink. It’s a mess, and he’s a mess, and it hurts when he’s forced to confront this truth in front of someone else. Embarrassing, shameful, always the same, unchanging Azul Ashengrotto.

“Oh, Azul,” you say, carefully wiping his tears with a tissue.

The tears bleed through, of course, and upon seeing your fingers stained with ink, he clumsily pulls away, opting to use his nightgown instead. He thinks you’ve given up on him at this point, because who wouldn’t feel disgusted, but when he feels a firm tug, he’s confused and panicked.

“W-wait,” he protests, resisting your pull. “I’ll ruin your uniform-“

“I can get another one,” you reassure, gently pressing his head onto your shoulder with one hand and rubbing circles on his back with the other. “You just looked like you needed a good hug.”

He’s tense and awkwardly presses his face into the space near your neck. Azul’s not even sure if he’s crying anymore or if he’s been shocked into silence, but his hands start feeling the same cold clamminess they did when he saw you at flying class.

Needless to say, it’s been a long time since he’s been held like this, or even ever, and he certainly doesn’t know the rules to embracing and if they differed between acquaintance and lover. His arms mechanically wrap around your back, because that’s what he has seen other people do and he figures mirroring your actions would be his best bet. He startles when you laugh.

“Azul, you can relax.” Your voice, like everything about you, he realizes, is warm and comforting. “Don’t think too much about it.”

How could he not think about it, he wonders in near delirium, when he feels one of your hands gently card through his hair and scrape his scalp. He feels nervous, but in the best way possible, and after what feels like hours of apprehensiveness and hesitancy, he sinks into your touch. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this unconcerned about how he presented himself in front of someone, but when he breathes, he finds himself relaxed, unburdened, and at peace. For now, he thinks he'll settle for an apology and silence, and tomorrow, he'll figure out what it is that he exactly wants to say to you.

And when you promise to walk him back to Octavinelle after he’s discharged, you give his hands a squeeze, and somehow, he knows that everything will be just fine.

Azul has friends, and even though the Leech twins are rather unique, he knows that perhaps he doesn’t act like friends with you. Sure, he knows that some friends are more touchy with each other, be it kisses on the cheek or linking arms. He knows that Friend Behavior varies widely and that he shouldn’t be overthinking your touches as anything more than that.

While he hates uncertainty and ambiguity, he also is admittedly too shy to ask you out properly. He likes you for sure, and everyone can see that, but he’s scared to confront the fact that perhaps you considered the two of you simply as friends.

But when he wakes up for the first time in your arms from the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had in his life, his mind starts to reel wondering if spooning is also Friend Behavior.

“Good morning,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead like you usually did when the two of you were alone. Casually and as a Good Friend, of course.

“Good morning to you too,” he responds, cheeks tinted with red before snuggling closer into the crook of your neck to hide his face. His blush reaches to the tips of his ears, though.

“Should we get up?” you ask, mindlessly caressing his head and neck. “I know you’re busy all the time.”

“…5 more minutes,” you hear him mumble and it sends you into giggles, because even Azul, a man of rigid routine and schedule, could act like this on a Sunday morning. “Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing,” you hum, delighted that you can practically hear the pout in his voice. His heart flutters. “I just like you a lot, that’s all.”

“So, can we date?” slips out of his mouth before he can even stop it, and he instantly stiffens when he feels your hand stop at the top of his head. He’s done it now, he curses. There goes everything he’s ever wanted. Why was he like this?

“Are we not already dating?” Confusion laces your voice, as he abruptly pushes himself off of you, eyes wide as saucers.

“We’re what?” he practically squeaks out, shaking. His hands grab the sheets of his bed, knuckles white. “When did this happen?”

“Azul, we cuddled all of last night during our date, and today, I woke up with you in my arms in your bed.”

“That was a date?!”

“Azul, when I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes, what did you think that was for?”

“I- I don’t know! I thought you just picked up something from Vil! You know, as a friendly greeting?” he panics, still reeling from the fact that he went on a date without even knowing. Sure, to some, maybe cooking you dinner and watching your favorite movies all night while hugging may have looked like a date, but who was he to assume?

And sure, maybe when you asked him to bathe with you last night, he should’ve suspected something, but who is he to be weird about it when he’s been the one in water with other people for most of his life?

“You kissed me on the lips!” you nearly shout, and he wants to crawl inside an octopus pot because he feels so stupid. “Vil only does cheek kisses, too!”

You try your best to hold in your laughter, but it spills out, and through all his humiliation, Azul still thinks it’s one of the most wonderful sounds he’s ever heard in his life.

“Fine. In case it wasn’t clear already, Azul Ashengrotto, I love you so much. Can we date?” The last part is said teasingly, but he can only react by grumbling before sinking back into your arms.

“Yes, please." He’ll come up with a better way to respond later, perhaps when he calms down, but for now, he settles with his clumsy self and the feather-light kisses that cover his forehead.

(“So how many dates have we actually had?” Azul manages to ask as he’s whipping up breakfast and has come to terms with the fact that neither of you had been doing Just Friends activities for a while now. The realization takes him longer than expected, but hindsight is 20/20, and he wears glasses.

“Probably more than I can count,” you giggle, arms wrapped around his waist as you watch him chop up ingredients for an omelet. He groans apologetically. “But that’s okay because we can start all over right now.”)

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #twst imagines #azul x mc #azul x yuu #repost #azul’s a dork #azul x you #twst x reader

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