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sophiethewitch1 · 2 months

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What We Want - Chpt. 5 - Meet The Adams Family

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The first thing you’d done when you woke up, still somehow in the Wayne manor, was pull out not-your phone and check the date. When it tells you that you are not, in fact, in some weird version of a time loop, you feel some measure of relief. The second thing you do is look your own damn name up on Google. There were over 3 million results. You have a Wikipedia page. If that hadn’t made you want to gag, the press from last night had you bumbling your way into the ensuite bathroom and puking into the toilet.

It’s still sitting on the bathroom floor, nauseous and achy and sweaty, your mouth washed out but still tasting foul, that you continue your research.

It’s just as you had suspected, your family was dead. Still dead. Well, shit. In the light of day, you supposed that made more sense. That there was no real reason to assume otherwise. You hadn’t for most of yesterday, but as soon as you’d thought that maybe there was a chance, your hopes had been dashed. Which was good, rip the bandaid off and all.

It was good. Things were good. They were fine, you were fine. You really wish you were a better liar.

Again you wash your mouth out. Root around the cabinets for some medical-grade mouthwash, do it again, and then you throw yourself into the shower. Again. You notice the soap smells like whoever’s clothes you stole. Refreshing and awakening, that mint and earth again. You think you can detect something floral in it too. It’s still masculine, but…

Wow, you are such a freak! You put down the fucking soap and manage to resist the urge to slam your head into the tiles. Your headache was bad enough already.

When you leave the bathroom, you glance at the door, and then down at your towel. Guess you’re stealing some more apparel. You find a Superman shirt, give it a judging glance, and then pick out a black T-shirt with ‘The Beatles’ across the front, and some sweatpants. You have to roll up the pant legs so you don’t trip and fall flat on your face.

One hand scrolling through Twitter and TikTok and Reddit and every single piece of social media you could find, getting the people’s source of news and you get the high overlords’ one when you turn on the huge TV attached to the wall. The remote kind of confuses you at first, but you manage to find the good ol’ Gotham news channel.

Immediately, you’re greeted by your miserable mascara-streaked face. You turn the TV off. You take a deep breath. Turn it back on. Luckily it’s not just you getting your private moment of trauma blasted open in the media. Your party had been filled with Gotham’s elite, after all. You weren’t the only rich idiot left crying by the side of the road.

You weren’t the only one who had to suffer. There had been twenty-eight casualties, in total. A small amount, considering the man behind the deaths. The Joker wasn’t known for his cleanliness. You tell yourself that, and yet still, you can’t make them just numbers. They’d been standing right next to you, after all. All in the same boat, all waiting for the axe to swing, secretly hoping you’re the one who lives to the next day. Only one of the party guests had been shot, and that’s because you think they’d personally pissed off the Joker. That’s what Twitter says, anyway. There were multiple video recordings of the altercation, and it didn’t look like he’d been the smartest banana in the bunch. The TV is a lot sweeter on the dead soul.

You feel sorry for all the dead. You still don’t think this rich heir should be the face you see, though. When you check his name, you find several forgotten assault cases. Assault, rape, just like that disappearing bastard had tried to do to you. That female janitor you’d seen shot had done more for this city than that guy ever had.

Did her family know? Did she have a family? Someone to mourn her? You’d never thought about that before. How many people out there wouldn’t have anyone to even remember them?

It’s none of your business, in the end.

After a whiles more research, you switch the TV off and tuck your cracked phone into the sweatpants. You know where your mother’s grave is, on the west side of the estate. Wikipedia knew all, which was now kind of creepy to you as it knew all about you as well. Really, you couldn’t believe it. Your mother, buried with the Waynes? You’d always thought she should find someone new, someone who’d appreciate her, unlike your father who had dipped as soon as Sam was born.

You couldn’t even remember the guy. Still, you remembered that he’d smelled bad and made your Mum do everything, and was just generally all around the worst choice for a husband.

But, Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne? Absolute insanity. You had no idea how the two of them would’ve even met. Let alone fall in love and get married. Your mother was one of the loveliest women on earth but… they had absolutely nothing in common, other than having troublesome kids. And you hadn’t seen her getting lovey-dovey with the other PTA mums.

You walk out of the room you’ve borrowed and into the hallway. In the light of day, the Wayne manor is much less creepy, and you can find it in yourself to appreciate the antique space. Warm sunlight falls over dark oak furniture, illuminating your bare feet as you walk along the Persian rug. Your fingers trail along all the tiny little decorations, some annoying part of you demanding you leave traces of yourself behind. Your fingerprints dirty an old clock, a golden candelabra, a lamp and a tiny spinning globe.

You might’ve gotten lost in a place this huge if you couldn’t hear people’s voices floating down the halls. They were too far away for you to be able to tell what they were saying, but you could still hear them. They’re to the west, so you’re definitely going to have to go past them.

You follow the voices and eventually come to a stop in a hallway. You can smell food. Good, real food. The type that makes your instant-ramen-powered body salivate. The people are in the kitchen, right around the corner. You duck your head and quickly sneak past the mostly closed doorway. On the other side, you pause, your curious self unable to leave just yet.

“She needs help,” Bruce says, and you mentally curse. Balls. You didn’t want to hear this. You guess this was instant karma for snooping. Maybe they weren’t talking about you?

Why did that sound very unlikely…

“She went through a lot last night,” he continues, which, well, yes, you did go through a lot, “And he said that she saw a woman get shot right in front of her. It makes sense if she doesn’t want to talk yet.”

He? Who’s he? Who ratted you out? Wait, dumb question, the four other witnesses who saw the janitor get shot. You were still pretty sure the Waynes weren’t supposed to know that, but everybody knew those GCPD pigs were always just a dollar away from whatever you wanted them to do. It’s not surprising that the Waynes know details only the police should know at the moment.

…It is a bit disappointing, though. You chose to have hope in them, that they’d gotten that information legally. Your fatal obsession with the Waynes wasn’t going to disappear after one miserable party. You wished it would.

“She was acting strange before that,” Timothy Jackson Drake’s smooth voice drifts from the kitchen. You were still a little starry-eyed over him, which was… bad, you think. It’d definitely make whatever relationship the two of you had been forced into a whole lot more difficult. It did not need to be any more difficult.

“Are you accusing her of something?” Bruce Thomas Wayne’s voice is gravelly in comparison, angry, maybe. Also, ‘accusing’? What could he even be accusing you of? It was pretty obvious you weren’t capable of anything nefarious, you were far too stupid for that. You were a plastic bag drifting along the Gotham river, barely able to affect which direction you flowed in.

“God no. And I definitely wouldn’t do it with her listening, that’d be rude.”

Your breath hitches, and you push off from the wall. Busted, damn. Your face feels unbelievably hot. As you leave, you can hear Mr Wayne scolding his adopted son. You walk until you can’t hear their voices anymore, and then a little further, finding an exit door.

You stumble out onto a stone staircase, probably a servants’ one in the olden days. You move down it, hand gripping the railing. You’re barely conscious of where you’re going. There’s a path that leads away from the stone manor and further into the estate, and you follow it. When you spot a small gated area, with stone obelisks and angel statues, you veer off the path and onto the grass.

Hissing out a breath, it’s only now you realise you went outside without any shoes on. Your toes curl in the cold, wet grass. It’s a miserable feeling, and you want to walk right back inside. And then you think about the awkward conversation waiting for you, take a breath and keep going. The gates swing open easily under your hand, the golden embossed ‘W’ glinting in the light.

A guardian angel stands before you. Its stone face is disapproving, glaring down at you from above. ‘Interloper,’ it calls you, but you move past it without pausing. It’s pretty obvious which graves are the new ones and which are the old ones. They’re all clean and well-kept, but the ones to the left have dates going back hundreds of years, and the ones to the right only decades. Your eyes follow the rows of graves. Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…

Your breath whistles out of you, nearly muffled by the grey morning wind.

And your mother. She has a different last name, now another Wayne. Your siblings don’t, which makes sense. You’re surprised to find many of your extended family also in this graveyard. Your grandmother. Your uncle and aunt. A few of your cousins.

It’s cold this morning, and you’re out here with only a thin T-shirt on. Shivering, you rub your palms against your bare arms. It doesn’t do much. Still, you don’t want to go inside yet. Instead, you crouch in front of Sam’s grave, eyes reading the tiny epitaph. It’s not the one you wrote.

‘Beloved Son and Brother.’

Simple, clean-cut, formal… unfamiliar, you suppose. Yours had been much more flowery, ‘All the colour in the world is gone without you’. It was a bit silly, but you’d never said you were a poet. You’d just known you’d wanted something that represented them, if poorly.

Sam was a beloved son and brother. But that wasn’t who he chose to be. He liked colours. He’d change his favourite every other day, so he liked everything rainbow. It made it easier to choose which one he’d like next, he said. You were always buying him more and more coloured pencils because he’d wear them all down to the tips, he dyed the cat a bright red headache, much to your mother’s horror, and considered it his personal job to make every single birthday, christmas, and easter card. He’d paint on the walls in washable markers, and you’d often been the one to volunteer to help him get it all down. In school, he always had the best art project out of the entire class, even if you were slightly biased.

He was a colourful kid. He wasn’t… a plain grey tombstone. Nothing to help remember him, because you were always losing more and more of their precious memories.

The others had similarly impersonal graves. Just what they were, not who. Mother, sister. Nothing that spoke of how they’d lived their lives, what the world had lost when they’d died. It was… you didn’t think it was right. It was a disaster, really. Even when you’d had to rely on the Wanye Foundation donations, you’d managed a better resting place than this.

You suppose you’d never gotten them into the Wayne family’s personal graveyard, though. That was a bit of an upgrade, you guess.

“You need to come back inside. You’re worrying my father.”

“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, leaping backward. Your foot catches on one of the cobblestones, and you end up tipping back farther than you mean to, your ass bruising against the ground. You bump another gravestone, and there’s a horrible moment where it gives a little and you think it’s going to knock over.

It doesn’t. A shining miracle on your day.

From your slightly wet seat on the ground, you look up, finding one such Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. His towering height is the first thing you notice, second his stunning emerald green eyes. Both were incredibly shocking in their own ways, but his height really was almost dizzying. Perfect brown skin and a stylish 'long on the top, short on the sides’ black haircut, paired with the sort of face some European model might have, all come together to make sure you feel as pathetic as possible. His posh-looking outfit doesn’t help.

Neither does the fact he just watches you. He doesn’t even pretend to bend over to help you up. Which you’re sort of grateful for, honestly. It’d just make you more embarrassed. You didn’t know if you could hold the hand of your celebrity crush and… well, be normal. Pretend to be normal. You weren’t doing a very good job of it anyway.

You have to wonder, which was the worst introduction? The drunk, the bloody, or the one where you fell on your ass? God, you really are screwing this all the way up. You wonder how you’re inevitably going to make it even worse. There’s a part of you that desperately doesn’t want to meet any of the other Waynes, even as another part of you is screaming that it needs to.

If they knew they had a fangirl in their graveyard, you’re sure they’d kick you out. That was why you were lying about everything, not because you had intimacy issues.

Stop thinking, you idiot! You’re only making things more difficult for yourself with all your worrying and fretting. And maybe you should get off the ground, you looked stupid. You push to your feet, wiping your dirtied hands on the sweats.

He still doesn’t say anything when you stand, still just staring at you. His open staring is far too intimidating, so you scrounge for something to say.

“Your father? You- Is he alright?” you stammer over your words, giving Damian Wayne an awkward smile. He doesn’t return it, instead canting his head towards one of the windows.

You look toward where Damian Wayne gestured to, find nothing but an empty window frame, and then back to the ridiculously tall man. You swear, the guy had grown like a bean pole. He had to be something ridiculous, like 6’5, or maybe more. You were fairly certain you’d been taller than him at twelve, or thirteen, whenever it was he was first introduced to the world as Damian Wayne. Now, now… not so much.

“There’s nobody in there?” you ask, like you’re questioning your sanity. You are.

“My father’s shy,” He says, coolly shrugging one shoulder.

What. Bruce Wayne? Shy? Was he joking or something?

Damian Wayne stares down at you with narrowed green eyes, and dark brows in a harsh frown. His arms are crossed over his rich kid sweater, shiny black shoes tapping against the cobbles. That’s not the face of someone who makes jokes, you think.

You swallow, mind whirring as you try desperately to fix this conversation, “Right. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back inside, then. Sorry for bothering you guys.”

He keeps staring at you. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“Sorry for bothering him?” you correct.

Damian gives one slow, cat-like blink of his eyes, and then turns with a tsk and walks away. It takes you a moment to realise you’re meant to follow him. It takes you even longer to actually catch up with him because he’s so fucking tall.

On TV he didn’t look this tall. You feel kind of betrayed, which is weird.

As you’re walking along, getting closer back to the manor, a stick or something pokes you in the foot. You curse, grabbing your foot. Thankfully you don’t start bleeding or something. You’d already be tracking dirt all over the inside of the impeccable space, you didn’t want to bring blood in as well. It takes a moment for you to realise the sound of Damian’s footsteps crunching in the grass has stopped, and you glance up.

He’s staring right at you again. He looks even less impressed with you, raising an eyebrow and mouth ticking downward. You put your foot down and tuck your hands behind your back in a very obvious anxious display.

“You went outside not wearing any shoes?” Damian Wayne asks, incredulous.

“I was… yeah, I forgot to,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Not your best moment, but you weren’t really having any of those today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe you should stop thinking about that, actually.

“That’s disgusting,” The young Wayne sneers, and then turns and gives you his shoulder.

You think your heart maybe cracks a little. Well, they do say to never meet your idols. Maybe whoever wrote that quote had you in mind specifically, because now you were in… this situation. Ex-step-sister. If that was a thing. Your Wikipedia page said that you said that a lot, very insistent that you had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes.

…It didn’t really look like you had nothing to do with the Waynes, from an outsider's perspective. Which obviously didn’t make any sense, since you were… you. You were not an outsider, not anymore.

This was too complicated. You needed a coffee. With like, so much sugar it’ll make you bounce from the walls.

Damian strides up the side entrance’s staircase and through the door, leaving it open for you to follow through. You hesitate at the doorway, looking over your shoulder to the graveyard. The statue calls you names in the distance, and although you feel like a stranger who doesn’t belong here, you manage to step back into the house.

You force yourself to walk through the hallway and into the kitchen, fists clenched tight at your side and your shoulders bunched up to your ears. Bruce Thomas Wayne, Timothy Jackson Drake, and the butler from earlier. Damian Al Ghul Wayne steps around the trio, picking some drink from the counter and moving to sit at the dining table at the edge of the room. There’s an open book on the table that he starts flicking through, and well, apparently that’s the end of your first conversation with the youngest Wayne.

You did… well, alright might be pushing it. You're still going to say you did alright.

Tim Drake gives you a sweet smile, catching your attention. The silky raven hair of his heart-shaped fringe falls over his beautiful, pale face, and for a moment there you totally forget that he’d called you out earlier like that. Which was just, such an odd thing to do. His hand lifts to scratch at the buzz cut under the floppy strands of hair. The movement mesmerises you. You look away from his sky blue eyes, very quickly realising they’re robbing you of the few remaining brain cells you have. And you need those, damn it. Especially because you’d already made the decision to hide from all your problems like a baby. Negative, negative…

“How’re you doing today?” Tim asks you, giving you a friendly greeting. It’s a welcome olive branch.

“I’m good,” you lie like you breathe, eyes glancing around the space. Bruce Wayne has his phone out and a mug of coffee in his hands. He sips from the cup, his focus swallowed by the tiny screen. You glance back over to Damian Wayne. Huh, it really does run in the family.

Your neck prickles, and you glance back at Tim again. You get a brief vision of his tired, unsmiling expression, and then it’s back to the angelic and gentle smile. You smile back at him, a wretched, awful twisting of the lips that you hope doesn’t look like a grimace.

Tim’s smile turns into a grin. It’s really too pretty and makes you shift in your seat uncomfortably. Damn it all, look away!

“Would you like some breakfast, young miss? I’m afraid we’ve run out of pancakes, but I’d be happy to make some more for you,” the butler says in an awfully familiar British accent. You think you know this person, but you can not remember from where. Shit. Your memory was bad on the best of days, much less after… after an event like last night.

Anyway, the food from earlier had been pancakes. Despite the delicious scent, you really didn’t want to make him make any more food for you. You felt like you were intruding as it was.

“Do you have any toast, or… cereal?” you suggest instead, wondering if rich people even bother with cereal. The butler chuckles, and you think, ‘Oh, yeah, probably not’.

“We have both, miss. Master Grayson has a particular fondness for cereal, in fact,” he informs you, which, oh, cool. You did in fact know that, you stalker you. You’d totally forgotten about that weird fact or the weird fact that you knew that weird fact. Dick Grayson has an Instagram where he posts reviews of different cereals, which of course you have notifications on for.

“It’s more of an obsession,” Tim says, resting his palm in his hand as he… continues to stare at you. Nobody else thinks his ogling is strange, so you try to ignore it as well. Try is the choice word.

“I like cereal too. It’s normal,” you say in defence of Dick, a natural and instinctual urge.

And apparently, the fact that you like cereal is fucking shocking, judging from the open-mouth looks the group gives you. Oh no, you’re supposed to hate him, right? You’re supposed to hate them all, actually. What had you called him on your phone? Something about being annoying and a dickhead?

Swallowing your inner scream, you move around the counter and towards the cupboards. Whatever, they’ll have to deal with this new and improved version of you, which didn’t despise everyone in the room. Along with being a terrible liar, you were also pretty bad at keeping secrets.

You don’t want to think about that, so instead you turn to Alfred.

“So,” you start, “Can I see your cereal collection?” you ask, like a totally normal person. Man, this cupboard’s looking pretty head-smashable right now.

This family has more tact than yours did, because they all manage to put their eyes back to what they were doing and pretend you weren’t acting really, really out of character. Rich people. They’re good at overlooking the crazy.

“Of course,” the butler clears his throat, “In here, you’ll find Master Dick’s collection-” score! Not another fan can claim this right, “-and in the fridge a carton of milk. Are you sure I couldn’t serve it for you, miss? I understand you might still be a little…”

His voice trails off. Little what?

He glances at the others and then leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. Behind a hand, he whispers, “Hungover.”

Ah. Well, yes, but you were a big girl who could make her cereal, even on hangover days. Kind of embarrassing it was that obvious, though. You were usually better at hiding how much of a mess you were.

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say, and the butler nods and backs off. You’re pretty sure at this point that he was the one who called you yesterday morning, but you still couldn’t quite recall his name. When you were out of sight, you’d check your phone for his contact information.

See? You could do this. Stealthy.

As you start perusing through the cereal options, Tim gets up from his spot by the counter and comes to stand next to you at the breakfast bar. He heads straight to the coffee machine, and you glance at it longingly.

It’s one of those cafe-quality fancy espresso makers, with an Italian name embossed in silver on the top. Tim manipulates the machine like a master, which you’re very jealous of because it might as well be alien technology to you. You miss your shitty drip coffee, at least that dingy little machine was loyal to you. Better than George.

“Coffee?” Tim Drake offers, glancing at you. Ah, the starry eyes are back. While Damian Wayne had been a mildly disappointing introduction, Mr. Drake was just reinforcing your celebrity worship. And of course, because your brain works against you, his offer reminds you of the daydreams you’d had on your first twenty-first birthday. Coffee shop au real person fiction- a new low, even for you.

Flustered, you look up at the ceiling. The old mansion is decorated in every single available corner, the plaster above spreading across the entire surface with delicate filigree and pretty curling patterns. It’s gorgeous, absolutely entrancing. That’s what you tell yourself at least.

“Please,” you say, your voice just the slightest bit too quiet. He hears you anyway.

It’s surprisingly domestic. Of course, you don’t know any of these people past face value and Wired YouTube interviews, but… it’s quite indulgent. This is sort of your dream, isn’t it? A full house of people enjoying their morning together. Peaceful bird song drifting in through open windows. The comfort of being around people you trust, not having to perform or put on a show. Well, you are very much putting on a show right now. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever.

“What would you like in it? We have sugar, milk, oat milk, and I like having a few syrups on hand,” Tim chatters excitedly, listing off the different ingredients he has on offer. Your poor ass stares at his rich one, and you are very rudely reminded these people live in different tax brackets than you.

Who the fuck had coffee syrups in their house? You could barely afford the little treats of caramel syrup you get every couple of months. The disappearance of the middle class was one you had witnessed personally.

You rattle off a very basic, bland order. Tim looks sort of disappointed in you which… well, you could be a coffee snob. You just didn’t have the time, usually. A flat white kept you going through the day, you didn’t need anything else. And so, Tim hands you a very bland coffee, and it is god sent. You can’t imagine how good it would be if you had mustered up your courage and asked for some caramel syrup.

Huh, you could be a coffee snob. You could be anything you wanted, really. And your first thought is being a coffee snob. Good God.

“Are you going to be staying?“ Bruce Wayne asks, immediately putting you on the spot. You weren’t ready for this, you were thinking about the coffees you could buy. Oh no, you really aren’t ready for this.

“At least for now, right?” Tim Drake says, just making it all the more stressful. You let out an awkward chuckle, fingers tight around your drink.

“Oh, I don’t want to be an inconvenience-”

Damian Wayne slams his mug down on the table, so hard a crack splinters up its side. He picks the cup up, strides across the kitchen, narrowed green eyes meeting yours for a second, and then he dumps the cup in a secret rubbish can. He murmurs an apology to the butler and then is out of the room.

Okay, well, you certainly feel like an inconvenience.

The butler clears his throat, and says, “Please forgive young master Damian. He’s been having a difficult time recently, I hope you can understand.”

And you think, ‘bitch, a difficult time?! He’s not the one who almost died last night!’ but what you say is, “Of course, I completely understand. I don’t want to bother him anymore so I’d really like to leave today.”

Mr. Wayne laces his fingers together, blue eyes giving you an assessing look.

“Stay for the day, and you can leave tonight. I want to make sure you’re truly alright,” he eventually says, and the mere presence of the man has you yielding to his commands. Didn’t really matter you were an adult who’d managed to survive this long on your own, you were listening to the big scary guy when he told you what to do.

Well, that’s that! You make your cereal and have a very quiet breakfast. You can’t tell if they’re being quiet because you’re here, or if mornings are usually like this. You hope they’re usually like this. Once you’ve finished your very nice cereal (one of the highest rated on Dick’s Instagram) you place the bowl by the sink. You want to wash it, but when you ask Alfred he gives you a look like you kicked his dog. Okay, you’ll just go then.

You’re about to sneak away, when you realise Tim’s staring at you… again…? But this time he seems quite focused on your clothing. His eyes follow the double lines on the side of your sweatpants, before settling on the Beatles logo on your shirt. He hums at it. Raises his brows.

“I’m sorry, I borrowed this because I didn’t have any other clothes. Is there something wrong with me wearing this?” you ask, and then experience a moment of horror, “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

“Hmm?” Tim chirps, “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

And then he turns away from you in a very clear dismissal. Nice, you really wanted to go hide for an hour or two. With one last awkward wave to Bruce Thomas Wayne, you scurry out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom you’d started thinking of as yours. You need to figure out how you're going to handle all this, and you're going to do it alone. Maybe with some dessert, if you can find it. You wouldn't say you think better with sugar running in your veins, but it definitely makes you more willing to deal with the bullshit that is your life. Hopefully it'd work in your new one, too.

Tim listens to your retreating footsteps, waiting till you’re far enough away to begin talking to Bruce. Humans were creatures of habit, so you’d probably be going back to the same room you slept in last night. He thinks Damian and him were the only ones who noticed whose shirt you were wearing, B’s off his game today. You’ve really managed to mess him up, to Tim’s delight.

“See? Dames was totally fine with her being here,” Tim says, cheerily enjoying his youngest sibling’s suffering. Bruce sighs, witheringly, lifting his hand to rub against the headache he always has. He’s probably noticed the excited, slightly fanatic gleam that’s entered into Tim’s eyes.

It was sort of obvious. This was all so exciting! You’d come back, sporting absolutely none of the defensive vitriol you usually have, and ate breakfast together. You took a coffee out of Tim’s hands. You’d willingly spoken to the devil, who everybody in the family knew hated you as much as you hated him, and even more than that-

You’d spoken to Bruce. Tim was sporting the idea that you’d gotten head trauma, at this point in time.

“Okay, fine. You get the mission, but-” Tim has to resist the urge to clap his hands together like a gleeful child “-but no extra cameras. I’m serious, Tim, if I find out you’ve invaded her privacy just after she’s starting to warm up to us again-”

“She wouldn’t know,” Tim complains, cutting the Bat off with a roll of his eyes.

“She’s smarter than you’d think,” Bruce shakes his head. Tim has to disagree, after the catastrophe that was last night. Unless of course, you were just playing with them all. So many options, it’s dizzying.

“We’ll shelve that argument for later. So, I want full control of the case, and in turn, I’ll do another two weeks as CEO,” Tim waves off Bruce’s complaints, going straight into haggling. The CEO position was tossed between the two of them like a hot potato, and it was one of Tim’s favourite bargaining tools.

“I am absolutely not agreeing to that, a month and nothing less.”

“This is why half your children don’t talk to you, but sure, whatever. Chase away your last, loyal loving son-”

“My God, Tim. Three fucking weeks, and if I hear another word I will hand this matter over to Grayson,” Bruce sighs, sounding a bit defeated.

Tim gives an offended gasp, placing his hand against his chest. And then he realises Bruce might actually be serious, and freaks out a bit.

“He’d be bad for it. Far too personally involved. You definitely don’t want to do that,” he says, leg bouncing under the table. Of course, the Bat notices, but he doesn’t mention it. He wouldn’t take this from Tim, they both knew he was getting too frazzled around the edges. He needed something to focus on, to ground him.

You were the perfect project. He loved his projects.

“I am aware. But the girls are out of town, and uncontactable. And I think if I gave Damian this assignment the two of them would kill each other.”

“No Jason option, sir?” Tim says because he’s a shit-stirrer and wants to get to work.

Tim succeeds in chasing Bruce away. He’s left to have his coffee in peace as the old man quickly flees the room at the mention of the son he's on the worst terms with. For the next few hours, Tim taps away on his computer, enjoying his time.

And when the front doors open, his ears prick, and a decidedly evil grin spreads on his face.

“I’m home!” Dick calls out, words travelling through the grand manor.

Tim gets up from his seat and wanders leisurely to the main hall, where Dick stands. He’s got a suitcase by his side, filled with all the things he’s brought up from the Blud. When he spots Tim, Dick’s face spreads in a familiar sunny smile. He quickly rushes to Tim’s side, swallowing the younger brother in a hug. Tim groans at the tight squeezing.

Despite his clinginess, it was good to see him. His tanned skin glowed healthily, and his curly black hair was messy over his brow. Sapphire blue eyes sparkled. He was happy to be home, despite everything that was going on. Dick always looked like he’d just gotten back from a run because he usually had. It was hard to get the guy to sit still for even a minute, much less stop parkouring over every imaginable surface.

“Tim! How’s it been? Ah, it’s so good to be home,” Dick starts, and again, Tim groans. When Dick starts yammering he never stops.

“I’m good, man. We can talk later, you should go put your things away before Alfred does,” Tim reminds Dick, and Dick pouts. It was a general rule that unless it was cooking, the family wasn’t supposed to rely on Alfred for everything.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be down in a minute! I have so much to tell you,” Dick relents, hand lifting to mess with his hair. Tim pushes him off, glaring at the man, and Dick laughs.

Tim gives Dick a tired wave as the gymnast bounds up the stairs to his bedroom. Tim watches him disappear down the hallways, and thinks, ‘I wish I could see this happen.’ He sighs, guess he’ll just have to hear Dick retell the story later. The distant sound of your shrieking voice has him chuckling. Yeah, he’ll hear about it later, he’s sure.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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elizais · 2 months

Text

when you know, you know.

when they realise just how much they love you ft: dazai, chuuya, jouno, sigma content warnings: reader isn't a hunting dog for jouno's button divider by v6que, dog divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more

dazai knew he loved you, from the get go. but, it was a random tuesday when it hit him how much he loved you.

your favourite author was releasing a new book, you were buzzing about it all of last week and it would be released in your local bookstore on the same tuesday. you spoke about your excitement often as the day approached but when tuesday finally came, you were on an emergency mission in the neighbouring city.

you and ranpo were in kamakura for the day, ranpo solving a couple crimes and you stopping him from getting beat up by his lack of social cues.

when you found out you would miss getting the book, you were disappointed but masked it by saying "'i'll just order it and wait for it to ship, don't worry!" to your boyfriend, osamu. he saw right through it though and made a silent promise to himself to get it.

once his shift ended, he made kunikida drive him to the bookstore (you took the car to kamakura because of the mission). a long queue was stood outside the door but he knew he would have to endure it.

waiting the hour and a half to get in, he rushed past the crowd to grab the last hardback of the book that was beginning to drive him insane. when he stepped out after paying (with kunikida's card, of course) he saw it was absolutely pouring it down.

torrential rain all over yokohama. the paperbag he was carrying the before mentioned book in would not last a minute. checking his phone for how long it would take to wait it out, he saw that it was not an option. it would last all night and you would be worried sick about where he was when you get home in an hour or so.

so, he made the decision to take off his coat, and wrap it around the book. he began to run back to your shared home, it was on this run he realised how much he truly adored you.

his blue striped shirt clung to his body, his bandages so soaked they were beginning to fall down. he mentally cursed whatever god controlled the weather, joking to himself about making a mental note to get chuuya to pass on the message.

when he made it back, out of breath and drenched, he saw your car in the driveway. you were already home. you must have not been home for long because as when he opened the front door, you were only just getting changed. your hair was wet from the shower and you had the towel in your hands to partially dry it.

"hello, love!" he smiled, hair flat yet frizzy from the rain. his clothes sticking to his skin as his jacket was bundled in a ball under his arm.

"where were you, osamu dazai?" you pressed a kiss to his wet face, pretending to scold him by using his full name. you began putting a hand onto his hair and making it look even messier.

"well, if you must know.." he teased, "i had to pick something up." he watched your face light up in realisation at what he had done, gathering why he was soaking wet.

"no you didn't! 'zai, you did not." you gasped, switching his last name into the nickname only you were allowed to call him - even if you were one of the only people to be able to call him osamu. osamu only chuckling as he moved to place his jacket on the countertop of the kitchen, unravelling the ball.

he handed you the book and analysed your face as it contorted through pure excitement. "oh my god! 'samu i love you so so so much!!" you placed the book down and practically jumped into his wet body. your arms found their rightful spot, hugging around his neck and his arms around your waist.

"i love you so much too, but now we are both wet.." he faked a frown, unable to hold back his smile.

chuuya was always enamored with you. nothing less. but he particularly knew it when you were keeping an eye on elise.

he knew that this wasn't the most realistic thing in the world, her only being an ability after all. but even if she wasn't exactly real she always wanted to hang out with you, do your makeup, put hair clips in your hair.. and you never said no!

so when mori called chuuya to his office to discuss some paperwork, he knew you had been hanging out with elise as elise ran in to mori - dragging you along behind her.

"yes, and this was when-" chuuya was interrupted by two girls giggling after the sound of a door opening. "rintaro!! look at what [name] let me do!" elise smiled, urging you to spin around. you meekly smiled at chuuya in your dollified-by-a-child state. sheepishly spinning around, chuuya saw your new look.

hello kitty stickers on your face, bright blue lipstick smeared on your lips, sparkly barrettes throughout your hair and a dodgy braid to top it all off. mori chuckled at the sight, meanwhile chuuya stifled his laughter to not insult elise. mori nodded at elise, a silent 'well done' at her work, she took that as enough, but she wanted chuuya's reaction.

"mister nakahara? doesn't she look good?" elise asked your boyfriend, pulling you next to him. a shit-eating grin on the little girl's face.

chuuya smiled at the sight, "she's never looked prettier! you have done a great job, elise." elise put her arms on her hips proudly and smirked. "can i dress her up for your next date??? pleaseeee??" elise begged the pair of you.

before chuuya could answer, you turned to your boss, still a little bit awkward with barging in to his office.. "i'm so sorry, mori, please, let me get out of your hair!" you tried to apologise and leave with a bit of dignity before chuuya pulled you back. he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, an exaggerated "ewww!" coming from elise.

chuuya crouched down to elise's level, "sorry, you just made her look too pretty!"

everyone knew of jouno as a sadistic man. but for you something was different. when you first met him, he treated you with indifference. just another witness for a case that you were brought in to speak to the hunting dog's about.

but soon after, god knows how, you both started dating. whilst the hunting dogs had only met you when jouno had, they had no real idea of what the two of you were like.

but then, you come to their HQ again for who knows what, you instantly start teasing the man who teases everyone. a truly odd sight for his comrades.

quick pieces of flirting disguised as banter are chucked back and forth,

"your heart rate is through the roof." ... "like your ego?".

if they didn't know any better, they would have thought you hated each other.

when you two eventually stopped poking jabs at each other, you explained why you were there and gave jouno his lunch. a teasing "aww" from teruko came from across the room before jouno pinched your upper arm. you instantly pinched his shoulder back before taking a few steps back, trying to stop yourself from giggling at his frustrated face.

it was an odd scene to say the least, somehow, somewhere, a person existed that snuck her way into jouno's heart that could snatch his hat right off of his head, slap him with it... and he wouldn't be angry.

a person that tugged on his cape when stood behind him to annoy him, and started pinching wars with him.

saigiku didn't know when it happened, but it did. and he knew he loved you when you would relentlessly tease him back rather than giving in and letting him torment you like everyone else.

sigma had only been on this world for 3 years, yet he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his time on it with you the moment he saw you darting across the sky casino doing jobs on a busy week.

it was an abnormally busy time, and someone must have brought in a bug because sigma was not feeling well in the slightest. he was confined to his office and you promised him that you would get all of the manual/in person work done for him.

you had to beg him to let you do this for him, so he could rest. and it was all worth it when halfway through a day of signing paperwork he checked the cctv. a miniature, on screen you was helping out the customers of the casino, pushing boxes back and forth with your colleagues of course..

he realised just how much of a blessing you are. he felt as though his eyes were becoming heart shaped as he watched you, forgetting about the stack of papers he had to sign off.

an older woman approached you, too far away from the camera for him to make out what was being said but the both of you ended up sitting down at an empty table. the table was right by another camera so he could continue watching.

you reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a deck of cards, sigma smiled to himself when he saw it was the fancy deck of cards you had stolen from nikolai as punishment for tormenting sigma. to be fair, nikolai must have stolen them from somewhere too.

sigma did begin to feel bad for watching you, even if there was no malicious intent behind it. he chuckled when he saw you demonstrating to the woman how to riffle shuffle cards, taking a break from your duties to entertain her.

he must have been enthralled by the scene for the better part of an hour as you patiently taught her magic tricks too. he could tell you had been learning from nikolai.

it was this simple moment that really made him fall for you, your kind nature being displayed perfectly.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai osamu #osamu dazai #dazai x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya bsd #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #jouno saigiku x reader #bsd jouno #saigiku jouno #saigiku jōno #sigma bsd #bsd sigma #sigma x reader

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lucysarah-c · 5 months

Text

Your fingertips calmly run through his dark locks, so softly that it's almost a ghostly touch. His head rests on your shoulder. It isn't unusual for Levi to snore very softly when he's deep asleep, his mouth hanging slightly open as his breathing becomes labored, allowing the bottom of his white teeth to peek through his dried lips. Your left hand soothes him, while the right one holds your phone as you scroll through TikTok disinterestedly. What is unusual is for Levi to be sleeping at 13:00 on a Tuesday, buried under the thick winter duvet.

He had taken a day off from work due to the flu, and you knew that if Levi let you know the night before that he was taking the day off, it was because he truly felt terrible. So, you took the day off too to be there for him. The fever rose at night, lowered after he took medicine, but rose again in the midmorning, and he had fallen asleep, exhausted once more.

Your thumb moves up and down repeatedly, passing one short video after another until something catches your attention. An influencer explains new poses to use for sending nudes, and with Christmas around the corner, any information that could secure you a better gift is considered good. She explains in detail how to lower yourself on your knees, placing a blanket on the floor because it's cold, legs parted, weight shifted to the front of your legs as you arch your back. Your back should be facing a mirror that reaches the floor, softly turning to the side and taking a photo of the reflection.

"That one is nice," Levi's hoarse voice comes from your left as his half-lidded eyes admire the explanation. "But the one over the shoulder to the ass is better."

First, you slightly jump, surprised by his voice breaking the silence, then you click your tongue. "Too bad, it's meant to be a surprise, so now it's not happening." You fake a strict tone as Levi's arms grip your body, trying to find a more comfortable position, coughing a few times in the process.

"Well, if you send it, I promise to act surprised," he comments as his voice loses its initial sleepiness, and his hands run over your body, squeezing your waist playfully. "You know what would make me feel better?" he suggests, and you swear you can feel the smirk on his lips against your skin.

"The chicken soup that I made you," you reply while rising from the bed now that he seems to be finally awake. His hands refuse to withdraw as you part from his frame, groaning annoyed. "You can barely breathe, and you're thinking about that?"

"Well, one head is filled with shitty mucus, so the other is doing the thinking," Levi says as he moves to lie flat on the mattress, coughing a couple of times and reaching for the napkins to blow his nose.

Despite it all, his sense of humor seems intact, making you chuckle as you move to the door. Two steps outside the room, and you hear his congested voice, "You know, that picture would look very good with the set I gifted you. I'm dying; conceive me one last gift."

Rolling your eyes so big that you must have almost torn a muscle, 'Men… they get a cold and act as if they are writing their testament.'

If he was in a cocky mood, therefore you were too. Peeking over the door's frame to look back at him laying on the bed enveloping himself as a burrito with the duvet and said, "Who said the photo was for you?"

The anger appearing in his face slowly doesn't match his red nose and mouth hanging, making you chuckle as you descend the stairs to the kitchen.

"You're lucky I'm dying—cough, cough, or I would put you in your place, brat"

Tags!: @nmlkys @jimoonbeau @fictiondrunk @notgoodforlife @nube55 @justkon @i-literally-cant-with-this @darkstarlight82 @thoreeo @quillinhand @humanitys-strongest-bamf @levisbrat25 @angelofthorr @aomi04 Wanna join my tag list? Here!

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harrysdaydreams · 8 months

Text

Unsatiated

Summary- Reader finds herself in a low place and has shut out the one person she should know wants to help more than anything. Harry is more than happy to take care of her regardless, which leads to revelations on both parts

Slight angst that ends with fluff that turns suggestive

-Harrys hands gently tug at the hair tie that is somehow still hanging loosely in your hair, letting the tangled strands fall against your back.

He lets out a low whistle, to which you nudge him in the ribs with your elbow causing him to laugh quietly as he tries to separate the matted sections of your hair.

His fingers are soft and careful with your strands, and his use of the brush is even gentler, taking his time to properly ensure every piece of hair is free from knots. The delicate touch of his fingers brushing the back of your neck causes you to let out a gentle sigh, and you unintentionally sink back into his touch.

Word count- 4.3k

Tuesday. Even the word itself sounded mundane and miserable. Throw in some grey skies accompanied by pouring rain, it was a recipe for a shitty day.

Normally you’d crack open a window, light a candle and bask in the fresh sounds of the raindrops hitting the floor of the balcony to your flat.

But it was more than a bad day- the past week you’d been feeling at your lowest, with no real pinpoint as to why. It was hard to find motivation for anything, cooking a nice meal, going outside, reaching out to your friends- several who had messages in your phone left unread- it all just seemed too much.

So here you lay in bed at 1pm, the same place you’d been all day, minus bathroom trips and the tremendous effort it had seemed to have taken to make some instant noodles that still sat on your nightstand uneaten.

You turn over onto your front and sigh into your pillow, having lost count of how many times you’d done the same thing all morning.

Why did everything feel so heavy? This isn’t how you usually responded to feeling low, always opting for surrounding yourself with the people you knew could lift you out of any place, no matter the situation.

Being with people now was the last thing you wanted, especially in your home, with piles of laundry waiting to be washed and dishes to be cleaned.

Uncomfortable on your front, you opt to turn back onto your side, reaching for your phone on the nightstand with the intention of putting on some music to drown out the rain. Hopefully you’d find something that could pull you out of your mood- that or something that further fuelled your angsty state and could maybe push you to finally release the pent-up tears you were too frustrated to shed.

As you scroll through your playlists contemplating what tone to set as you continue rotting in bed for the rest of the day, a text notification pops at the top of your phone.

Harry.

You assume he’s probably double texting you with some sort of snarky message for not replying to your beloved best friend for over two days. Your heart sinks a little as you think of him, his contagious smile and warm personality.

You miss him, and thinking of him is enough to momentarily make you smile as you pull down the notification to read the contents of his message.

Harry- You really gonna leave all four of my messages on delivered? I’m hurt Bitsy, deeply hurt.

You smile at his obvious sarcasm and the stupid nickname he came up with 4 years ago after finding out you were exactly one year, one month and one day apart in age, him being the eldest. He played on the fact that you’re younger than him and ran away with it completely, always making jokes of how small and ‘young’ you are.

Another text notification brings you back from your reminiscing, a new message directly under the one you’d just read.

Harry- Really though, are you ok? The radio silence isn’t normal for you.

Your heart sinks again and you feel bad for leaving your closest friend worrying about you.

Harry- Usually I have to mute our text thread just for some peace..

For the first time in days, you laugh out loud, a genuine smile spreading on your face that crinkles the corner of your eyes.

You- Uhh, RUDE!

Harry- Ahhh she lives!

Fuck, the way he can change your sour demeanour in just a few short messages. You instantly feel stupid for shutting everyone out, especially him.

You- Alive and kickin’! Specifically, your ass for being so rude. I’m okay though, promise old man. Sorry if I made you worry!

Harry- I’ll await my ass kicking whilst shaking in fear. Miss you though. Want me to come over? We missed pizza night on Sunday because someone... lost her phone? Fell off the face of the earth?

The suggestion of him coming over fills you with dread and takes away all of the momentary relief and lift in mood you’d felt just from texting with him.

You could pretend you were okay to a degree over text, but if he came over, he’d take one look at you, or around your flat and know something was wrong. And you wouldn’t even be able to give him a definitive answer why.

You tap the back of your phone with your nails anxiously trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make him worry more, seeing as you rarely turned down an opportunity to hang out together.

You- Miss you too, H. Raincheck? I feel a migraine coming on. Love you!

Harry- Love you too, Bitsy. Feel better

Feeling guilty, you lock your phone and place it back on the nightstand and try to ignore the new ache in your chest.

Despite your efforts, you scrunch your eyes closed and finally feel the hot sting of tears trail slowly down your cheeks.

You feel terrible for lying to your closest friend, the catalyst to finally unleashing the breakdown that had been sitting inside of you for the past few days as nothing but frustration and restlessness.

Now though, full blown sobs wreck your body as you hug your pillow whilst simultaneously burying your face into it, muffling the sound of your whimpering. You lay like that for a while, your chest rising and falling with every whine and sorry moan.

Finally, you take a series of deep inhales and long exhales to steady your breathing in a vain attempt to calm down.

What the fuck is wrong with me? you think as you wipe the leftover tears from your cheeks, sitting up against the headboard of your bed.

You take a long sip of water from your nightstand to wash away the disgusting taste left in your mouth from your dramatic sobbing.

The ache in your chest feels duller and somewhat lighter after releasing the supressed tears that had previously left you feeling so suffocated.

Now though, the lesser anguish in your chest brings your attention to a new source of pain in your neck, and you curse yourself mentally for laying in bed all day to the point it resulted in making your body sore.

After giving in to the fact you really should move, you stretch your arms above your head and then lift away the duvet from your body, swinging your legs over the side of the bed to sit up properly before sliding on your slippers sat on the floor beside you.

As you go to stand up, you hear a key in the lock of your door and your heart jumps into your throat. You listen for moment longer as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up before realisation dawns on you.

“That fucker!” you whisper, discarding your slippers and leaping back under the duvet to feign being asleep.

Harry was the only person you’d ever given a spare key, so you could only assume his kind natured, stupid, perfect self, had gone out to buy you supplies to get you through your migraine and come to check on you. You should have known better than to lie to him about being sick.

The sound of the door softly closing tells you he’s now inside the flat, followed by him gently calling out your name. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter as your heart beats fast in your chest, trying helplessly to ignore your panic and relax your body in the hope to pass off as being genuinely asleep.

He knocks lightly on your bedroom door which is already propped open with a doorstop, and you hear the rustling of a bag that must contain the supplies he so thoughtfully brought to you. Your eyes sting with tears again, why does he have to be so good?

“Hey love, I’ve brought you some strong ass painkillers and some anti-sickness tablets. How are you feeling?” he asks in a quiet voice; you can detect concern in his tone and that alone makes you want to cry all over again.

You’re in half a mind to ignore him and pretend you’re in a deep sleep so he’ll leave but with the knowledge that he’s right there... that he’s in reach and he could hold you… maybe he could make it okay.

You breathe a shaky sigh and reluctantly open your eyes and sit up, sliding back against the headboard again as you look at him, a new kind of concern immediately washing over his features.

He rushes over to perch on the bed beside you, his pretty face painted with worry as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’ve been crying... is it that bad? Or...” he trails off, looking between your red, puffy eyes as if doing so would decode what was wrong. “Love, what is it? Talk to me”

He can see through your lie now, something you never do, which fills his own heart with heaviness. Ignoring the sting of knowing you lied to him, he awaits your answer, knowing not to press you if something was so wrong to the point you felt the need to mislead him.

So, he doesn’t prompt and push, instead he rubs your shoulder softly as he waits for a reply, his soft green eyes on yours, hopeful you’ll meet his gaze.

“M’not good, Har” you reply shakily, biting your lip to keep it from quivering because the last thing you wanted was to become a sobbing mess in front of him. You shake your head as you continue to look down, more damned tears dropping into your lap despite you willing them to stay away, your finger now absently trailing the wet droplets they leave on your leg.

“Hey, hey look at me.. look at me” he soothes gently, both of his hands now on your shoulders urging you to lift your head to meet his gaze again. You do so reluctantly, and he lifts one hand to cup your face and brush away the hot tears on your cheek.

He offers you a pained smile, one that clearly shows his care for you, but the warmth in his eyes as he scans over your face pushes you to wrap your arms around him, gentle sobs immediately leaving your body again.

He pulls you gladly into a tight hug as his hand reaches up to the back of your head and moves in soft strokes over your hair as you breathe in the scent that is so Harry, so... home.

His eyebrows knit together in response to the twist in his heart upon hearing you cry, feeling your body shake softly as the tears escape. He continues his soft stroking to the back of your head, wanting so badly to take whatever it is away, to make everything better.

“Shhh, I got you. M’not going anywhere. I got you” he soothes, squeezing his own eyes shut to try pull himself together so he can be there for you how you need him. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks, his voice soft in your ear and his hold on you still tight.

You shake your head as much as you can in his vice like grip.

“Wouldn’t even know what to say. Truly. I don’t know why I’m in such a rut.” you say honestly between sniffles. That was the most frustrating thing about the past week. There was no trigger, no cause.

Foolishly you shut yourself away, the answer to your problem being so obvious now you were in his company- in his arms. Your eyes prick again at the thought, that dull throb in your chest again making itself present.

“Feel better because you’re with me though- I shouldn’t have lied to you- I should’ve let you- shouldn’t have told you- I-” your rambling is cut off by Harry quietly shushing you and resuming his careful stroking of your hair. God, how does he make everything okay?

“Shh, I get it, s’okay… it’s okay. I got you, yeah? M’right here, always right here” he coos in your ear, and you nod your head fervently because of course you know.

Right here felt like the only place on earth. The best place on earth.

You both remain in silence like that for a while longer until Harry slowly pulls himself away from you, leaning back but keeping his hand firmly on your thigh, making a point of keeping some physical contact with you.

At last, you finally look at him properly, smiling awkwardly, a smile that he returns with that boyish, one-sided smirk of his that you’ve grown to love so much.

The comfortable silence between you both is complimented by the rain still hammering down outside.

You turn your head to glance out of the window at the thick droplets bouncing off the glass, then turn back to Harry, who has an amused expression on his face.

He’s the one giving you an awkward smile now, to which you return a puzzled look.

“What?” you ask suspiciously.

He brings his hand up to cover his smile, which is growing bigger by the second. He’s clearly trying not to laugh, but refusing to let you in on the joke, so you poke his ribs to further prompt him to answer.

“S’nothing” he laughs, to which you raise an eyebrow disbelievingly, causing him to laugh again.

You cross your arms whilst feigning an annoyed look, stubbornly waiting for him to kindly share whatever it is that he’s seemingly finding so funny.

“It’s just uhh, when- when was the last time you brushed your hair?” he asks sheepishly, clearly not wanting to embarrass you but finding your lack of effort appearance wise humorous.

Your hand instantly lifts to the messy bun that had initially been propped on the top of your head two days ago. By now it was hanging low at the back of your head, probably a matted mess.

You groan and hit him softly with the pillow behind you, and he raises his arms to defend himself, resuming his laughter as a reluctant smile makes its way onto your face.

“I mean, you look great, but uhh, hairbrushes… great inventions” he taunts, but you can hear his smile so clearly in his voice that it sends warmth through your chest.

“Funny.” you quip, kicking his knee with your socked foot. “please, continue making fun of my misery” you joke, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Okay, okay, I take it back” he laughs musically, and you purse your lips in a bashful pout, eyeing him fondly as he readjusts his position on the bed to sit cross legged in front of you.

The comfortable silence resumes, Harrys fingers absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles at your ankle.

“Seriously though, want me to brush your hair?” he asks, your heart fluttering at the gesture.

Honestly, the idea of having to brush your hair over the past two days was a task that had seemed entirely overwhelming, hence the state of your bun. And now that it was probably a matted mess, it was a job you were happy to give to someone else- someone who seemed to understand entirely instead of sitting here judging you.

You look down at your hands in your lap, half embarrassed before nodding your head.

“If you don’t mind.. thank you, H” you reply, giving him a grateful smile.

He returns it knowingly, standing to grab the hairbrush from your vanity and sitting back down. He motions with his hand for you to turn around with your back to him, which you do so obediently, feeling pre-emptively better knowing one basic self-care need was being taken care of.

Harrys hands gently tug at the hair tie that is somehow still hanging loosely in your hair, letting the tangled strands fall against your back.

He lets out a low whistle, to which you nudge him in the ribs with your elbow causing him to laugh quietly as he tries to separate the matted sections of your hair.

By the time Harry has completely detangled your hair you’re pressed flush against his back, not noticing he’d finished as he continues to stroke and run his hands through your hair. He observes you warmly, noting how your eyes have softly closed and your breathing has shallowed.

As much as Harry was loving the entire situation, mainly the fact he’d seemingly managed to calm you down and help you relax, his legs were going numb as hell and he needed to move you from your position that had you practically seated in his lap.

With a small squeeze to your shoulder, he breathes gently in your ear “M’done love. All done.”

You open your eyes, not even realising they’d closed, running your hand through your hair and revelling in how soft the stands now felt. You move away from Harry rather reluctantly, turning back to face him as he stands up from the bed.

“Thank you, Har. I- honestly I feel so much better, really.. thank you” you smile gratefully, your heart warm in your chest and full of such tenderness for your best friend.

You would never get over how truly wonderful he is.

“S’nothing, promise. I like helping you relax. Makes me feel good too” he confesses, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

You both exchange a look of fondness for each other, your eyes locking for an extended period of time. The exchange is warm, with a weight that is full of unsaid things but it’s also a look that needs no words- you both have a profound care for each other, that much has always been clear, but the longer you’re looking at him, the more your own gaze becomes one of longing.

Harry notices it too, his own eyes seeming to look deeper into yours as the warmth in them turns to something more heated.

You see it, you feel it, its thick in the air and you have to look away.

In return, Harry drops his eyes from your face and clears his throat as he fumbles with the hairbrush still in his hand.

He reaches to put it on the nightstand next to your forgotten pot of instant noodles which he picks up with a sigh. The mood instantly shifts back into one of playful friendliness as he holds them out to you with one eyebrow raised.

“This is what you’ve been eating?” he asks. “or not eating I should say. No wonder you’re so depressed” he jokes before walking out of the bedroom and into the open plan kitchen-living room, instant noodles in hand.

With him out of the room you place your head in your hands trying to calm down your thoughts and steady your heart rate. When did it start beating so quickly?

You’re brought out of your thoughts before you can even begin to overthink the look you’d both shared by the sound of the tap running from the bathroom down the hall from your room.

You step out of your bed and walk towards the source of the noise and are greeted by the sight of Harry running you a bath.

He notices you standing in the doorway and gives you a soft smile before walking over to you and gripping the sides of your arms gently.

“I’m gonna go get some real food while you take a bath, okay? I wont be long” he promises, pressing a parting kiss to your cheek before leaving, your heart quickening and heat rushing to your face.

You watch after him mindlessly, your fingers lifting to the spot he’d just kissed so casually, the feeling of his lips still lingering beneath your touch.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, your hearing dulled, and sense of touch heightened, before a panicked instinct to check the running taps pulls you from your yearning trance.

You turn them off quickly, before removing your clothing and sinking into the soothing warmth of the water and willing it to wash you of these muddled feelings and flustered responses to Harry’s demeanour and affections.

You urge yourself not to overthink his kiss to your cheek, remembering all the times he’d kissed the top of your head whilst hugging you goodbye, usually always followed with some kind of joke about how he can only reach the top of your head so easily because you’re so much smaller than him.

“See ya later Bitsy” you recall his voice and think of how most of those situations ended. Warm but only friendly.

You sink beneath the water to wet your hair, dragging your hands over your face to wash away the grime from your face and along with it any thoughts of Harrys kiss being anything more than a friendly parting.

What you refuse to fully acknowledge is the way your heart leaps at the idea of it being more.

You finish bathing, before wrapping yourself in a towel, feeling so much better for being forced into taking care of yourself.

By the time you’re dressed in a fresh set of pyjama shorts and an oversized t-shirt, you leave your room to see Harry dishing up the food he left to retrieve.

He looks up from portioning a steaming bowl of ramen and gives you a warm, happy smile.

“You look like you’re feeling a little better?” he asks hopefully, to which you nod, returning his smile shyly.

“Much better, thank you. Mmmh, food smells amazing.” You sigh, reaching to grab the bowl he holds out for you before sitting side by side on the sofa.

You eat together in a relaxed silence, one that offers tender glances at each other and periodic laughs as you both try hopelessly to eat ramen noodles gracefully.

Harry finishes first, and you follow not far behind him before setting your bowl on the coffee table in front of you both.

You feel his eyes, on you but can’t force yourself to move your eyes from your hands in your lap. The silence suddenly feels heavy, you don’t even have to look at him to know his stare holds so much weight.

Its impossible to ignore. You feel it.

Your stomach is fluttering under his gaze and your mind is racing.

In an attempt to take the newly tense and awkward edge out of the silence that had now settled, you clear your throat, but it only draws attention to the tension that hangs thick in the air between you both.

You chance a look at him, his green eyes fixed on you with an expression you can’t read.

“Stop it” you whisper, not chancing your voice cracking.

His face is soft, but his brow is tense, his eye contact unwavering.

“Stop what?” he speaks softly.

You inhale slowly, your eyes closing before releasing a shaky exhale.

“Stop looking at me like that. I don’t know what it means” you say.

He leans closer, only slightly, but the growing intimacy of your proximity is enough to quicken your heart rate all over again.

“Looking at you like what, love?” he feigns innocence, his expression still just as achingly warm.

You can barely bring yourself to answer, still trying to convince yourself you must be misreading the entire situation, that he can’t be looking at you with this intense desire, so gently, so.. so..

“Longingly...” you whisper.

His expression softens, his eyes leaving yours to delicately trail over the features of your face, a soft sigh leaving his mouth as his focus stops at your lips before cupping his hand at your cheek.

“I can’t, love. Because I can’t tell you how long I have longed for this.” he whispers.

Your eyes shut tight at his confession, that familiar warmth radiating through your whole chest as the entire world seems to stop spinning again.

When you open your eyes, they threaten to spill over with tears, and Harry knowingly caresses the side of your cheek with his thumb.

You can’t breathe.

“Me too” you utter almost silently.

Your admission sparks the most beautiful, genuine smile you’ve ever seen Harry wear, and he touches his forehead to yours with his hand gently cradling the back of your head.

“Well, thank fuck for that” he jokes, and you laugh breathily before pulling back to finally meet his eyes with a new confidence.

He looks between each of your eyes before refocusing his gaze on your lips. Before you can even acknowledge the excitement blooming in your chest, his mouth is on yours.

And it’s soft. It’s slow. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

He pulls you into his lap and deepens the kiss, causing you to whimper into his mouth as your hands fist into his t-shirt, desperately trying to anchor yourself to him, not wanting to lose him now that you finally have him.

His hand moves from the back of your head, trailing down your back to gently cup your ass, your core clenching in utter desire in response.

He pulls away from the kiss breathlessly, his hand gliding softly beneath your t-shirt, caressing the skin of your stomach, up towards your ribs suggestively.

“I know you’ve spent all day in bed, love.” he breathes. “But would you mind if I took you back there?”

Your head dizzies with a new lust. You scan over his face as he pulls you down against his lap almost desperately, his expression showing nothing but his adoration and unsatiated need for you.

And now, you can think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

“..yes please.”

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry #harry edward styles #harry styles smut

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lolahasmoxie · 4 months

Text

NYE (J.T.)

Sooooooo...

@powderblueblood and her 200 Cigarettes prompts.......yes.

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x reader

WARNINGS: fluff, emotions

PROMPTS:

"You need to find someone that likes you the way you are."

"And who would possibly like me the way I am?"

"Those clothes and my clothes would look good on my floor."

"He said what?"

Jamie followed you to the bar at Ola's. The restaurant closed early and is now hosting the Richmond New Year's Eve party. You poured yourself a shot of whiskey and downed it without flinching as you told Jamie about your date.

"He said, and I quote, "You're nice and all, but I could do better," and then I left the party."

"What a complete fucking prick!" Jamie said; you simply shrugged your shoulders as you grabbed a flute of champagne from a server.

"At least he was upfront. Saved us both the trouble." Jamie can see the mask you're putting up; it's not the first time he's seen you do it. Never let them see you hurt your own personal motto. He wants to kill this guy.

"C'mon, forget that dumbass. Come join us at the table; the boys will be happy to see you." You glance over at the tables and see the boys with their respective dates. The passing of intimate kisses and touches makes your heart yearn for something that, at this point, you're not sure you'll ever have. It's too much.

"I'm just gonna be a wet blanket," you say with a shrug, and Jamie can see your eyes become glossy. "I'll text you when I'm home. Happy New Year, Jamie." You give his hand a quick squeeze, and then, before he can say anything, you're gone.

"Where's she going?" Keeley asks, and Jamie turns, his mind still trying to process what happened. The fact that one moment you were standing in front of him looking so fucking pretty, and then you were gone.

"She just left; her date at that party went really bad."

"Shame," Keeley hums as she sips her champagne. "I have a question, though."

"What?"

"Why the fuck are you still here instead of chasing after her?"

"Why would I do that?" Jamie straightens up, putting up his own mask as he tries to pretend that he hasn't been pining for you since returning to Richmond.

"Because even a blind man can see you're desperately in love with her, the poor girl," Roy interjects as he stands beside Keeley. "Question is, when the fuck are you gonna grow a pair and fucking do something about it?"

Jamie stares at them both for a second before he turns and runs full speed out of the restaurant.

You have yet to get far. Your flat is pretty close to the restaurant, so instead of trying to flag down a cab, you opted to enjoy the brisk winter air. The streets were pretty busy, and you tried to keep the tears at bay as you passed happy couples and groups of friends on their way to ring in the new year.

The sound of shoes running on the pavement sent your heart racing, and you reached for your keys as they got closer. You hear someone call your name and turn around, shocked to see Jamie running to catch up with you.

"Jamie, why are you following me?"

"I had to tell you something, and it couldn't wait." His gray eyes look into yours, but he remains silent. You sigh before gently interrupting him.

"Look, I just wanna go home. I'll see you on Tuesday." You turn around, and Jamie is again watching you walk away from him. He can hear Keeley and Roy yelling at him in his head, and he takes a deep breath. He's not going to let this moment pass him by. He can't stomach starting a new year without telling you how he feels.

You hear the footsteps again, and you say a "hey" when you feel Jamie pull you by the arm to look at him.

"You're not the problem."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not just tonight, but every bloke who's made you feel like you aren't the most amazing person on the planet, they're the problem. Not you." Your jaw has dropped, and you know you're looking at him like a deer in the headlights.

You can't help but scoff. "If I'm not the problem, pray tell me, how do I fix it? Tell me the solution, Jamie."

"You need to find someone that likes you the way you are." You scoff again. You hold Jamie's gaze as you step closer to him. You hope he can't see how ready you are to crying.

"And who would possibly like me the way I am?" Your voice wavers, and Jamie feels his heartbreak at your admission. Your gaze drops to your shoes, and Jamie takes a tentative step forward.

His hand gently lifts your chin, and you wait for him to speak. It isn't until he raises his eyebrows, your mouth drawing into an O, that what he's saying dawns on you.

"You?"

"Yeah, silly girl." He says with a light chuckle. His thumb wipes away an errant tear before he cups your face with his large, warm hands. You reach out for the lapels on his jacket, holding tight as

"But, you're Jamie Tartt. I'm just..."

"Fantastic and kind. You were nice to me even when I was being the worst asshole on the planet. Not to mention that you're absolutely stunning. Pretttiest girl I've ever seen."

"Jamie,"

"I'll be good to you. And even though I'm probably gonna fuck up now and again, I promise it won't ever be intentional. There's more, but I just really wanna fucking kiss you right now."

You blush at Jamie’s words and when you see his gaze dip to your lips. You had wondered many times what kissing Jamie would feel like. You had thought about it at work while chatting with Keeley and Rebecca and kissing unremarkable men. Nothing you had conjured in your head could hold a candle to the real thing.

His full lips are pillowy and soft, and he holds you firm and secure. He moans when your tongue traces the seam of his lips, your hands pulling him in closer to you as onlookers pass by with knowing giggles.

When Jamie finally pulls back for air, his breath catches at the sight of you. Swollen lips and the far-off dreamy look of someone who's been snogged properly, he doesn't know who to thank for the vision in front of him.

"Back to Ola's?"

"My place?"

You both stop after interrupting each other. You both chuckle, but it takes Jamie a second before he realizes what you asked him.

"Your place, you sure?" You give him a cat-like grin, your hands still on his lapels.

"I don't really wanna go back with the boys, do you?" Jamie shakes his head, to hell with the boys. Fuck em. His mouth makes an O shape when you pull him closer by the lapels and lean to whisper in his ear.

"Good, because those clothes and my clothes would look good on my floor." You kiss his nose softly, and Jamie rewards you with a beaming smile. "Then tomorrow, you can buy us breakfast."

Jamie could cry when he hears you say tomorrow. "I'll buy you breakfast every day for the rest of our lives if you'll let me. Now," He takes your hands in his. "I'm gonna do something that I've been wanting to do for too damn long."

"And what's that?" The look Jamie gives you is nothing less than sin incarnate. A hungry predator eyeing up its prey. There's no hiding your gasp when he leans in to whisper in your ear.

"I really hope you don't have plans tomorrow, love, because I plan on making sure your neighbors know exactly who I am. Now, why don't you lead the way?"

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt x y/n

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evergreenfields · 2 months

Text

Yours Truly, A Hostage - Part 1

Part 2 here.

My first fic, inspired by the Picadilly mission cutscene. Captain Price pushing that guy over a railing is my love language.

Pairing: Captain Price x Fem!reader during the events of Piccadilly, MW1 (2019)

You’re a hostage that gets rescued by the Captain and you’re both absolute flirts.

Rating: Mature. MDNI.

~~~

Bruised, bloodied, scared and hyper alert, you had only wanted to get a new sports bra and some white trainer socks. Instead you were in pain and strapped into an explosive vest.

You had managed to painfully wriggle your arms from behind you, the men had only bound your arms with tape. They had torn your shirt off and forgotten to click the lock shut of the strappy-homemade bomb vest, but you still struggled to get out of it.

You lie on the floor and turned your head side ways and digging your heels into the floor in an attempt to shimmy out from underneath it.

You hear heavy boots run into the room and you freeze, playing dead.

“All clear! We’re here to help!”

“Wait wait!” you shout “I’m down here!”

You jump when the gruff voice is suddenly closer to you, “stay still,” he commands, “you’re hard to miss looking like that,” comes out softer, you thought you heard a chuckle.

You feel movement on the vest.

“It’s stuck on 57 seconds, Captain.” A younger voice says, you feel movement on your vest.

“I- they didn’t lock the lock.” You say, overwhelmed, arms waving at the wrong party of the vest.

“Stop, keep your arms up.” The gruffer one says, it’s soothing like a whisper to get back into bed in the early morning.

“Sorry yes.” You breathe out, arms going slack.

“Gaz grab the vest, what’s your name love?”

“Y/n” you breath, voice muffled by being under the vest.

“Right, y/n, I’m going to hold you by your waist, keep your arms loose for me.” He smelled like oak and blown out matches.

You feel gloved hands on your waist on your skin. Your top is rucked up so you feel the hands on your skin are big and strong. And warm. Through the gloves. You tell yourself your face is red because of the exertion.

You feel hands tug the straps of the vest.

“I only wanted to buy a sports bra and some socks and next you know I’m strapped into a fucking bomb vest. I dropped my stuff too, you guys have no idea how hard it is to find a decent sports bra. Shittiest Tuesday ever.” You say filling the silence with a dose of self deprecating humour. You hear them chuckle, you try not to enjoy making your saviours laugh too much, it sounded like an unhealthy coping mechanism.

“Right, pull.” Light enters your eyes and the vest is gone. You immediately wipe the hair out of your face and instinctively pull your top down, not knowing how far it got dragged up. Looking up you see an older man on his haunches, dressed to the nines with webbing and tactical gear. He’s imposing but the smile on his face disarms you immediately. He’s painfully handsome under all the gear. Blood rushes to your face. You can see broad shoulders hugged by his holsters. You’re panting and can see your own chest rise and fall, accentuated by wearing a bra that’s a size too small. You feel like you’re spilling over.

He holds his hand out and you take it a little too fast, he doesn’t stand you up, he only gets you up right, checking you over for injuries.

“You alright?” He says, searching your face, I am now. His eyes are blue and intense, you see a beauty spot on his nose. You feel warm under his gaze. Your don’t know if it’s the adrenaline and the intensity but you feel like you’re under a spotlight, at a crossroads. You didn’t feel brave all afternoon, you felt scared and helpless. Now you were saved and that had to mean something, especially when it was him. The gravity of the event would not dawn on you until you got home and watched the news at night in your flat, but at this moment, you felt like you were part of something so much bigger than yourself with people who were, too.

“Yes, thank you, thank you both,” your hand is on your chest, your heart is hammering, you turn to face the younger man with the soft brown eyes.

“Don’t mention it ma’am.” The younger man says, his eyes flicker from you to the older man, who you assumed was his boss. You see a flash of acknowledgment and he walks away after a beat. The air was electric and expectant, like a rubber band being pulled - but not released. Only getting tauter and tighter. You hope you weren’t the only one feeling it.

You were alone with him now.

“Are you in charge? Like Captain? Or commander?”

“Captain. Call me John.” He gets up, his massive gun hanging near his thigh. He puts his hand out again to get you standing.

“Now the exquisite facial hair makes sense. Least shittiest Tuesday ever.” You declare with a nod. You feel eager. You feel like you’d be letting something go if you didn’t say something.

“You’re too kind.” He chuckles and you enjoy his laughter lines. You almost feel bad for maintaining eye contact, you swore you could see pink in his cheeks. You enjoy how effortlessly he pulls you up. You wonder what he looks like under the top.

“Sorry about your socks, love.” He says softly in his gruff voice, you feel rebuffed and embarrassed. You smile and shrug, hoping he hasn’t noticed your attempts at flirting. Let the man do his job and go home. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve read signals wrong.

“No biggie,” You quickly say to dismiss the conversation entirely, brushing yourself down so you don’t have to look at him anymore, especially now you could see his narrow waist and thick muscular thighs.

“And about your lingerie.” You don’t see the band get tighter, you’re too busy trying to hide your face by bending over to dust off your jeans.

“Sports bra actually.” You say with a sigh, still dusting yourself off.

“Sorry I was thinking lingerie.” The band is pulled further. Translucent with the stretch. Your brain isn’t firing all its cylinders, limbless with the opportunity.

You immediately bounce up, unfolding yourself, “You don’t make mistakes,” you say with a smile erupting onto your face, you were never particularly subtle or mysterious.

“I don’t.” He smiles, eyes twinkling.

You don’t miss a beat.

“27 Evergreen Street, Eastfields.” You say.

You’re level now, looking him in the eye, but he towers over you.

“27 Evergreen Street, Eastfields.” He repeats, his eyebrows knitted in patient bemusement.

“You can show me what you were thinking.”

~~~

You’re out on the cold wet streets blasted by lights from dozens of emergency vehicles. You’re being waved down by a paramedic, she’s leading you into the seat at the back of the ambulance. She’s checking your vitals but you can only think about John with his gloved hands tucked into the neck of his vest, his gaze unwavering, shifting weight from one leg to the other. His phone on the new contact screen, handing it over to you saying “does tomorrow work for you, love?”

——

Part 2 - Tea for Two

#john price x reader #captain price #captain price x reader #john price x female reader #john price x y/n #captain price x female reader #captain price x y/n #captain price x you #John price mw1 #john price cod #fanfic #fanfiction #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod mw19 #john price fluff

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waves-against-a-cliff · 3 months

Text

Night Time Activities - Gaz x Reader Bakery AU

Part one - Next Part

Content Warnings - Masterbation, mention of oral, mention of fingering, post nut clarity. Jealousy. Is giving baked goods considered flirting?

It's routine now. A new part of his routine that he adores and wouldn't trade for the world. Wake up, go to the gym, shower, see you at the cafe and bakery, relax at home and then wait for your little knock on his door. Each evening is like clock work. It's a wonderful way to end his day, seeing your face as you offer him whatever sweet confection your boss had let you snag before closing.

Only, you don't knock tonight and you weren't at the bakery despite it being Tuesday. Gaz didn't dare ask your boss in fear of coming off as creepy. He had forced him to get his mind off of that little interruption. Gaz reminded himself that you weren't tied to him and he wasn't tied to you.

Gaz kept reminding himself that until at three am, a rather ungodly hour as his grandmother would have said, he hears you. You're giggling and talking in a loud whisper to someone. You're stumbling through your flat, someone else stumbling with you until he hears two bodies collapse onto your bed.

Bloody hell, he thinks. Gaz turns over and presses his pillow to his ears. Fucking thin walls, he thinks bitterly as he's forced to listen to you and some bloke you brought home.

Gaz swears he won't listen. He swears to get up and go to the living room, maybe sleep on the couch. Only he doesn't. In fact, he slowly removes the pillow covering his ears as your moans and whines begin.

Gaz curses himself as he feels his cock grow hard within the confines of his boxers. Mentally calls himself a pervert as he pulls them down and grabs his cock that is hardening in record time. “Mmm, fuck like that.” he hears you moan and his mind fills with images.

Is that bloke fingering you? Eating you out? You squeal and he decides both. He's doing both and then tries to imagine it's him doing it. It's him who you brought home while drunk. It's him who is pulling such wonderful moans from you. He squeezes himself, running his thumb over his slit and bites down on a groan.

Then it all changes. Your moans stop becoming natural. Forced. Too high pitched. He doesn't know why he's certain of it but he is. Your bed creeks and groans as this pitiful excuse of a cock that must be fucking you, doesn't do it's one job.

Even your babbling is too forced. “Fuck fuck! Like that! Mmmmm, yes.” still, he picks up the pace, fearful this idiot wouldn't last long enough. Gaz bites down on his lip to keep quiet as you let out a particularly long moan and he paints his hand white.

Gaz lays there and listens to the last few moments of forced ecstacy. “Did you finish?” the man asks, because of course he did.

“Ye-Yeah. That was great.” you mutter. Gaz gets up to wash his hands and to wash his shame away.

There you are. In that uniform, looking perfect. Gaz sits down at the table and offers you a smile. The kind of smile he hopes makes your heart flutter. “The usual please.”

When you bring him the bag of goodies and his coffee, you stop for a moment. You gnaw on your bottom lip before speaking, “I'm trying out a new recipe.” you blurt out, “Would you like to try it? Tonight when I get home?”

Another smile, “Sure thing love.”

#gaz call of duty #gaz #gaz x female reader #kyle gaz x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #cod imagine #gaz imagine

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mingtinys · 10 months

Text

Spiced Caramel and Rosemary

pairing : jeon wonwoo x gn!reader

fluff , humor , mutual pining , coffee shop !au , college!au , meet cute

warnings : language

word count : 2.7 k

requested ? no

a/n : i can't ever write oneshots in moderation. it's always 3k full standing fics. n e ways, dk best hype and wing man !!

Wonwoo has a routine. And while he doesn't consider himself to be a particularly rigid person, he doesn't often like to stray from it.

He isn't opposed to trying new things– the occasional night out with Seungcheol, karaoke at a bar downtown with Seungkwan, a new game with Chan; but he does find comfort in having a set schedule. Especially during weekdays. Wake up around nine. Go to classes until one. Grab lunch. Work out. And the most important part, be settled down with his laptop, textbooks, and notes by three, locked away in his favorite coffee shop with a subpar dark caramel cold brew in hand. Sure, it's not an award-winning cup-of-Joe by any means, but Wonwoo's always been a tad sentimental and considers the small shop his own little haven.

So, understandably, he's a bit irked when Seokmin flat-out refuses to negotiate on a study spot. Suggesting his own favorite shop a bit further from campus to work on their project. No matter how much Wonwoo vouches for his regular shop, Seokmin won't be deterred, insisting it's the only place he can actually focus at.

Ultimately, Wonwoo decides a little disruption to his routine is worth it if it'll provoke his normally restless partner into being studious for an hour or two.

"I promise, you're gonna love it!" He boasts. Wonwoo just hums in response.

It's no wonder he's never tried Seokmin's favorite spot, much less heard of it. The shop, known as "Local Brew," is tucked away in one of the many alleys in the maze that is the outskirts of campus. Unnoticeable unless you're already looking for it.

The outside is... definitely charming. Chipped brick overrun by moss and the occasional piece of chewed gum frame the glass entrance. The windows of which are scribbled over in neat, pretty writing. Vibrant pinks and yellows showcasing low prices, catchy promotions, and flowery doodles. Seokmin plows right through, sounding the ring of a bell.

A honeyed voice greets him immediately. "Seokmin! It's nice to see you again. Should I get the usual started?"

Wonwoo knows that voice. And subsequently, Wonwoo knows this is the point in which he is, for lack of a better word, absolutely and irrevocably fucked.

Seokmin however, marches on, blissfully unaware of how his friend's heart is in desperate need of some jumper cables. "Yes please, oh, and extra sweet!"

"You're gonna rot your teeth out one of these days, but you got it."

"You're the best," he sings.

"I see you brought a friend this time. What can I– Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo knows it's his turn to speak. But his lips can only form shapes of empty words, like a fish out of water gasping for air. He tries shaking his head, hoping the action will knock a brain cell or two together so he can form a sentence that isn't wholly embarrassing. Though the effects are like that of an Etch A Sketch and he turns up empty-headed again.

He clears his throat and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, more of a nervous habit than an adjustment, and wings it. "Hi, Y/N, it's um, been a while."

It has in fact been two hours. Probably less.

Wonwoo's internally punching the walls right now. It's been a while? Is he serious? He literally saw you in class earlier. Honesty, could he sound more idiotic?

Your brow furrows and Wonwoo's just about to make a mad dash for the exit until your features soften and a grin tugs at the corners of your lips. "Yeah, I guess you could say so. Dr. Kang's class sure makes it feel that way, huh?"

Wonwoo forgets he's supposed to respond again, and the awkward stretch of silence that results is insufferable at best. He rushes out his next sentence. "I didn't know you worked here."

You happily nod. "Every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes weekends."

"I only come when Y/N's working," Seokmin reminds everyone of his presence. "They make the best coffee."

You visibly blush at that, "Ah, stop that. Seokmins easy to please, as long as it's sweet he's not too picky. I'd take his word with a grain of salt." Another pause. It's truly a wonder how Wonwoo manages to stay at the top of his class yet struggles to uphold a perfectly mundane conversation. He's stuck just marveling at you, cute and clad in your brown barista apron.

"So," you drawl out. "Were you looking to order anything?"

Right. He's at a coffee shop. He should order coffee. Wonwoo's eyes dart to the menu above your head, relieved he has an excuse to do something other than stand there like a deer in headlights.

"Sorry, it's his first time here." Seokmin whispers. Wonwoo is pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear it, but his friend has never been great with subtlety.

"No worries, if you have any questions feel free to ask."

Why do you have to be so... radiant? Sweet. Patient. Kind. You. Geez, Wonwoo is down. Bad. Has been since the first day of class when you asked to borrow a pen. Even more so the second day when you took the empty seat next to him to return the utensil and never bothered getting up.

He nearly died when you asked for his number the following week. Claiming you'd need at least one friend in class to get through an entire semester of high-level calculus. Wonwoo isn't used to receiving the amount of attention you've invested in him. Usually, he finds a seat on the aisle and keeps to himself for the few classes he doesn't share with a friend. But you seemed to have no problem claiming him as your "calculus buddy" as you liked to call it, despite the multitude of empty seats you had to choose from.

And as much as Wonwoo doesn't want to be the fool that falls in love with the first person to show the slightest interest in him, he can't help but get a little giddy on the days he has calculus. The odds are stacked against him when it comes to his feelings for you. It's been two months since you asked for that pen, yet he still finds your presence warmer than the sun itself.

Though, at least he knows when he'll see you for class and can mentally prepare himself to not say something completely and utterly embarrassing for the hour you're next to him. But he's never considered the possibility of running into you beyond the walls of the mathematics building. So you can imagine the inner turmoil in his brain as he tries to formulate a way to get through this interaction with his ego unscathed.

"Uh, Wonwoo, you're holding up the line, buddy." Seokmin nudges him.

The line in question is just an elderly couple who seem like they couldn't care less about the wait. Rather caught up in surveying the pastry selection.

"Just get whatever you do at that other place," Seokmin suggests. Which is a genius idea, except another quick scan of the menu reveals you don't offer it.

Wonwoo looks to his friend pleadingly, "What did you get?"

Luckily, Seokmin is as perceptive today as he is sociable and extends Wonwoo a lifeline. "Why don't you just surprise him?" He says, which seems to pique your interest. "You can trust Y/N, that's how I found my favorite drink here!"

"I can do that!" Wonwoo isn't one for surprises. Though the excitement that’s radiating from your person at the proposition has Wonwoo agreeing instantly. "Any allergies or preferences?"

"No, just nothing too sweet, iced if you can."

You nod and scribble something down on a clear cup.

Seokmin pays, and Wonwoo couldn't be happier to hide away in a booth in the furthest corner of the room. He lets his head fall into his hands, propped up on the table by his elbows. That couldn't have gone any worse. Wonwoo groans as someone shuffles into the seat across from him. He peeks through his fingers at who it is.

Seokmin's chin is rested in his palms, elbows propping him up all the way across the table to lean in way too close to Wonwoo. Judging by the wide, knowing grin on Seokmin's face, there's no escaping his friend's inevitable prying curiosity.

"Sooo... how do you know, Y/N?"

"We have calculus together," Wonwoo says shortly, hoping to curve Seokmin off the topic. It doesn't work, of course.

"I see, I see," his friend nods, pauses, then says, "And how long have you had a crush on them?"

The blunt question sends Wonwoo sputtering, drawing the attention of nearby patrons as he slaps his chest, trying to regain his composure and lung capacity. He mutters out apologies with pink-tinged cheeks to the surrounding tables. Clearing his throat once more, Wonwoo glares back at his instigator, who's wiggling his eyebrows, a little too happy with himself.

"That long, huh?"

"I'm never coming back here with you."

"Oh come on," Seokmin whines. "It wasn't that bad."

"I'm writing my Will tonight. You'll never see or hear from me again. I'm going to live in the woods far, far, away from any life on earth. Become a hermit and– what?" Wonwoo deadpans, giving his friend an incredulous look upon noticing his expression of wild bewilderment.

"Nothing," Seokmin put up his hands in surrender. "It's just weird seeing you like this. I mean, I've never seen your brain actually malfunction like that before. Like, you really—"

"I'm leaving."

"—Okay, okay, sorry." He grins sheepishly. "You're really worked up over them, huh? It's endearing. I feel like I've seen a new side to you Wonny!"

Wonwoo just sighs, giving up completely on trying to stop his friend's teasing. It's better if he just endures it until he eventually moves on to another topic.

"So, how do you plan on asking them out?"

"I'm not."

"What!?" Seokmin loudly exclaims, and Wonwoo shushes him as all attention falls on their table once more. He speaks again, though this time in a whisper. "Why not?"

Wonwoo shrugs, "I dunno, they're just so lively and outgoing and confident. I doubt I'm even their type." It's not that Wonwoo lacks any or all confidence in his character. Contrary to what others may think, he's quite content with himself. Hasn't ever felt a need to alter his personality or conform to those around him for the sake of making friends.

But people like you should really be with... well... people like you. Like Seokmin or Mingyu or hell, even Joshua.

It's Seokmin's turn to glare at Wonwoo now. "Wonwoo, my friend, my buddy, my pal. I say this to you with unwavering, trustworthy, unbiased—" Wonwoo doubts that "—factual, one hundred percent, certainty. You are like, the perfect boyfriend."

Wonwoo scrunches his face up at that.

"I'm serious!" Seokmin slaps his hands down on the wooden table, making it rattle, and starts listing off traits with his fingers. "Wonwoo, listen, your boyfriend-ability potential is through the roof. You're smart, built, super attentive, have great bone structure, and you've got that shy, quiet, mysterious, gamer-guy charm to you. People really dig that nowadays."

Wonwoo chews at his lip. As over-the-top and exaggerated as his friend's dazzling reviews of his supposed "boyfriend-ability" may be, it really does wonders to boost the morale. It has Wonwoo's confidence soaring, a newfound determination burning in his chest. Maybe he will ask you out.

Until the air around their table shifts and a fluttering presence eclipses any short-lived ambition.

"Sorry for the wait," You're smiling down at Wonwoo, two plastic cups in hand. "It took a while to figure out what you might like. But then I remembered you usually have something with caramel every time you come to class. Though if you hate it I'm more than happy to remake something for you!"

You're blushing madly, but all Wonwoo can focus on is the fact you pay him enough attention from day to day to know the contents of his coffee order.

You set the cup down in front of him, then hand Seokmin his. "I hope you enjoy!"

Wonwoo's useless brain fails him once more. "You too."

You're off and back behind the counter before Wonwoo registers his mistake. That's like strike twelve for him at this point.

"Ah, young love." Seokmin interrupts Wonwoo's sulking, biting down on his straw with the corner of his mouth.

"Shut up."

Wonwoo picks up his cup and examines its contents. It's noticeably darker and thinner than Seokmin's, but he still can't really tell what exactly it is. However, you'd think the coffee was brewed with holy water and magic fairytale beans by the way Seokmins already sucked down half of his.

Wonwoo rotates the cup, squinting at the scribbles of black sharpie on the side. Dark roast, spiced caramel, rosemary, oat milk.

"Rosemary?" He reads, shooting a look at his friend who stops slurping on his own to shrug. "That's an odd flavor."

"I've learned not to question Y/N's expertise long ago, they know what you like even if you don't. It's sort of creepy." He visibly shudders.

"What's yours?"

"Dark chocolate, cherry, vanilla, and whole milk, extra sweet."

"Fruit? In coffee? That doesn't sound like it'd be good." Wonwoo frowns, suddenly doubting the efficacy of his own beverage.

"Shall I go tell Y/N you think they're a terrible barista then?"

"No!" Wonwoo answers a little too quickly and a little too loud. He clears his throat. "—I mean, no, no it's fine. I'm merely saying it's unique, is all."

Seokmin places his hand over Wonwoo's wrist and physically shoves the cup toward his lips, causing the straw to jab into his skin. "Ow!" He complains, swatting at his arm.

"Oh my God, just drink it. I promise it'll be better than whatever boring, run-of-the-mill, bean-water, you get from that other place."

Wonwoo frowns and grumbles, "It's not boring." But he knows that's far true.

Hesitantly, he takes a sip. The spiced caramel hits his tongue first. It's a warm flavor, a pleasant contrast to the drink itself being cold. Then the rosemary edges in with a strong, yet not too overpowering taste. The oat milk blends everything together smoothly and leaves a nice aftertaste.

"Wow," the word slips out. Wonwoo pulls the drink back to examine it again, eyes wide. It's easily the best thing he's ever tasted, far better than, as Seokmin put it, his usual run-of-the-mill order. Wonwoo can't even fathom how your mind came up with a drink so addicting. If God is real, then Wonwoo's positive they have a dazzling smile and work at Seokmin's favorite coffee shop.

"Good, right?" Seokmin grins.

"Amazing."

"You know, if you asked Y/N out they'd probably make your coffee any time you asked~"

That's a pretty convincing argument.

Wonwoo likes his routine. And he's quite fond of his regular coffee shop, so he still frequents there to study.

Except for Tuesdays and Thursdays.

And sometimes weekends.

"Hi, Wonwoo," you greet with your usual bright smile. "Same as usual?"

"Yes, please." He matches your smile, having finally recovered from the catastrophe that was his first visit. Ever since Seokmin let it slip how you'd been gushing about Wonwoo to him ever since you discovered they were friends, he's been feeling a little more confident.

"You know, if you ever want to try something new, I won't be offended." You narrow your eyes at him. But Wonwoo just shakes his head at you, chuckling.

"Eh, I try not to stray from what I already know too much."

"Oh, so that's why you haven't gotten rid of me as your calculus buddy yet." You quip.

"Among other reasons." He shrugs, lips pulling back into a toothy grin. Wonwoo fishes into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet to thumb through his cards.

"It's okay, it's on the house today."

Wonwoo looks up, brows furrowed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah! I always give my favorite customers free coffee on Sundays." By the way your eyes quickly dart back at your other coworkers, Wonwoo doubts the validity of that.

"Well, I'll have to pay you back somehow."

"Next week's homework would be great!" You grin cheekily.

"Hmm," Wonwoo thinks for a moment, readjusting his glasses. "I would, but I haven't started it yet. Could I offer to take you out instead?"

"I would like that very much."

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