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ari-ana-bel-la · 1 day ago

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Could I request where pierre and Kika forget their daughters school performance so while every other kid is going to their parents the daughter is just stood their waiting to the where the teacher had to call them and the daughter ignores them until they get home. I know it’s long sorry but if you could do it that would be great ❤️

Forgotten in the rain

The rain had started in a soft drizzle but quickly became a steady pour that drummed against the school’s windows. Inside the assembly hall, the walls echoed with the excited chatter of children and the proud applause of parents. Flashbulbs popped every few seconds as moms and dads documented every smile, every wave, every bow.

Except for one little girl who stood near the back of the room.

Yn clutched her damp paper certificate, its corners curling slightly. She had performed a poem about the seasons—her voice clear, her hands animated. Her teacher, Miss Carter, had told her she’d done wonderfully. The kind of performance that deserved a bouquet, a warm hug, a proud parent grinning from ear to ear. But instead, she stood alone, eyes scanning every adult that walked in, every couple that greeted their child with open arms.

Her dress was a soft pastel pink, chosen by her mother, Kika, two days ago. Her curly brown hair was pulled into two neat braids, and her small boots were now soaked at the soles from pacing near the entrance.

She looked at the clock again.

7:12 PM.

Miss Carter finally noticed the way Yn’s smile had faded. The teacher walked over with a kind smile, kneeling beside her.

"Sweetheart, are you still waiting for someone?"

Yn nodded silently. Her eyes were bright, but her jaw was set.

Miss Carter’s heart ached. "Do you want to come wait in my classroom while I call your parents?"

"Okay," Yn whispered.

---

Pierre glanced at his phone as he sank deeper into the couch, his legs stretched over the coffee table. "Did we ever finish that bottle of wine from last week?"

"The red one? Yeah, I think I did on Tuesday," Kika replied from the kitchen, reaching for a handful of olives.

Pierre sighed dramatically. "We’re such adults. Drinking wine on a Tuesday night."

Kika chuckled, walking into the living room. "What time is it?"

"Just past seven. Why?"

She froze.

Pierre noticed it immediately. "What?"

"Pierre."

"What?"

"Oh my god, Yn’s school performance."

He shot up. "Shit."

She grabbed her phone, nearly fumbling it in her panic. Two missed calls. One voicemail.

"It’s Miss Carter," she said, already pressing play.

Pierre ran a hand through his hair, groaning. "We’re the worst parents."

The message played:

"Hi, this is Miss Carter from Willowbrook Primary. I just wanted to check in—it’s a little past seven, and Yn is still here. She had such a wonderful performance tonight, but it seems no one came to pick her up. I’ll keep her in my classroom until you arrive. Please give me a call back."

Kika was already pulling on her coat. "Let’s go."

---

The ride to the school was painfully silent. Pierre kept glancing at the clock, tapping the steering wheel. Kika sat with her arms crossed, her foot bouncing with guilt.

They found Miss Carter standing by the school doors, holding an umbrella over Yn.

Yn wasn’t crying. She wasn’t pouting. She wasn’t doing anything. She simply stood there, looking small and still, like a little statue in a rainstorm.

When she saw them, her face didn’t light up.

Pierre jumped out first. "Baby, I’m so sorry—"

She didn’t move toward him.

Kika tried. "Yn, we—"

But the child just turned back to Miss Carter. "Thank you for waiting with me."

Miss Carter smiled gently. "You were very brave, sweetheart. I’m proud of you."

Pierre stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can we take you home now, bébé?"

Yn gave a tiny nod and walked toward the car without saying another word.

---

The drive home was colder than the rain outside. Kika turned to speak a few times but couldn’t find the right words. Pierre tried to hold Yn’s hand, but she pulled it away slowly, not harshly, but pointedly.

Once they arrived home, Yn unbuckled her seatbelt herself, climbed out, and walked straight into the house.

Pierre and Kika followed.

"Yn, baby, please, talk to us," Kika pleaded, dropping her keys on the counter.

Yn headed straight for her room.

"Sweetheart," Pierre tried, his voice cracking.

No response. She closed her door behind her with a quiet finality.

Kika sat on the couch, hands covering her face. "I feel like I just broke her heart."

Pierre sat beside her, shoulders slumped. "We really messed up."

"It wasn’t just a show, Pierre. She told us every day this week. She made invitations. She left them on the fridge."

He closed his eyes. "And we just... forgot."

They didn’t sleep much that night.

---

The next morning, Pierre was already in the kitchen by 6:30, trying to make pancakes the way Yn liked them—thin, buttery, with a swirl of strawberry syrup in a heart shape. Kika was chopping fruit, glancing at the hallway every few minutes.

At 7:10, the door creaked open.

Yn walked in, dressed in her school uniform, backpack already on. She looked fresh and neat, as if nothing had happened.

"Good morning," Kika tried, voice careful.

"Hi," Yn replied without looking at them. She opened the fridge, grabbed her lunchbox, and set it in her bag.

"We made you pancakes," Pierre offered.

"I’m not hungry."

The rejection hit harder than expected.

"Yn," Kika tried again, kneeling down, "we are so, so sorry. There’s no excuse. We forgot something really important, and you didn’t deserve that."

Yn met her eyes. "You didn’t come. Everyone else had someone. Even Noah’s dad came, and he works at the hospital."

Pierre approached slowly. "We know. And we feel awful."

"You always say I’m the most important thing," she whispered. "But you forgot me."

Kika’s eyes filled with tears. "You are the most important thing, baby girl. We just—our brains were stupid. We got busy, and we didn’t write it down, and that’s not your fault. It’s ours."

Pierre knelt beside her. "We hurt your feelings. And we’re not asking you to forgive us today. But we want you to know we’re sorry. And we’re going to do better."

Yn looked at both of them, her lips trembling.

"I stood in the rain by myself," she murmured.

"I know, mon coeur. I know," Pierre said, hugging her gently. "And it breaks me."

Finally, Yn leaned into him.

Kika joined the embrace, holding them both tightly. "We love you more than anything."

"Even more than the red wine?" Yn asked, voice muffled in Pierre’s chest.

Pierre laughed through a sniffle. "A thousand times more."

"Even more than your phone, Mama?"

Kika smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "So much more. You’re my whole heart."

Yn finally smiled.

"Can I still have pancakes?"

Pierre stood. "Absolutely. Even if we’re late to school, pancakes are happening."

As they sat together at the table, the storm from the night before seemed to pass, replaced by the simple warmth of shared forgiveness, strawberry syrup, and a heart-shaped apology made of batter.

And from that day on, every calendar in their house—paper, digital, and even the whiteboard on the fridge—had one line written across the top:

"Yn comes first. Always."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

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anniflamma · 2 days ago

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AnniFlamma, we all love your fanart and animatics of Epic: The Musical, please don't let a few shitty people demotivate when 100x those people love and adore the stuff you make, along with all other animators!

Stay safe and take care, we will always be here and I can't seem to repeat this enough but we love your art

Thank you and everyone for reaching out to me. I will be honest with you all that what happened did upset me a lot, but I am very lucky to have people to go to for support. I will even blame some of them for making me cry, my friends, I mean, because if I am upset and if someone asks me if I am okay, I just break down. 😅 But I used our little server as a ground to vent, and right now I feel much better now.

But I will still be honest that I meant what I said that my interest in making Epic fan content has reduced a lot. I still love Epic, and I still really want to do the whole Ithaca saga, but I have also realized that posting content about it has caused me to feel anxious.

An example is when I finished The Challenge animatic, I felt an extreme wave of anxiety when I was going to press the upload button. And the worst thing? My anxiety confirmed the fears. I have gotten tiktok comments saying that I am a freak for drawing Penelope nude despite it being in a non-sexual way. Apparently, I have to be constantly reminded that female bodies are icky and the world hates women. Aaaaaaand then to get hit by that TikTok video of thousands of people shitting on me, Duvetbox, Gigi, Mircy, Neal, and so many more…

If you have noticed, I have posted less, all types of content for Epic. I don’t do my headcanons anymore, I never wrote that full review of Epic, I feel less keen on drawing fanart, let alone joking about shipping here online. I remember when I made a joke about shipping Aphrodite and Athea because they were the only female characters interacting with each other (ignoring Hera), and then I took it as a critique that Epic failed the Bechdel test. After that, I got plenty of anonymous messages about how I am an evil person for shipping those two goddesses… Just say that you don’t know what the Bechdel test is and block me... 😑

I also hate how my first negative experience with the Epic fandom was pure homophobia toward my Bible animatics. Like, they used negative language toward gay people to tell me to make Epic content instead. There is this weird obsession where people expect me and other artists to only do one thing, which is Epic, and if we dare to do something else, we get punished or infantilized, like we didn’t have any say when Casper commissioned us for Stories of Styx. Don’t get me started on how fucking awful people were to Casper and Teagan….

I hate how people easily tell others things, only for them to unquestionably believe everything said about me. Like the amount of "Anni made Ody/Circe porn, uwaaaa!!" And then, the moment someone questions them and forces them to realize I never made such a thing, they double down and say that I shouldn't have made Circe nude in the original animatic "cuz female bodies are icky" or the classic "Well, I haven’t seen the porn video, but someone told me it existed, so I’m going to believe it exsits." Like, you could tell these people that the sky is green, and they would believe you.

Then there’s that whole "Anni supports rape" or "Anni felt bad for the suitors and wanted Penelope to get raped" insanity. Those quotes stems from ppl was crashing out when I made a post criticizing Epic’s way of addressing the topic of rape. In that post, I was suggesting that I would like the story better if Odysseus were actually morally ambiguous when killing the suitors. How could anyone even think Ody was in the wrong for killing the suitors because he wanted to protect Penelope? How can he be a monster after that? I don’t know, I support a husband protecting his wife from gang rapists, but I guess that was the worst thing for me to ever say, huh? Like, how dare I criticize their almighty Jorge…

It’s insane that I have an easier time handling hateful Christians compared to TikTok Epic fans. 😅

Oh well... I’ve had so many bad experiences with the TikTok Epic fandom over the past two years. And eventually, you just want to log off.

I’m thinking of stopping posting Epic content at all on TikTok as a first step. If TikTok Epic fans hate my fanart that much, then I’ll do them the favor of never seeing it from my account. I will, however, continue posting my Bible animatics there. And if I continue working on my Hold Them Down animatic and if I ever finish it… I will only be active here on Tumblr and on YouTube.

And so, at this moment, I will take a pause from Epic. It probably won’t be that long because, despite everything, I love that musical. But I also have to remind myself that, despite there being so many negative remarks toward not only me but the other artists, there is a lot of love from you actual fans. I have about 138K subscribers on YouTube. That’s 138K individuals who love my work so much that they want to see more of it. THAT IS TOTALY INSANE! And I will never forget that! And I am so thankful for all of you and your support. Thank you and I love you guys! 💕

I’m also planning on making a better-formulated post about this another day. All of this is just me ranting and want to take a short break, focusing on something else.... Maybe... Venice the musical? 😅

#asks #epic the musical #epic the musical fandom #Sorry I was planning on making this post short but I had so much stuff in my mind I wanted to get out

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littlelamy · 2 days ago

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“you gonna take me to the lake sometime, topper?” you purred, head tilted, finger twirling some of your hair as you leaned into him like you hadn’t just sucked rafe’s cock dry in the backseat twenty minutes ago.

rafe saw red: fire, brimstone, and every violent instinct igniting in his spine.

the second he got you back to his house, he dragged you by the wrist into his room, slammed the door shut, and threw you face-first into the mattress.

you laughed into the pillow, all muffled and smug. “oops,” you giggled, arching your back like a slutty little cat in heat. “you mad, baby?”

his belt came off with a loud snap that made your thighs clench and your breath catch.

“mad?” he repeated, voice low and filled with anger. “you’re lucky i don’t make you crawl back to the car naked.”

the first smack landed hard across your ass, loud and sharp, and you yelped, the sting blooming fast and hot under your skin. “rafey!” you gasped, giggling through the sting.

another, then another, alternating cheeks, his belt coiled tight around his fist as he leaned over you. “you think it’s funny? huh?” smack. “flirting with topper like you’re single?” smack. “wearing my fucking necklace and batting your eyes like a dumb whore?”

“i’m not a whore,” you whined, but your cunt was dripping, the arousal running down your thighs every time his hand met flesh, thighs involuntarily clenching around nothing, begging for him.

“no?” he growled, yanking your panties down to mid-thigh, exposing your soaked pussy to the warm air. “then why’s your cunt soaked, baby? you like getting punished?”

you sniffled, lip wobbling on instinct, mascara starting to run from the tears teasing the corners of your eyes. what a drama queen you were.

“i just like when you get jealous,” you mumbled into the sheets, eyes fluttering as the next crack of his palm lit you up. “makes my pussy feel special.”

he fucking growled like an animal, and in the next second, his hand was tangled in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your spine into a perfect arch, chest pressed into the mattress as he leaned in close enough for you to taste his breath.

“you wanna feel special?” he whispered, rough and dripping with threat. “you’re gonna count every slap until you cry. then i’m gonna fuck your throat while you thank me.”

you grinned, lips swollen, eyes sparkling through the blur of tears, voice sugar-sweet and dripping with complete obedience.

“yes, daddy.”

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dark-l-angel · 2 days ago

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may I please request batfam x reader where they randomly find out the reader has Omnilingualism? the reader just randomly drops lore then the batfam is like "HUH?" me pleading:

A/N: Sure luv ❤️ sorry it took a little while.. but here you go 😺

Omnilingualism is the ability to understand all languages.. spoken, written, or otherwise.. instantly and fluently, without having to learn them first.

Batfam x Omnilingual reader + onshot bonus "wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!"

Bruce Wayne:

He pretends he isn’t impressed. He really tries. But the moment you casually correct a mistranslation in one of his case files from an obscure dialect in the Amazon, his eye twitches.

Definitely runs tests in the Batcave. "For data" he claims. Lies. He just wants an excuse to hear you switch flawlessly between Ancient Sumerian and Icelandic.

Low-key starts trusting you with delicate negotiations at Wayne Enterprises. "Accidentally" leaves confidential contracts in languages no one in the room understands except you.

Oh, and you catch him brushing up on his French. He'll never admit it, but he’s trying to catch up to you.

You once whispered something scandalous to him in flawless Latin during a gala. His hand on your lower back tightened just slightly. Dangerous man, but you’re worse.

Dick grayson:

Immediately obsessed. No chill whatsoever.

"Say something in Italian!" "Now Portuguese! Oh oh.. Tagalog!"

Thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. Genuinely struggles to focus if you speak in another language, especially something romantic-sounding. (You catch him blushing like a schoolboy, every time.)

Tries to flirt back in another language but completely butchers it. You gently correct him, and it turns into an unintentional couples language lesson.

You catch him Googling "How to propose in 20 languages." Cute idiot.

Teases you with fake words in gibberish, just to see if you catch on. You always do.

Jason Todd :

Oh, this man loves it. Filthy mouth, wicked grin, and a brain full of bad ideas.

Purposely swears in different languages to see if you catch him. You do. Every. Single. Time.

One time you threw back a sharp insult in flawless Russian, and he damn near swooned.

Has you read his favorite banned books in their original languages. "I just wanna hear you say it, babe." No you don’t, Jason. You want to hear them moaned, don’t you?

Will 100% ask you to dirty talk in languages no one else understands in public settings. "What? I like living dangerously."

Bonus: If you tease him in French, it destroys him. He can’t fight it. French + your voice = his personal kryptonite.

Tim Drake :

Immediately runs to his laptop. He needs answers.

"Omnilingualism is a hyper rare meta-ability.. there are fewer than seven confirmed cases worldwide.. wait- does this mean you can read codes in programming languages like they’re actual languages?!"

Makes you his official decryption buddy. His Batcomputer just became 500% more efficient.

Low-key fascinated, high-key turned on.

Asks you to record audio lessons for him in various languages. You catch him listening to them at 2am with a suspiciously dazed smile.

Will absolutely text you random phrases in dead languages at ungodly hours of the night. "For science."

Damian Wayne :

Instantly annoyed that he’s no longer the most linguistically gifted person in the room.

Challenges you constantly. "Recite this ancient Arabic proverb." You do, flawlessly, and throw in the correct accent for good measure.

He respects you deeply but refuses to admit it directly.

Secretly asks you to teach him rare dialects to communicate with his animals better.

The moment you start speaking to Titus in perfect, gentle Arabic, his eyes go wide. You’ve officially earned his permanent admiration.

Bonus: You tease him by complimenting him in languages he doesn’t know yet. He storms off to study them immediately.

Alfred Pennyworth

Unbothered king. He knew from the start.

Smiles softly when you casually slip into old, classical British idioms even Bruce doesn’t understand.

Occasionally tests you with the oddest phrases from obscure Commonwealth colonies. You pass every time.

"I dare say, Miss, you have a talent most remarkable."

Secretly keeps a list of the rarest languages to see if there’s anything you don’t know.

Family game nights? Forget it. You dominate every round of “Guess That Language.”

You become their favorite asset in undercover ops. Fake passports? Check. Local slang? You’re a walking encyclopedia.

They jokingly call you their “Batbabel.” (Yes, even Bruce lets that nickname slip once.)

Jason is convinced you must have alien blood. "Bet you could sweet talk the Martians, too."

You like to randomly mess with them by switching languages mid-conversation. Pure chaos.

And they all fall a little harder every time you do.

Oneshot bonus : Wait- YOU CAN SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE?!

It started, as many things in Wayne Manor do, in the most stupidly casual way possible.

You were seated at the long dining table, lazily flipping through your phone while Alfred served brunch. Tim was half-asleep beside you, his forehead dangerously close to his waffles. Jason was reading War and Peace in Russian, because of course he was. Damian was arguing with Dick over the proper form for his new kata routine, while Bruce pretended to read the paper but was very obviously just eavesdropping like the rest of them.

Then, Alfred, with his calm British cadence, said something softly under his breath. In French.

"Mon dieu, cette confiture est un désastre…" (this jam is a disaster...)

Without thinking, without even looking up from your phone, you mumbled back, perfect pronunciation and all,

"Pas nécessairement. C’est la confiture d’orange, elle est censée être comme ça." (Not necessarily. It's orange marmalade, it's supposed to be like that.)

Silence.

Dead silence.

Tim lifted his head slowly, eyes bleary but confused.

Jason lowered his book.

Damian squinted at you like you’d just sprouted a second head.

Bruce folded his newspaper with a quiet, deliberate finality.

Dick? Dick’s eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"Since when do you speak French?" he asked, grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

You blinked, confused by the attention. "Huh? Oh, I don’t."

Wrong answer.

"You just did" Tim said flatly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason leaned forward on his elbows, sharp smirk spreading. "Care to explain, mon ami?"

Your brain, still not connecting the dots, offered the most unhelpful thing possible: a shrug. "I don’t know. He just said the jam was a disaster. I just... knew."

“Wait.” Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits, laser-focused. "What did Alfred say, exactly?"

You repeated it, casually.

He tried to hide it, but his brows twitched upward. "That’s correct."

Now Jason was grinning like he knew something juicy. "Try Russian."

"What?"

"Say something in Russian," Jason pressed, eyes alight with curiosity.

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Что ты хочешь, чтобы я сказал?" (What do you want me to say?)

Jason’s chair screeched back from the table as he stood, hands in his hair. “NO. No, no, no, what the hell is this?!”

"That was perfect," Tim said, his voice pitching higher, caffeinated brain now fully awake.

"You said you don’t speak these languages?" Bruce asked, a suspicious tilt to his head like he was running seventeen background checks in his mind at once.

You frowned, getting a little defensive now. "I don’t! I never studied Russian, or French, or whatever else. I just... get it, I guess?"

Dick gasped, like someone hit him with a Batarang of Realization. "Wait wait wait.. omnilingualism."

Jason’s mouth dropped open. "No freaking way."

Tim’s eyes went huge behind his glasses. "That’s an actual thing, you know. Hyper rare meta ability. The brain automatically understands and reproduces any language it’s exposed to."

Damian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "Prove it."

"Say something in Ancient Latin," Bruce instructed, his detective mode fully activated.

You tilted your head, focusing, and then fluently responded,

"Memento mori, pater. Etiam noctes detectivi requiem merentur" (Remember death, father. Even detectives of the night deserve rest.)

Pin-drop silence.

Jason cackled so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Dick was clapping like you’d won an Olympic gold medal.

Tim, meanwhile, frantically pulled out his phone, already Googling ‘omnilingual reader discovered at brunch’.

Bruce, stoic as ever, gave you a single nod of respect. "We’ll need to run tests."

"You mean interviews," Dick corrected, leaning closer with a grin. "Because I, for one, have a thousand questions."

"Congratulations" Jason said dryly, raising his glass of orange juice in your direction. "You’re officially our walking, talking, sexy Google Translate."

You rolled your eyes with a crooked smile. "Glad I can be of service."

"And you will be," Bruce added, already making plans in his head. Oh, you were never getting out of this one.

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ohmy-gojo · 2 days ago

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its lunch break when nanami receives the mugshots of his 3 year old daughter.

as he was eating the delicious bento you made for him, he saw his phone ping with the special notification sound he set for you. instinctively bringing a smile on his face since was just thinking about you (when was he not)

he thought you sent him the daily random i love yous you always send or pics of you dressing up you guys' daughter in animal onesies (both of which never fails to fill his heart with warmth and turn him into a mushy mess)

however, the thing he didn't expect was mugshots of his little daughter

and oh it was a mugshot alright, with the monochrome filter, her holding her slate which read 'female, 3"11' and looking adorably guilty. there were total 3 photos taken from different angles too. captioned 'guilty'

the oddity of the.. situation made him laugh. whatever could his 3 year old daughter, who cant go to sleep without her papa tucking her in and who wouldnt stop crying when hurt unless her papa kissed her boo-boo, do to deserve this treatment?

he texted, why are you holding my princess in remand?

shes found guilty of eating the chocolates i planned on adding to the cake for dinner tonight. you replied

he chuckled. do you have any proof? surely, my daughter wouldn't do it.

i have proof! with that, you sent him a picture of a chocolate which had a bite mark of a certain 3 year old

see? your daughter is guilty and will be facing charges soon, unless you bail her out. you replied

he raised his eyebrow. how?

by bringing a new cake from the downtown bakery of course. i also could use some of their other sweet treats :D

he let out a snort. is that so? im starting to think this is all just a plan of yours to bag those sweets by using my princess.

he saw the bubbles going on and off for some time and smirked. he got you there

careful now, i could still imprison her for life. the choice is yours )):<

he huffed. you are impossible, he thought amused

alright, you will get what you want. so i expect my daughter to be released.

scarcely after a minute, he received a selfie of you both smiling innocently as if nothing happened done. we will be waiting! love you<3

he let out another chuckle. you both sure do manage to light up his life. he lovingly smiled at the picture you sent him, eyes full of affection. love you both too❤️

well, looks like he will be paying a visit to the bakery, after all he cant just let his daughter be jailed.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader fluff #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento fluff #jjk x reader fluff

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brawberryz · 19 hours ago

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⎯⎯ㅤSay you'll never leave me

Batfam Yan! × Negleted Idol! Reader

| Platonic |

Note / English is not my first language / Inspired by the anime "Oshi No Ko"

TW / Yandere behaviors, Toxic relationships, emotional dependency, neglect, violence, blood, death, murder, mentions of sex (not explicit), abandonment, stalking, harassment, daddy issues, Dark themes

What is love?

That's what you've always wondered: was it really as good as people said it was?

Is true love the same as fake love? You didn't know

You never experienced any kind of love from your family

The people who were supposed to care for you and protect you just treated you like garbage

The people who were supposed to be there for you when you needed them most abandoned you as soon as they could

Since you were little, you knew none of them liked you, but you could pretend they loved you

You could lie, lie about your life, lie about your feelings

Lies tasted better than the truth, because lying made you look better in people's eyes

Lies didn't hurt, truths did

You are the perfect liar

And those lies got you to where you were now, everyone loved (name)

The perfect idol, you were in a small group of idols, but your charisma and affection for your fans took you to the top

Your face was everywhere, there wasn't a single person on the planet who didn't know your name or face

And even when you were still alive You foolishly wanted your family to notice you, you became an idol out of spite.

You thought if you became famous they would be proud of you.

That he would be proud of you.

For as long as you can remember, you fought for your father's acceptance.

You wanted him to notice that you existed, to look at you with the same affection you looked at your other siblings.

But it never happened that way. You thought it was because you were weak.

Everyone else was so unique and talented.

And you were just (name). The only thing that stood out about you was the fact that you had the last name 'Wayne'.

But then you were a nobody.

But on stage, you could forget all your worries. You could feel that people loved you.

They praised you, loved you, and supported you.

Even though you knew it was fake, it was all always fake.

They only loved the perfect (name), the one who never made mistakes and was always smiling.

You should be perfect. Your job as an idol was to give the fans what they wanted.

Your feelings didn't matter; you had to give people what they wanted, even if it killed you.

You knew all the admiration was only superficial, but it still felt so good.

For the first time, you felt loved, even if it was fake.

You made bad decisions throughout your life, from personal to romantic.

You ended up pregnant after sleeping with a stranger. You thought you'd finally found the love of your life.

But all he did was use your body for pleasure.

And even though you knew he never loved you and only used you, you knew there was a little bit of love in it.

Or so you wanted to think, so you wouldn't feel stupid.

But being an idol and being pregnant wasn't easy.

Your agency decided to hide everything. It would be terrible if one of their idols was pregnant.

It would ruin your entire reputation.

They couldn't allow that. One of they best idols was hated.

You wanted to call Bruce, tell him everything that happened.

But you were too cowardly.

What if he was disappointed?

Maybe he'd think you called him to take advantage of him.

Maybe he'd tell you you were an idiot for the things you did; you were too young.

You knew it was a risky decision, but you decided to keep the baby.

Although apparently it wasn't a baby, but twins.

You were happy because you felt that after so much time, you wouldn't be alone anymore.

You would be able to start a family; that was what you always wanted.

Months later, your babies were born. You had never felt so happy in your life.

That day, you swore you would protect them with your life.

For the first time, you experienced what love was, and this time, it wasn't fake.

You're so cute, Aqua!"

You said laughing, squeezing one of he chubby cheeks.

You decided to retire from show business for a while; you wanted to dedicate all your time to your children.

You didn't want them to feel the same way you did.

You would be a better version of them.

"Oh!" You felt a small push on your arm and could see Ruby looking at you with those eyes of hers. They were so similar, yet so different from you. "You're very pretty too, Ruby. The cutest girl in the world!"

You hugged them both with all your strength. Everything you'd ever dreamed of was now yours.

For the first time in your life, you allowed yourself to feel loved.

This love wasn't fake; it was real.

Here, you didn't need to lie or pretend.

The doorbell rang, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Uh? I don't remember ordering anything..."

You said, getting up from the couch.

You left Aqua and Ruby in the living room as you headed for the door.

But Aqua was too stubborn and decided to follow you. he felt something wasn't right.

You opened the door and found a strange man standing there, but you were surprised when you saw the flowers he was carrying. Perhaps it was a gift from your manager.

It wasn't uncommon for someone from your company to send you gifts to let them know you were okay.

But you could barely react when you felt something sharp enter your abdomen.

"M-Mom..."

Was all he could say when he saw the whole The blood in the hallway and the man with the knife in his hand

Apparently, one of your fans had found out you had children, that you had a family

And he couldn't stand that his 'innocent and tender' (name) had some kind of boyfriend or husband

So he decided to kill you as revenge

The man ran out of your apartment; you barely had the strength to close the door, and your body collapsed right there

Aqua ran to hug you even though he knew your blood was staining his body

You could only hug him tighter as you tried to reach the phone on the wall

Aqua saw you dial a number and how the brightness of your eyes grew dimmer when the voicemail rang

It seemed like not even in the midst of death could you count on your family

"Dad...?" You said, barely trying not to choke on your own blood. "I know you probably d-don't want to talk to me... and I understand, but..."

You could feel Aqua squeezing you tighter, trying to keep your blood from spilling out. You could see Ruby from the other side of the glass.

Her look of terror hurt you. It hurt to see how scared she looked.

And you understood. No child should see their mother die.

You barely gave her a weak smile. You wanted to go over and hug her, but your body could barely hold the phone.

"Please... take care of Aqua and Ruby. They're all I have." A long silence fell over the room, and only small sobs could be heard in the hallway. For the first time in your life, you were afraid of dying. "Dad... I'm scared... please take care of them."

Your voice grew fainter and fainter, the brightness in your eyes dimmed, and tears streamed down your face.

A small "I love you" was heard, but Aqua couldn't tell if you were saying it to him, Ruby, or the man you were talking to.

The phone fell to the floor, and Aqua could feel the soft beat of your heart stop.

Your body felt as cold as snow.

He see his mother die before his eyes, and he couldn't do anything.

That day, Aqua promised himself he would kill the man who did this to you.

And maybe he would seek revenge. Your own father didn't answer your call when you asked for help. What kind of family was that?!

The message was sent, and the only noise left in the room was Aqua's frantic breathing and Ruby's crying from the other side of the glass.

Bruce could only repeat the voicemail over and over again. All he had left of you was your voice pleading for help.

He was supposed to be Batman, a hero.

But he wasn't even able to save his own daughter. Maybe if he answered that call, you'd still be alive.

He thought if he pushed you away, you wouldn't have to suffer anything. Being a vigilante wasn't easy, and he thought if he kept you away from him, he wouldn't have to put you in danger.

But even so, now you were dead.

When you mentioned Aqua and Ruby, he didn't know what you meant, but when he found out you were pregnant and had children, he felt worse.

You were pregnant and you never told him!? It sounded so hypocritical, and he knew it, but he couldn't stand that you decided to hide something as important as that.

Why didn't you ever call him? Even though I knew he didn't call you, it was for a good reason.

He wanted to keep you away from any danger, and he was too cowardly to call you.

After so many years, what could I say to you?

He ignored you your whole life. Would you let him back into your life?

Would you still consider him family after all this time?

He was a coward, and he knew it.

He wanted to have you back in his arms and make up for lost time.

But now you were just a memory, a blurry memory because he couldn't even remember the sound of your laughter or your gaze.

Your voice was the only true sound of you he could remember now.

But he swore he'd make the guy who did this to you pay. Maybe this time he'd let go of the no-kill rule.

Meanwhile, the sound of the television in the living room filled the room.

There was no sound, just the reporter's voice as she said you'd been found dead in your apartment.

Your face appeared on the screen; no one could believe you were dead.

In everyone's head, they had different ways to make the man who did this suffer and torture him.

They knew it was hypocritical to worry about you now, but they loved you!

In their own way...

But there was still a little bit of affection for you.

Damian thought about using the Lazarus Pit to revive you. He knew the consequences, but he couldn't allow his older sister to be dead.

You were supposed to stay alive!

He and you are Wayne by blood, you can't die!

You can't leave him alone. You were so stupid to leave the mansion and become an idol.

But it's okay. He'll find the signature to revive you, and this time he won't let you go.

Jason thought about crushing that man's skull with his bare hands. He wasn't the best brother to you, and he knows it.

You used to get along, before the Joker killed him and then he was revived.

At that moment, he was filled with rage and felt like everyone had betrayed him.

And he pushed you away, thinking it was for the best.

He was afraid of breaking you. He had broken many things in his life, and you were the only thing he hadn't broken.

So he pushed you away out of fear and rejection, and right now, he regrets it so much.

He'll avenge his sister and kill anyone who dares to say anything about you.

Dick couldn't even process it. He was the older brother who held the family together.

But it was always very different. with you, ignoring your needs or forgetting you.

It wasn't on purpose! He swears.

He was just too caught up in his responsibilities that he put you aside.

He wanted to pretend it didn't affect him so much, but inside, he was devastated.

But he was going to make amends for his mistakes, but first, he had to take care of the bitch who dared to touch you.

Tim barely found out you died; his whole world fell apart. He wasn't even prepared for that.

Your death?

This couldn't be possible. How? When?

He had a plan for everything, but this?

This was simply out of his hands.

But he pushed himself and began to investigate more than any other detective. Your killer was good at hiding, but he was much smarter.

It wouldn't surprise anyone that he was the first to discover the culprit.

He liked psychological torture more than physical torture, so he knew he could have fun with it as soon as he got his hands on it.

They were a bad family, but they got better!

It wasn't easy for Aqua and Ruby to adapt to their new family either.

For them, Aqua and Ruby were the only thing closest to you.

They were so similar to you.

Although Ruby accepted the overprotectiveness and affection, Aqua denied it.

He knew their intentions, Aqua still hated them for all the harm they caused.

He was going to get revenge on the man who did this to you and on your family.

They didn't deserve you; they're all hypocrites and manipulators.

Aqua knew your whole family was crazy.

I just hoped they weren't crazy enough to revive you.

They would never do that, right?

Right...?

After a long time, I decided to post something again.

Artist's block was the worst thing that could have happened to me.

I don't know if I'll do a second part; I'm too lazy to do any kind of series. So, it's an open ending

:vvv

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kaivenom · 2 days ago

Note

Hii, may I ask One piece dilf first reaction to having a wet dream about you? If it's not a problem could you include Benn Beckamn in this one?

Thanks

OP Dilfs reaction to having a wet dream about you

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks, Benn Beckman

A/N: this is pre-relationship.

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

He is perplexed, how can he have so little control over himself?

He refuses to jerk off but somehow he still rubs himself a little to feel some relief, and that makes him feel even more like an animal.

All day he feels like he is on a cloud, and if he has a sichibukai meeting, everyone notices it.

It's like he is there but his mind is somewhere else... obviously nobody know but his mind is on his dream about pounding you so hard that he could split your cunt open with your legs over his shoulders.

Worse if you are on the meeting, cause his gaze would accidentally follow you.

Donquixote Doflamingo

He wakes up with a moan that turns into a laugh.

He feels like the most mischiveous bastard ever and he is enjoying it.

He jerks off himself and gets thru the day as ussual, but everyone notices just how he is more smiley and flirtatious.

He keeps himself close to you all day, with a little to much physical contact.

You just think he is doing jokes on you, that today is the day that you have to put up with him and his temper.

But in reality he is trying to make you see how much he wants you, he tries to make you notice his boner and in some delusional way express affection towards you.

Sr. Crocodile

He is in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

He doesn't do anything about the boner and expects it to go soft with time.

He tries to keep his day as normal as he could but the images of you are just getting back.

He sees you on the office and inmediatly fantasize about you riding him on the office chair.

There is a period of time in his office when he is just looking at the ceiling and imagine you entering and getting on the desk ready for him.

That's why he hates dreaming about you, cause then the desire and the longing is to much to handle.

Smoker

He goes to the shower and tries to forget it, but he couldn't forget and his dick is going up and down all day.

He becomes really clumsy all day, to the point were even his subordinates tell him to stay on his chambers/office.

Very conveniently, he gets the clumsier when you are around.

Tripping over his feet, hitting his face against a door or wall, falling due to not seeing the final step on the stair, and more.

He ends up getting on the nursery and rest there a couple of hours.

Then he couldn't help it anymore and starts to slowly and painfully stroke himself, feeling a little guilty but also full of lust.

Akagami Shanks

He jerks off and then tries to rub it off by being the most comical men in the world.

You don't even know what happened but you can just confirm that Shanks will be glued to you all day and he would be all his comedian ass for the day.

Thru the day Shanks try to bury the memory of your ass from behind taking him in four by making new memories more impactful.

But he isn't really good at it cause his intentions show up unconsciously.

Awkard flirting and sexy jokes all day that are little hints.

Benn Beckmann

He smokes more than ussual.

He is so stunned and bervous about the dream that he needs to lit a cigarrette up just to calm his nerves.

He sees you and he tries to ignore you but at the same time he salivates for you, a little to obvious.

He checks you out all day, everywhere and even more when you are talking to another person.

You try to get close to him for anything and he is just standing there completely still.

You assume is just a bad mood day for him, but he is trying to hide his boner from you and trying not to take you on his lap.

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rex-rambles · 1 day ago

Text

➤ YOU ARE HERE | OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x soulmate!reader

summary: you and oscar discover that you're soulmates when randomly, once a year, you trade places for five minutes. it goes about as well as you expect for an f1 driver.

wc: 6.1 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! mentions of minor injuries and hospitalization

➤ MASTERLIST

2019

Waiting to figure out how you're going to meet your soulmate can be exhausting.

For some people, it's simple: a red string around their pinky, a timer on their wrist, not seeing colour until you finally lock eyes, but for you? Since you've turned eighteen, there have been no signs at all. No magically appearing footprints, no mystery injuries to match your soulmate.

Nothing.

You had tried to figure out what strange, hidden thing it could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Perhaps your soulmate would be someone else with no symptoms; perhaps you didn't have one at all.

That's why, when you wake up in a strangers bed, your first thought isn't about soulmates. It's the middle of the night, or at least it should be, yet the sun faintly shines through the curtains, an unfamiliar alarm clock blaring on a nightstand, which, rolling over to look at, is not your night stand, and is not your alarm clock, and this most certainly isn't your childhood bedroom.

It takes a moment to realize that you haven't been kidnapped, whipping off the covers and standing in the middle of the rather messy room, and rather, you've been transported...somewhere. The notepad on the bedside table explains that it's a Hilton hotel, and slowly, picking up the few pieces of dirty laundry scattered about, you realize you must have traded places with your soulmate.

Swapping locations wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it was a strange thing to wake up to in the night. You quickly move through the drawers of the tables and desks, trying to find something to write down your personal information with before you return to normal. You're not sure if it was a permanent thing, or a matter of minutes, but you're also a bit too tired to care right now. Instead, you write down your name, begin to write the first digits of your phone number, and in a blink, you're standing before your own bathroom mirror.

Well, at least your soulmate would know your name. Considering the whole swapping thing, your soulmate must have woken up in your room too, luckily much tidier than his hotel room was, but it's still an embarrassing thought, the stuffed animals nearby, the old posters on your walls. Finally recognizing why you're standing in front of your mirror, you realize whoever your soulmate is has tried their best to get a message across, lipstick smeared on your mirror in what you realize are words:

Oscar Pi

Seems he got cut off by the timing the swap, the lipstick now laying open in your sink, but with a growing smile, you find that you don't really care, because your soulmate does exist.

Oscar.

It's a good name, you think.

2020

The second time it happens, Oscar is on vacation, and he's not really prepared for it. He'd biked up a cliffside trail, overlooking the small, coastal Australian town where he and his family were staying. He'd stopped to take a break when suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grocery store in nothing but his bike gear.

At least, he thinks, you hadn't been standing in the freezer section.

Ever since your first swap, Oscar had tried everything in his power to recreate it, the way he had fallen asleep, everything he had done that same day, but he was starting to think your swapping was a once-a-year type of ordeal, or maybe you were in charge of it. If he could ask, maybe he could know, but it had been difficult trying to figure out how to contact you, considering all he got was a name, and he was travelling so often. At least you'd have a nice view, when you teleport to where he was. If his parents are quick enough up the trail, you might even meet them.

Oscar stares down at the basket in hand, a rather strange mix of mostly junk food, and without thinking, he turns to the nearby fruit stand and places a few oranges and apples in for good measure. Then, as he moves towards a banana, he realizes he should be trying to get his number to you in some way. There's even less nearby for him to possibly write with than your room, and considering the few people staring at him, he can't exactly walk up to someone to relay the message.

Everyone had told him he had time to meet you, to get your number, but knowing you existed after questioning it for so long meant that Oscar wanted forever to start now. Finally, an old woman takes pity and offers him a smile, and with a deep breath, he approaches her. "Excuse me?"

"Riding? In this weather?" The woman says, eyeing him up and down. "You're a brave one, dear."

"I've just swapped places with my soulmate," He manages to get out, "Could you take a message?"

"Oh, how sweet! You know, it took me four years to find my soulmate after I turned eighteen. We shared reflections in mirrors, made it pretty tricky to get ready for the day!" Oscar nods along as happily as he can, trying not to rush the poor woman, but also desperately needing to get his message out. "Sorry, what did you want to say?"

"Tell them I'm from Australia, and my phone number is-" He blinks, and finds himself back on the trail, and he curses so loudly that when his sister rides up to him, she looks rather shocked.

Hattie pauses, lowering her bike as Oscar forces himself to sit on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. "What, you crash your bike?"

"I traded places with my soulmate, and couldn't tell them my phone number, again." Then, he finds his phone in the grass beside him, and for a joyful moment, he thinks you might have left a message, and finds something only marginally better: a photo. You're pretty in a way that shocks him to his core, that you're his, that you're supposed to be together. You're turned to show the distance in the background, a thumbs up as if to show you approve of his vacation location. Then, in the sand beside the path, he finds your number scrawled, only for it to be blown away in the wind.

When you return to the grocery store, you find yourself in front of an old woman, and far more fruit in your basket than a human should need.

2023

For the next two years, it goes on about the same. You end up outside some racing track in Barcelona, and the workers don't understand what you're drunkenly asking, and Oscar ends up at a bar where everyone's too gone to relay the message. You end up walking dogs in Australia in a snowsuit while Oscar ends up in the middle of a ski hill, wiping out before he can even think of giving out his number.

You've sort of given up hope, at least for now, that you and Oscar could finally coordinate it. You carry sharpies wherever you go, just in case you end up somewhere you can actually write it down. All that preparation doesn't help, however, when it happens again in the middle of the night.

You end up in some orange room with nothing but a massage table, and when you step out into the hall, you find yourself among people dressed in orange who look just as surprised to see you as you are surprised to see them.

"What are you doing back here?" It doesn't help, you realize, that you're just in an oversized t-shirt. "Get out!"

"I'm Oscar's soulmate!" You quickly try to explain, though the few people around don't seem to believe it.

"Sure, you're Oscar Piastri's soulmate, and you're here like that?"

Piastri. You should probably be more worried about what's about to happen, but you can't really focus on that.

You have a last name. "We trade places. That's our thing. You have to give him my number-"

"Can we get security to escort them out? I don't buy it." Someone says, snapping their fingers at a guard. "I've never heard Oscar mention trading places with a soulmate before." A security guard, larger than any human you've ever seen before, tries to corral you backwards as you helplessly explain, over and over, but it's not use.

You're shoved out an emergency door, and with a blink, you're standing in your bedroom.

Oscar Piastri.

Never mentioned trading places with a soulmate. You slowly sink onto the edge of your bed, trying to figure out why he'd never say anything, and all the answers don't seem right. Maybe he was just a private person, but still, trading places with your soulmate, potentially at any time, is the kind of thing you mention to people.

Oscar Piastri. You grab your phone, before realizing that Oscar must have been in your room, must have left something behind, but despite the way you tear your room apart, you find no note, see no number, not even a selfie on your phone.

Never mentioned you, never tried to give you his number.

Maybe all this time, he was avoiding you on purpose, and sinking back into your bed, you finally google his name.

Oscar Piastri, F1 driver.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need a soulmate.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need you.

2025

Oscar's pretty sure, after his security team threw you out in 2023, that you had to hate him. He hadn't been able to leave behind a number yet, hadn't been able to find you on any social media, but you must've been able to search for him by now. That night, when he blinked back to stare at a very confused security guard through tears, he realized he'd sobbed his way through your last swap, unable to do anything but stand there.

It was pretty pathetic, all things considered. 2024 wasn't any better, another hotel room swap as Oscar ended up in the bathroom of some university, surrounded by women who screamed and chased him out and ruined his chance of leaving his number, again. You hadn't left a number or anything on your end, but you had finished folding his laundry, which is the only sign that you might still want to find him.

This year, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be any better. In fact, ever since extending his contract with McLaren, he's had this deep-seated fear that refused to go away. If it was possible to trade places in beds, on bikes, and when skiing, then it would be possible in cars. Not just any cars, either.

In his racing car.

And you might die in a fiery wreck before Oscar even gets the chance to meet you, to give you his number, anything. You'll die hating him, and he'll have to go throughout life soulmate-less.

"You alright, mate?" Lando says quietly beside him from the driver's parade. "You're just...tense."

"I have a bad feeling today," He says, and maybe because he said it, maybe because he always knew, maybe because the universe hates him, it happens. He's just pushing out into a straight when he blinks and finds himself in all his gear at the front of a lecture hall, and the world goes silent for a moment.

You're in his car. For what Oscar can gather about you, you're most certainly not trained, you're not wearing any protective gear, and you are in one of the fastest cars on the planet, hurling toward your death at any second. "Well, I can't say I've seen this before." Someone he assumes to be your professor says, "An adventurous soulmate swap."

Four minutes. He rips off his helmet and the sleeve under it, and trying to calm his breathing, all he can think to say is, "You need to call an ambulance."

"What?" The professor looks at him in shock, and Oscar gestures to himself.

"I'm an F1 driver, a racecar driver." What could he possibly say? That a potentially mangled corpse is about to teleport into this room? "My soulmate...oh god, they've been swapped with me, in my car, without protection. If they can't control the car, they're going to crash and end up back here." Finally, what he's waited for his whole life is before him: a pen and paper. He scribbles his information down quickly, phone number, name, address, social media handles, anything and everything. "I need you to be prepared for it to be bad."

“I need everyone out of the room, now.” Immediately, the students are up and out of their seats, and Oscar pulls his helmet back on and waits.

You’re a student. He has no way of knowing if you can even drive, and he’s just chucked you into an F1 race, broadcast for everyone to see, and he has no idea what to do with himself. How does he possibly apologize for this? For maybe ruining your life? Who wants a soulmate who kills them before their first date? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop it, and vaguely, he recognizes a phone being shown before his face.

“They seem to be okay?” A student says, extending a phone to him as he watches his own car choppily slow down, but it's not enough. You could hit a barrier, you could hit another car, and you'd be dead.

Instantly.

"What...what university is this?" He says, muffled by the helmet.

"University of Oxford, England. This is a conference, to showcase student work." Oxford.

You must be smart, then.

And he's the reason your brain is going to break.

You knew Oscar was an F1 driver, but it had never occurred to you that you might swap during a race. For a moment, when you open your eyes, you don't really believe it. The steering wheel in hand, feet on the gas, it's like a dream, and then every sense hits you at once that this is not what you're supposed to be doing.

You try to slow down, but the car isn't like a normal car, the force of it pressing you back into the seat as you force your eyes shut, the sound of it deafening, the weight, the car, the movement, it all spirals into a sensation that you can't control. The gas pedal itself is the hardest thing it feels to push, but you grunt your way through it as the car slows, the feeling of the ground underneath it changing, but you still can't bear to open your eyes, can't stand the thought that you're about to die without even meeting the stupid owner of this car, who probably doesn't even want to meet you.

You're not sure how long it takes, but finally, the car stops. The world stops. Your chest heaves, your head rolls, but the car is not moving, and you are alive, albeit unable to move, or hear, or function at all, really. Your eyes blink up to stare at a helmet peering over you, your own reflection staring back from its visor. If the driver is saying something, you can't hear. They take off their helmet, revealing a head of curly hair and a very, very concerned expression.

It's Oscar's teammate.

Lando, you think. He's quick to try and get you up out of the car, arms coming to undo the clasps keeping you in, and your arms very loosely manage to work their way around his neck.

As he tries to get you up, however, the world spins and you think you might be sick. He's saying something, you can tell he must be saying something, but it doesn't register. All you see is the dread on his face as you slip back down, hitting the lecture hall floor before you pass out.

Oscar comes to hugging Lando.

"No no no-" Lando's voice is shrill, obviously scared, and Oscar doesn't want to think of how hurt you must've been for Lando to stop racing and try to pull you out of the car. "Oscar? Your soulmate! Why the fuck wouldn't you tell us you swap places-"

"Are they alive?" Oscar shouts, ripping off his helmet as he manages to get out of the car, and Lando nods. "They didn't...they didn't crash?"

"Mate, they fucking steered the thing eyes closed." Lando and him stand on the grass for a minute, just taking in the moment before Oscar realizes you're back in Oxford, probably collapsed, injured, heaven forbid dying, and it doesn't take him long to get moving.

No one really knows what to do, and Oscar doesn't blame them. He never told anyone, until that fateful day, that he and his soulmate swapped places. It would be a hazard, something that would hold him back from F1. He refused to allow anything to stop him from what he'd dreamt of his whole life, but today, all that advice makes perfect sense. Because of him, because he wanted to go farther, to do more, he put his one true love in harm's way, and if you die, he's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

Passing flashing cameras, he finds that he doesn't care what the headlines say, doesn't care that he just threw the race for McLaren, he needs to be on the first plane to England as soon as possible, because he truly has no way of knowing if you're alive.

He's not waiting another year to find out.

For the past two hours, you'd folded the paper Oscar left you perhaps a hundred times, carefully into a perfect square before unwrapping it again. It was on the back of your script for your presentation, the contents of it now long forgotten for the frantic writing.

It begins with I'm so sorry.

It lists his full name, his phone number, his mother's phone number, a man named 'Mark Webber's phone number, his instagram, his twitter, both of which you'd already found. His address in Melbourne, his address in Monaco. Everything to identify himself with, finally in the palm of your hands, but you had yet to contact him. He was probably still racing, you found yourself arguing. Probably busy. It's all excuses that hold you back, but you wouldn't know what to say if you tried in the first place.

Hi, it's your soulmate you almost killed?

"How's the dizziness, darling?" A nurse asks over you, and you're broken from your intense folding of the paper to look up at her, and the room only spins a tiny bit.

"Better than before, still a little...woozy." She hums, writes something down.

"I think you might take the cake for patients today. Teleported into an F1 car by your soulmate," She muses, "What a world we live in. And your leg?"

"Sore, but survivable." Apparently, F1 cars' braking systems take a ridiculous amount of force to push, and while the adrenaline had let you brake, the aftereffect was that your whole left leg hurt, from hip to the tips of your toes. "Are you sure I'm fine to just leave? I'm not going to collapse on the street?"

The nurse flips through your papers. "You have no concussions, no ear damage from the car, no sprains or tears, I think it was just a mix of exhaustion, adrenaline crashing, and shock that made you pass out. Does anything still feel wrong? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The paper in your hands folds itself into a neat little square as you think. The world just sort of feels slow, or maybe suddenly too fast for things to make sense, that you were in that car, that Oscar had told them to call an ambulance for you, that you survived it all. That you were barely even hurt.

"There's a madman running through the parking lot." The room of patients turns to look at the elderly man in the bed closest to the window. His pain medication had made him quite the entertainment for the two hours you've been in and out of scans and tests, but this time, he seemed adamant. "Someone stop him. Looks like he's set himself on fire."

"What?" The nurse is gone from your side in an instant, before quickly sighing and placing a hand over her heart. "He's just wearing orange, Paul. He's not on fire."

Just wearing orange.

For the first time unaided in two hours, you rise from your bed and join them at the window, dragging your left leg as you walk, and watch Oscar slide between cars like some sort of action star, standing out amongst the grey weather in a neon orange hoodie before he manages to sprint inside, and the paper in hand suddenly feels so overwhelming that you're not really sure what to do.

He's here.

For you.

You don't know where he was racing, but considering he was here in two hours, it couldn't have been that far, or maybe he had a private jet, or maybe the the world was both too slow and too fast for you to keep up. Without thinking, you move out the hall and into the central area with the nurses desk as the elevator dings open, and for the first time, you see Oscar.

He's surprisingly dishevelled, considering you're the one who just got transported into one of the world's fastest cars. His hoodie seems a bit too big on him, and taking him in as he quickly approaches the nurses' desk, so are his pants. If you didn't know better, you wouldn't think they were his, and you're not really sure what to do with that information.

He just grabbed the closest thing to get changed to get to you? "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying." One of the nurses says to him, "You need to slow down."

"Soulmate," He says between gasping breaths, "Not a car accident, but teleported into my car, hurt-"

"Oscar." You say before you can really stop yourself, approaching his side, and he just sort of waves a hand in your direction.

"I don't know if they're alive, or dead, or-"

"Oscar?" You realize he doesn't know the sound of your voice, like you do his. As gently as you can, you reach out and place a hand on the back of his neck, the closest exposed skin to you. The final step of a soulmate connection was touch, and you had heard so much about it: how sparks fly, how you've never felt more in love, how it changes the world, but it was just Oscar.

It was just you. Gently placing a hand on the back of his neck, to comfort him despite all that you had been through today, was just where you were meant to be. It was right, and it was normal, and you gently spread your fingers into the back of his hair as he slowly turned to you, your hand drifting now to hold his cheek. "I'm right here."

"You're here." Oscar breathes out slowly, quickly scanning you for any sign of injury, and without even knowing, his eyes settle on your sore leg, staring at it intently. "You are actually here."

"You're a hard person to track down, you know." Then, without much ceremony, Oscar slumps into you. It's as if all the weight he'd been carrying his entire life had been let go from his shoulders, practically folding over you. He buries his face into the side of your neck as his arms latch around you, pulling you tight to his chest. It's a desperate sort of thing that has you realizing how terrifying it must have been from his end of the swap, of hearing that you were in his car, knowing you would be hurt. You hold him back just as tight, hands gently smoothing against his broad shoulders as if to show that you're here, and you're safe.

"You have no idea." He grumbles softly, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the feeling of his lips so close to your skin, now pressed into a smile. "Worst soulmate trait ever." He pulls away slowly, and this close, you take in all the details you never could before. He's almost growing stubble, in need of a shave, a soft spattering of freckles across his face and neck. You find yourself stuck on the fact that he's yours, that he's staring at you, that he's real. "I'm so sorry," He tries to say, and you rush to cut him off.

"You didn't have any control over this." That's the sort of thing, with soulmates. It's meant to be, but you have no control over who it is, how far they are, what you have to do to find each other. The most important thing is that you did find each other, and if you get a ridiculous story to tell out of it, then you don't mind the hardships it took to get him here. Despite it all, however, there is one question that remains in your mind. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Doubt comes creeping back in, so ingrained in your mind that even when holding your soulmate, you couldn't quite let go of it. "Seems important for an F1 Driver to mention someone else might swap into his car."

Oscar's eyes don't quite meet yours, returning to stare at your leg. Maybe it's a special soulmate ability to tell when the other is hurt. Maybe he just needs someone else to look at besides your eyes. "I didn't want them to think it was a liability. Not that you are a liability, it's just...you can see why they might not let me race if they knew this would happen." Then, without so much as taking a breath, he begins again. "I'm so sorry-"

"Oscar." His name feels right, on your tongue, and based on the way his eyes light up, it sounds right to him, too. "It's okay." You can understand why he'd do it. Not the smartest thing in the world, but then again, you didn't need some genius for a soulmate, you just needed Oscar. A small, perfect, ridiculous smile finally grows on his face, and you find yourself grinning up at him. You suppose it's your turn to apologize now for whatever damage you did to his car. "I'm sorry for making you lose the race."

"Lose?" Oscar echoes with a soft laugh, the kind of sound that makes you hate all the near misses before ten times over. "You didn't crash, you even got onto the grass safely. Ever considered a future in F1?"

"Well, I’ve considered a future with an f1 driver, does that count?"

Curled up in your hotel bed, Oscar begins trying to sort through the information he'd learned today. You were pursuing your masters, in a subject he can't really put his finger on currently, but he has the rest of his life to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was important enough that you were at Oxford presenting about it when you swapped into his car.

When you swapped back, you passed out, and woke up being brought into the ambulance. It was confusing, they ran a million tests, but you're okay, if just exhausted.

You were okay.

You were alive.

And you were currently taking a shower while Oscar sat on your hotel room bed and tried not to die himself. You had watched his races, kept tabs on him. Now that you weren't just passing by in the night, he had your number, every social media account. He had even introduced you to his mom, who tore a strip off of him over Facetime for not telling McLaren sooner about the soulmate-swapping thing, but that was all over now.

You were alive.

You were here. The shower turns off and Oscar stares intently down at Lando's pants, the closest thing he could find before rushing out, where the McLaren team let him use their private jet to get over to the closest airport in record time. He makes a mental note to thank Lando for his clothes, but that all goes down the drain when the door opens and you're standing in just an oversized t-shirt, haloed by the light of the bathroom, and Oscar rediscovers how attractive you are all over again.

You were staying the night together, seeing as Oscar had time, and the jet had already left back to the race. He wouldn't have tried to leave anyway. You needed someone to be here after everything that happened, and Oscar needed to meet you.

You limp slightly as you approach the bed, the only sign of the day you'd had, and the way the left side of your shirt rides up unevenly with your step makes Oscar blush in a way he didn't know was possible. This must have been what you looked like when you swapped into his hotel room for the first time, his. brain supplements as he forces himself to look back down at his lap. He remembers waking up to your childhood bedroom, the soft twinkling lights, the stuffed animals. It was so sweet, knowing you existed, and then he frantically tried to find a way to contact you, and ended up smearing make-up over your mirror.

Then, it was the grocery store, a bar, a ski hill. Always missing each other to lead to this moment now, and seeing how you're looking at him when you kneel on the bed, Oscar can't even be mad it took so long.

Because you're here.

You're alive. "How do you think they pick?"

"What?"

"How do you think the universe picks soulmates?" You ask, curling up next to him. Despite the fact he basically refused to let go of you when you first met, he's now hesitant to touch. After all, you were still just getting to meet each other. You hadn't even had a date yet. "Like what makes you my soulmate? How does the universe even pull off the swap?"

"No one knows." One of life's great mysteries, unfortunately. Oscar's pretty sure there's a science that goes into it, but right now, it doesn't feel like science: it feels like fate. "I suppose the universe just has a way of tying people together who are meant to be."

You yawn in response, leaning back against the headboard and kicking your legs out, and Oscar's hands rest on the edge of Lando's hoodie. You just sort of nod at him and he pulls it off, not quite able to meet your eye, and you can't seem to do the same, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "I have another sleep shirt, if you want. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"Weird about it?" You slip from the bed to root through your suitcase, and Oscar quickly takes off his pants before he can think too much about sitting in front of you in his underwear. You toss something at him, and Oscar catches it midair, unravelling it to reveal one of his own shirt designs for the Austin Grand Prix, and his brain sort of breaks.

You bought one of his shirts.

You sleep in it.

And he hadn't even heard your voice until earlier. "Couldn't afford to go to a race to see you," You say softly, standing awkwardly in the dim light of the hotel room. "Got the next best thing."

"I think," He answers dryly, letting the shirt fall to his lap, "The next best thing is actually right here."

"Wow," You say, a laugh bubbling out of you that makes Oscar thinks that maybe, just maybe the universe really knows what they're doing. "Really?"

"All I'm saying," He says as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head, "Is that who needs an Oscar Piastri shirt when you have Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the last time I spend money on your merch," You answer resolutely. "I get free stuff for the rest of time."

Then, with a soft glint to your eye, you launch yourself onto the bed, falling backward with another laugh, and Oscar looms over you, giddier than he thinks he's ever felt before. You were all his, and you were right here. You weren't going to teleport away, weren't going to disappear. He had your phone number, and he was debating getting it tattooed on his forearm for good measure. "You can have whatever you want after what I've put you through."

"That's a dangerous declaration, Oscar." Your voice saying his name still seems so strange, but it's right. He's just going to have to get you to say it a few more times to get used to it. Your hand gently smooths up his chest, waiting right over his pounding heart, and your eyes flicker up to his at the feeling of how fast it's racing.

It should be weird, really, for two strangers to be suddenly soulmates. There's an adjustment period everyone has to go through, the first dates, the first hundred questions needing to be asked about favourite colours, about life goals, but all of that stress, that awkwardness, slips away with your hand on his chest, your eyes on his, because the chase is finally over. Oscar might be good at racing, but going slow, with you, with the rest of his life, doesn't seem so bad.

"I think," He finally says, "The universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way."

"And what do you need?" Then, as cheesy as it is, as much as he knows the others will groan about it when he tells them every vivid detail, he very gently says,

"You. Here." Then, to be more serious, "Someone to keep me calm. What do you need?"

You don't answer him, but rather lean up to gently press your lips to his, and Oscar tries to thank every individual star, every planet, every galaxy that makes up the universe for putting you here, for him, forever. It's soft and sweet and hesitant, the kind of thing Oscar needed this to be. It's you, here, with him, and it's every mile over the speed limit Oscar's ever driven, and it's slow and it's steady like everything Oscar didn't realize he needed in his life.

2025, Again

It was a very different experience, being on this side of the race.

You had only seen it from screens, and then the grass, but being in the paddock was like its own little world. If you were alone, you're sure you could exist here on your own without anyone noticing, but considering you were walking in beside Oscar, hand in hand, people were starting to pick up on who you were very quickly.

"You know, that's a first in F1 History," Someone with a camera says, pointing at you and Oscar. "A soulmate swap into an F1 car! We're quite happy you turned out okay, but have you considered ever getting into a car again? Maybe following in Oscar's footsteps?"

Oscar looks at you, checking to see if you want to answer, and you smile up at him. "I am happy to never set foot in a race car again, actually. I don't know how you do it, or how anyone does it."

"You didn't do that bad," Oscar says, shaking his head. "You just need the right protection and the right training."

"The closest I am ever going to get to a race car is here," You joke softly, offering a small wave to the camera operator. "I'm happy to enjoy the comforts of the paddock."

"Your loss," Oscar says before pressing a kiss to your temple, and it hasn't gotten any less thrilling since your first kiss. It had been four months since you'd finally met, and it had been a lot of strange negotiations to get you here, date nights spent with Oscar flying out to you to get to know you, and in return, Oscar flying you out to get to know him, and see Monaco, and finally, now, his races.

You were worried it would bring back some sort of traumatic memory, but if anything, it was exciting. You were here with no threat of being shoved in a car or crashing, but rather to watch Oscar in his element. He guides you through the day, stopping into hospitality, meeting people, meeting Lando again. You'd already sort of met, considering he was trying to haul you out of the car, but now you could actually talk and thank him without a racecar in the way.

Oscar suits up eventually, about to start the race, and he corners you just before he goes out. "If it gets too overwhelming, just let someone know, okay?"

"Oscar, I'll be fine. I want to see you race." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and you choose to grab the front of his fireproofs, pulling him down to kiss him properly. "Now go win so I can finally hold a trophy."

"That's what you want? A trophy?" He asks with a laugh, putting his helmet on. "Not me getting the points?"

"After my race? I want my participation trophy." Then, because you can't ever truly ignore him, "And obviously I want you to win to do well too. Trophy just comes first." He shakes his head, moving away from you, and thought muffled, you can make out him saying three words neither of you had said yet, something you hadn't known how to. You freeze in the hallway of the paddock, watching him go, and it's a blur as people try to find you a headset and a monitor to look at, but it doesn't last very long.

You were soulmates. You knew that, obviously, but it still felt strange to think about what it really meant, how you really felt, what the future held.

Your mind drifts to those thoughts as easily as Oscar makes his rounds. He's got a second-place start, which is good, but watching the cars goes around and around on the screen isn't what you came here for. You could do that anytime, any place.

So, against all better judgment, you don't stay put with the thoughts of what might be, what to do, what to say. Instead, you make for the stands, and sit and listen to the cars whip by, feel the force and the wind, and it's everything you thought a race would be before you had accidentally partaken in one. It's fast, it's loud, and it's distracting, but it's good, intoxicating as the fans cheer, the cars almost too quick to make out their movements.

At some point, Oscar gets the lead, and you think you and the McLaren fans around you lose your voices as you scream for him, and despite how hard you try, you find yourself wondering why the universe picks soulmates like it does. Why it would in the first place? Love can be so many things, loving sports, loving family, but with Oscar, it's something so wholly new that makes you think the universe was onto something.

Because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way. That's what Oscar had said.

When the race ends, and you're ambling down the stands and back to the paddock, it's the universe guiding you. When you get to where they park the cars, and Oscar is standing on top of his, he keeps looking around, helmet already off as he's squinting at the crowd forming nearby of McLaren workers, because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way.

And Oscar needs to find you, in the crowd, to know you're there, to know it's real.

And you need Oscar, who's rushing to you like a man on a mission, like how he was that day at the hospital, and without thinking, your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him in for an indentical hug as his face presses into your neck, and the universe congratulates itself for putting two pieces back together again.

"I was watching in the stands," Is what you mean to say to Oscar, and you do, but maybe it's the universe, maybe it's him, maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but you find yourself adding something to the end before you can stop yourself. "I love you."

And though you can't hear it, over the sound of the crowd screaming around him, the sound of your own heart, the sound of the fireworks, you feel the way he says the words back to you, and what it really means.

I love you.

You are here.

a/n: returning to my fanfic roots with a soulmate au + my first time writing for oscar!!

#➤ rex works #➤ op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 angst #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #soulmates

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lightseoul · 1 day ago

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TWENTY-SIX (4.3k)

pairing. k. bakugou x reader

synopsis. your boyfriend's spending his birthday oceans away from you, and there's absolutely little you can do to celebrate his special day...right?

c.w. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up, post-ch 431: more, established relationship, lots of cussing AND banter, explicit themes (which i will not describe in great detail for the element of surprise, but know that it's explicit), a little present for my fluff/smut girlies out there <3 (also me)

a/n. happy birthday to the (fictional. sobs) man of my dreams <3 i wanted to whip something special up for his birthday this year, especially since i started writing more seriously last september. since then, i've made so many friends on here primarily over our shared love for katsuki, and it's just been a blast (pun intended). this one kind of got away from me—this was just supposed to be a short drabble, but it ended up the way it did. still, i think it's a great read (if i say so myself), so i hope you enjoy this. once again, happy birthday, kats <3

“and then they fucking—told the waiter that it was my birthday.”

“no.”

bakugou sneers, his grimace just slightly distorted—a digital mosaic of rose-colored pixels. “it was fucking embarrassing.”

you try to imagine the picture of your boyfriend sitting awkwardly as the foreign restaurant’s staffers sang him a happy birthday, and you have to tamp down the smile that’s fighting to encroach on your lips.

“let me guess,” you quip—just loud enough for him to hear you over your phone’s built-in microphone, “it was denki’s idea.”

that grants you an eye roll, which is so animated, it doesn’t even matter that the hotel’s internet connection is so crappy, bakugou’s face morphs into an indistinguishable blob every two minutes or so.

“don’t remind me,” he retorts, “for dunce face’s sake.”

“or what?” you laugh, “are you gonna give him a good ol’ spanking?”

“fuck, no. for all i know, he’s probably getting spanked by ears as we speak.”

from a few feet away from you, a sudden sound akin to that of someone choking on their spit resonates, and you barely catch yourself from reflexively shooting a glare in that very direction. instead, you keep your gaze trained on your screen and on the ash-blonde who’s lying on his stomach with a pillow propped up underneath him, trying not to let the panic show on your face.

you’ve come this far, the last thing you need is for denki to—

“what was that?”

despite yourself, you stiffen. “what was what?”

“that sound,” bakugou points out, straightening up himself. “wait, where did you say you were again?”

“ochako’s,” you lie. she was one of your only friends whose apartment’s walls were almost the same color as the hotel bakugou’s currently staying in. and denki. and jirou.

the very same hotel you’re—

“that sounded like a guy, though,” comes bakugou’s cautious response, and it takes you a second to realize how the situation is looking like to him.

“izuku’s here as well,” you quickly supply, wishing to any divine being out there that he doesn’t ask you to point your camera at either of the couple.

thankfully, he doesn’t. what he does, instead, is furrow his eyebrows in equal parts confusion and disgust.

“they’re listening to our conversation?”

“chill, bro,” you force yourself to chuckle, “we just finished eating as well. we’re all just hanging out in the living room.”

now, if bakugou’s catching on to your deception, he doesn’t show it.

at least, by much.

“huh…”

“…yep.”

another scrutinizing squint. “and you’re sitting on round cheek’s floor because…?”

shit. right.

“i’m just charging my phone,” you fib, and before bakugou can get another word in and catch you in your deceit, you pipe up again.

“actually, it’s getting late, kats. i think i’m gonna head home.”

“but—”

“i’ll message you the plate number, don’t worry.”

at that, bakugou huffs, and you have to swat away the guilt that washes over you at the sight of his disappointment—disappointment that’s palpable despite his obvious attempt at eclipsing it with his worry for your safety.

he doesn’t say anything for another beat, and you take that as your cue to unplug your imaginary charger and lift yourself to your feet.

“well, i should get going,” you announce, just as he blurts something out that you fail to catch.

“…sorry,” you laugh—genuinely this time, “what did you say?”

“just—” he starts, voice lowered into a hushed whisper, suddenly appearing shy. “can we—i don’t know—call again when you get home?”

you hesitate, then remember that if things work out the way you planned them, you wouldn’t have to worry about the idea of it. still, you keep up the concerned act. “sure, kats, but don’t you have an early start tomorrow?”

“yeah,” he replies, “but another thirty minutes or so wouldn’t hurt.”

you can’t help it—you smile at that. bakugou seems to flush at the sight of you grinning knowingly, bringing up a scarred hand to rub at his face—a habit you’ve noticed he does whenever he feels embarrassed.

and, because you know telling him you miss him too would only fuel his embarrassment even further, you instead bite your tongue and wish him another happy birthday, but not before promising him you’d call as soon as you’re in bed and settled in your pajamas.

you wait for the tell-tale chime of a video call ending to go off before you dare to heave a sigh of relief.

the clamoring ensues in an instant.

“who knew bakugou was such a lover boy?”

from where she’s lounging on her suite’s expansive sofa, jirou flashes you a teasing smirk.

“excuse me,” denki exclaims from the queen-sized bed, “are we just going to breeze past the way he insulted me?”

you’ve got half a mind to comment on how you’d bet good money he’s already been pegged by the hearing hero, but decide against it—you still needed both of their help, after all. so instead, you bite your tongue, and gesture to the refrigerator.

“we don’t have much time, so we better get moving.”

“right.”

“o-kay.”

fortunately, it doesn’t take you a while to get things ready. denki manages to get the balloons inflated in record time, while jirou’s got the cake and champagne all set as you got changed into a much more flattering dress and touched up on your makeup. by the time you’re supposed to have arrived at your apartment unit way back in japan, the three of you are standing by the entrance of the musician’s hotel room, birthday paraphernalia placed in a fancy-looking cart you borrowed from reception, the air around you buzzing with nervous anticipation.

you check your watch for the umpteenth time, before looking back up to the two. “are you sure you guys don’t want to surprise him with me?”

jirou shakes her head. “nah, we already celebrated with him during dinner. we ought to give you guys some privacy to celebrate on your own.”

“yeah,” denki adds, “plus, i don’t want to be there in case things get nasty real fast.”

“denki!”

“dude!”

“what?” the electric hero cries, “kacchan can make sex jokes while i can’t?”

“you need to work on your timing, dipshit,” comes jirou’s reprimand, to which denki only pouts petulantly.

“well, i should get going,” you begin, reaching out to open the door. “he should be waiting for me to call by now.”

the two whisper their well wishes as you carefully roll the cart through the space, and you manage to mouth a quick thank you just before they quietly shut the slab of wood behind you.

you wait in the hallway for a second for denki to come out of the room and go back to his own, but that never comes.

well, then. you guess they’re not set on beating the allegations, either.

once you’re sure denki’s not coming out anytime soon, you take a shaky breath. meticulously, you let your eyes trail the row of doors that line the hallway, before they land on the number jirou supplied you with earlier today while you were still at the airport. pushing the cart that contains the lit cake and champagne—and even the dark orange balloons marking his age—right up to the doorway, you take another wobbly inhale.

suddenly, and in the face of finally seeing your boyfriend after over a month of being literally oceans apart, the exhaustion of travelling for hours dissipates from your system, leaving you almost shaking in nothing but excitement.

and you were about to lift your hand to knock on the door—really, you were—when, to your horror and without any warning, the door flings open, and you find yourself face to face with no other than the birthday boy himself.

you can only blink at the man who’s frozen midway through the passageway, his pretty face mirroring the utterly bewildered expression you’re sure you’re sporting right now.

you manage to gather your bearings first, the sole thing you can muster being: “…surprise?”

now, in the split second of thinking time this situation has granted you, you figured he’d likely curse in disbelief, maybe ask you what the fuck you’re doing here, but what you didn’t expect was for him to stand—unmoving—for a couple more seconds, before unceremoniously lifting you into a bone-crushing hug.

“katsuki!” you squeal, looping your arms around his neck and your legs around his body, holding on for dear life. “put me down!”

bakugou only squeezes you tighter in response, and you have no choice but to cling onto him for a beat longer, until he effortlessly puts you back on your feet, that same unbelieving look still painted across his features.

“what the—”

“—fuck am i doing here?” you finish for him, and he nods, scoffing out an astounded laugh.

you gesture to the cart beside you, and you make a swift mental note that the candle’s gonna go out anytime soon. “i wanted to surprise you for your birthday.”

and before he can say something in response, you jut in. “quick, make a wish and blow before it goes out.”

to your confusion, bakugou doesn’t even spare the cake a glance, gaze fixed on you.

“don’t have to.”

you frown. “what? hurry up, kats, it’s gonna—”

“i said,” he interjects, pulling you closer by your waist, and your hands shoot up to plant themselves against his chest, “i don’t have to.”

looking up at him, you gulp. “w-why?”

a smirk. “because you’re already here, dumbass.”

that's all the foreboding you’re given before you’re seized into a scathing kiss, and you barely manage to bite back a groan at the simultaneously foreign yet familiar feeling of bakugou’s lips against yours, even more so as he presses himself further against you, deepening the kiss. you let your hands snake up to bakugou’s neck as you feel his caress your sides, and you have to fight to ignore the shot of arousal that courses through you the moment his tongue breaches your mouth’s entrance, exploring it so hungrily like he hasn’t done so a million times before.

you probably stand there stuck to each other for a couple of minutes when a particularly hard bite on your lower lip lurches you back to reality—the reality that you’re very much still in a public space and that the last thing bakugou needs is to reach headlines for being seen aggressively making out with his girlfriend.

and so with much reluctance, you take a step back, and another when bakugou moves to chase your lips, before he finally gets the message and lets his arms drop to his sides, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.

you take the opportunity to chance another glance at the cake, and sure enough, the candle is already dead.

“we can just cut out the parts where the wax melted,” bakugou suggests when you don’t say anything for a minute, and you look back at him and smile, nodding.

neither of you says another word for a beat, resorting to just staring at each other with your mouths pulled taut into goofy grins.

it’s bakugou, though, who breaks the silence.

“you’re so fucking pretty.”

you flush, although you snort to hide your fluster. “i can’t be surprising my boyfriend looking like a hot mess, now, can i?”

“you can, you know,” bakugou replies without missing a beat, gesturing you inside, “and i’ll still think you look fucking pretty.”

you punch him in the arm as you file into his suite, which he takes in stride before pushing the cart in step behind you.

“since when did you become such a smooth talker?”

at that, bakugou laughs that gruff laugh of his as he closes the door and turns to regard you. “well, sue me for flirting with my girlfriend.”

“stupid,” you chuckle as you shake your head in amusement, before tossing him the sincerest smile you can muster. “i missed you, kats.”

before you know it, bakugou’s back on you in an instant, wrapping his arms around your torso almost too tightly, although you can’t find it in you to mind. “i missed you, too, baby.”

“were you in jirou’s room the entire time?” he asks after a moment of just standing there, limbs interconnected.

“yeah, they helped me keep the entire thing under wraps.”

“huh,” bakugou muses, rubbing absentminded circles on your waist. “didn’t know they were damn good actors. i had no idea.”

you grin. “i’ll take that as a win.”

a pause.

“you being here certainly is.”

you let out an exaggerated groan, pushing the man away and walking towards the foot of his bed, plopping yourself down onto the firm mattress. the motherfucker only laughs at you, although he’s quick to trail behind you and sit himself in the spot right next to you, not sparing you a modicum of distance.

“you know,” you start, side-eyeing the pro-hero as you take off your heels, “if you keep this up, i’m gonna start thinking you really missed me.”

“i’m fucked, then,” he retorts, “because i ain’t beating any of your allegations.”

you laugh again. “speaking of not beating any allegations, denki’s in jirou’s room right now.”

“what did i fucking tell you?”

“i know, i know. i just didn’t think they’d be so brazen about hooking up. they’re not even trying to hide it.”

bakugou sniggers, taking your hand in his. “should’ve made a bet with you.”

“you say that as if you’d take a single yen from me,” you rebut, to which he can only shrug, unable to argue with your point.

“enough about them, though,” you say a moment later, your hand still being massaged by bakugou. “what do you want to do?”

and when he only stares at you blankly: “for the rest of your birthday?”

“oh, right.”

you huff, lightly bumping your shoulder with his. “i mean, if you wanna go rest up, then we can do that, too.”

“quit being huffy,” bakugou chastises, “there is something i want to do.”

“really? what is it?”

bakugou lifts his gaze from where your hands are intertwined to meet yours, and one look is enough to tell you what he’s thinking.

you instantly feel yourself flame. “really? aren’t you too tired to do it?”

“nah,” he grins, “i was gonna jack off before sleeping, anyway.”

you snort. “of course, you were.”

“what?” he says defensively. “it helps me sleep better, especially after a long day of work.”

you study his face for another second, before nodding and moving to stand up, although you don’t get to go far because of bakugou’s hold on you.

“where are you going?”

“i have a hair tie in my purse,” you answer, “let me just go grab it.”

you try to step away again, but bakugou’s grip only tightens. you glance back at him, confused. “what?”

“who said i wanted you to suck me off?”

you frown. “aren’t you still tired, though? let me make you feel good, that way you can just lie in bed and take it.”

at that, bakugou shakes his head, pulling you back to him. despite yourself, you let yourself be dragged into the space between his legs, your hands placed on his shoulders while his take residence on your hips.

bakugou creens to look up at you, a serious expression etched on his features. “as fucking appealing as that sounds, that’s not what i want to do right now.”

“this thing i want to do—” he continues when you signal at him to keep going, “—is…new.”

“n-new?”

“yeah. new as in we’ve never tried it before, but i’ve been thinking about it, ever since shitty dunce face planted the idea in my head our first day here.”

you swallow. “first day?”

he nods. “it’s got something to do with—” his line of vision shifts towards something behind you, “—that.”

you look back behind you, and you’ve to stop yourself from gasping when your eyes land on it.

or rather, on the image of you and bakugou.

you whip your head to look at the man, unable to hide the shock on your face. “y-you want to do it—in front of—”

“the mirror, yeah,” he croaks, sounding like he’s trying to mask his own uncertainty, and yet, there’s no denying the determination in his voice. “only if you want to do it, too, of course.”

“yeah, no, of course,” you quickly say, “i-i want to. it’s just—frankly, i never thought of it before.”

“me too,” bakugou admits, “well, up until we arrived here and denki commented on how big the floor-length mirrors were.”

“…so naturally you thought of us having sex in front of it?”

that grants you a pinch at your side, and you squeak—more in astonishment than in pain.

“you forget that it’s my birthday, you fucking tease.”

“sorry, sorry,” you laugh, “i’m done. that was the last one.”

“that better be,” he warns, although it has no real bite to it.

“…so,” you try again after a lull, “how’d you wanna go about it?”

“here,” he gestures to the small space between his legs, “you can sit with your back turned towards me.”

“uh, sure.”

just as was instructed, you turn on your bare feet until you’re facing the mirror, and slowly sit yourself on the edge of the bed and in front of bakugou, although you’re not even fully perched against him yet, before you feel something stiff prod against your back.

you don’t get to comment on it, though, because he beats you to it.

“i know,” he huffs, seemingly self-conscious, not meeting the reflection of your eyes. “i don’t know why it’s turning me on this much, either.”

at that, you place a hand on the arm that’s circled your waist, and the other on one of his thighs, just as you flash him the most reassuring smile you can manage. “it’s alright, baby. i love it when you get this way.”

“y-you do?”

you playfully roll your eyes at him. “you know i do. now, hurry up. we don’t have all night.”

that earns you a disapproving tut, although you can see the amusement behind bakugou’s eyes in the mirror, and the very sight of it sends a wave of anticipation coursing through your veins.

jesus. when was the last time you were this excited?

“you know, for someone who’s eager to please her boyfriend on his birthday, you sure are being a brat.”

“and for someone who’s eager to try a new kink out, you sure are being slow.”

bakugou growls. “that’s it.”

you can only yelp as bakugou practically yanks the zipper of your dress down, and with it, the entire top portion of the ensemble; you don’t get to react or protest, though, because in a matter of a split second, bakugou’s hands are on your naked breasts, and you almost let out a loud moan when he gropes at them so roughly—you can feel your core throb at the all-too overwhelming sensation.

“fuck,” he groans in your ear just as you squirm in front of him, his grip on your chest unrelenting. “i’ve missed these.”

and, as if your breasts have a mind of their own, you feel your nipples stiffen at bakugou’s sentiment—a reaction that doesn’t go unnoticed by the pro-hero, who’s quick to tug at your pebbled peaks, rubbing circles and flicking on the flesh.

“shit, you like it when i tell you i’ve missed your boobs?” he rasps, and you can only rub your thighs together in response, eyes clenched closed in pleasure. “what if i tell you i’ve been jacking off every night to that picture of you in your lingerie?”

“you know the one,” he goads, squeezing firmly at your chest, “the one i gifted you that leaves nothing to the imagination?”

you nod—barely—but enough to indicate that you’re still listening, which you’ve learned the hard way is important if you didn’t want to trigger your katsuki. at your affirmation, bakugou lets out a satisfied grunt.

“now, get up,” he demands, “we need to get this fucking dress off of you.”

and off of you it goes. you don’t waste a second in heeding his order and discarding the sundress of the same shade of burnt orange off you, and you also take the chance to strip off your thong—the very one you went for despite the discomfort it brought just so you could surprise your boyfriend if ever things went the direction they are heading right now.

but you’ve barely tugged it off your hips when bakugou’s hand shoots up to stop you, and you look at him in bewilderment, mind only half-working with lust. “what?”

“keep it on,” he commands, “i want you to see how pretty you look when i finger you through your panties.”

well.

you know better than to argue with him at this point, so you only return to your seat that’s becoming smaller by the minute, with his erection taking up more space even against the straining fabric of his sweatpants. it’s only when you’re seated once again do you remember to finally look at the mirror, and when you do, the sight of you sprawled limp and bare against bakugou’s muscled frame causes you to moan out loud, to which bakugou could only curse in response.

“see, baby?” he spurs, tone desperate, “this is what i have to deal with every time we fuck.”

he scoffs, just as he brings a hand down to cup your sex. “and you wonder why i get so hard so fast.”

you whine, if not for his taunting, then at the lack of friction against your core, but you don’t get to do so for long before bakugou’s free hand grabs at your chin, forcing you to look straight into the mirror and at yourself.

“quit fucking whining and watch me finger you,” he spits, before: “and don’t even think about closing your eyes.”

that’s the last thing he says before he, true to his word, slips two fingers into your underwear and thrusts them into your hole with little to no warning. you’ve no choice but to moan at the intrusion—your eyes in the middle of fluttering closed when he grabs your face again and points it forward, all the while not stopping his pistoning of his ridiculously long digits in and out of you.

“just look at yourself, princess,” he hisses, “i love it when you look so fucked out like this.”

“uuuugh—”

bakugou snickers, not even giving you a heads up when he brings his other hand up to start rubbing figure eights on your clit. “can’t even form a proper phrase? that’s how good i’m making you feel?”

“uuugh—fuck—”

the pro-hero seems to take this as further encouragement, because he only presses harder against your bud, while the fingers that are nestled deep within you continue to rub oh-so deliciously against your walls.

the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm come sooner than later after that, and bakugou notices it, too, because he doubles down on his ministrations the second you start violently shaking and thrashing in front of him.

“are you gonna cum, baby?” he whispers against your ear, and you can only nod, too distrusting in your capability to say yes without whimpering like a bitch in heat.

“look at the mirror, then,” he coaxes—gently, this time—softly bumping your head with his so you would turn towards your reflection.

and, because you want to please your boyfriend on his birthday—of all days—you do.

and the sight of bakugou’s big, strong hands pumping in and out of you and rubbing frantically at your clit while you moan and squirm right up against his big, strong body drives you well over the edge.

and you cum.

and cum.

and you don’t know how much time passes with you lying flaccid on top of the pro-hero’s torso, but by the time you come to, bakugou’s rubbing soothing circles on your waist, while your arms lie slack on top of his that are circled around you.

you shift to look up at the man, who only smiles at you—so delicately, the way he does whenever he was feeling especially intimate—you wouldn’t think he was just roughhousing you a mere moment ago.

“what about you?” you eventually manage to croak out, eyebrows furrowing in apprehension.

“what about me?”

“you didn’t get to finish, birthday boy,” you say pointedly, shifting in your seat. but then it suddenly registers how wet your butt is, and you do a double-take to make sure you’re not imagining it, when bakugou confirms your suspicions.

“i came, too,” he confesses, voice betraying his difficulty of wrapping his head around what just happened. “i don’t fucking know how, but i did.”

“…wow,” is the only thing you’re able to say for a while, before: “we should do this more often.”

at that, bakugou snorts, shaking his head. “neither of us has a big mirror back home.”

to that, you toss him a mischievous smirk, before standing up and padding towards your purse in all your naked glory. you try to ignore the way bakugou’s definitely eye-fucking you as you hastily fish out your phone from its depths, quickly making a few taps before placing it on the coffee table, a triumphant smile on your face.

“what?” bakugou asks, mirroring your grin.

“you won’t believe what i just got you for your birthday.”

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @touyas-moon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra @qyuin @lotusstarr @akiii143 @eternallyshifting

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cherrygirlfriend · 2 days ago

Text

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or reader going to a football game.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ and we’re back!! hi hi hi. sorry for no new part last week, i was busy as hell. ANYWAY we’re finally meeting reader’s friends !! also guess who managed to finish three different fics today… whew.

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

for the next two weeks, not a day went by that you didn't talk to MalachiConstant; the screen time on your phone almost having doubled. most of the time it was just surface-level stuff; talking about your days, about your interests... but at night, it... changed. it became genuine. real. like you were sitting under the stars together, talking about things that actually mattered.

MalachiConstant: y'know MalachiConstant: sometimes i kinda worry that i'm disappointing everyone around me

YOU: how come?

MalachiConstant: idk MalachiConstant: i feel like i'm fucking shit up all the time MalachiConstant: like i'm a screw up and disappoint everyone

YOU: well, i don't know if it helps, but.. YOU: you haven't disappointed me :).

MalachiConstant: knocking on wood

now, you were sitting with your friends at lunch, occasionally glancing down at your phone screen as if beckoning for the stranger to message you, your lips pursed in thought as the group around you kept chatting, wondering why the boy hadn't texted you all day.

"hey, everything okay?" one of your friends, zainab, asked, looking at you with widened eyes, startling you out of your little reverie. you turned to the girl sitting next to you, feigning a small smile, "yeah, everything's okay."

"she's being ghoooosteed." vivian teased you, causing you to roll your eyes.

"ghosted? by who?" emilia asked with excitement, vivian's statement clearly having piqued both her and zainab's interest.

"it's no one."

"she's lying." vivian grinned, drinking some of her iced latte, "she met someone on that website i recommended. kildareuchats. she told me they've been talking for a few weeks now."

"viv, i told you not to say anything." you groaned, hiding your face in your hand, feeling your cheeks warming up, your next words coming out in an awkward mutter, "only reason i told you was because you saw me text him in the first place..."

"whatever. the important thing is," vivian grinned widely, "our friend here thinks that he's a member of the football team."

"how do you figure that?" zainab asked, and you threw your hands up in slight frustration, "well, i don't know it for sure!" you said, "but he keeps talking about how he has practice, and... he does know a lot about football."

"hot. you're e-dating a football player. who would've thought?" emilia snorted, making you throw a singular fry her way. "i'm pretty sure they have a game tonight."

"oooh, we should go support your boyfriend." zainab squeezed your shoulder and you could feel your face turn warm with embarrassment, "we're not going. and he's not my boyfriend..."

"i can't believe i let you three talk me into this..." you grumbled under your breath, pulling your coat closer to your body, feeling the chilly autumn air in your bones as you sat on the bleachers, watching the game you understood nothing about; when you were younger, your father tried to get you into sports, but most of the time you simply snuck in a book so you wouldn't actually have to focus on it.

"don't try to play pretend." vivian nudged your shoulder and drank out of her slushie, "we all know you're dying to see your cyber-boyfriend."

"again, he's not my boyfriend."

"but you wish he was. bet you've already made him in the sims, and you two have a brood of pixel-kids."

"i don't even know what he looks like."

"well, if it is someone from the football team, he's gotta be at least semi-attractive. have you seen their group picture?" emilia snorted, "everyone is somewhere between seven and ten."

"it's definitely not thornton." vivian snorted, "dude has the emotional capacity of a slinky."

"viv, you do know that that's a dig on yourself?" you raised your brows, "don't think any of us forgot what happened between you two."

"jokes on you." the pink-haired girl stuck her tongue out at you, "i've already forgotten all about it."

"that's what happens when you spike your slushie with vodka."

"don't act like you could focus on this shit sober. besides, this is not about who i've slept with. this is about who you're dying to sleep with." vivian winked and took another sip of her slushie.

"well," you pursed your lips in thought, "he's in a fraternity."'

"that does narrow it a little bit..." zainab mumbled, "maybe maybank? i mean, you did have a crush on him for like, the entirety of freshman year."

"it wasn't a crush!" you held your hands up, "it was... a mere fascination. he had nice hair."

"ah, yes. you were having wet dreams about his hair." vivian snorted, and you smacked her forearm, pursing your lips into a pout as you looked at the field, "how about... mason? he's got that whole broody, mysterious smart guy vibe going for him. he definitely reads vonnegut."

"dodge is a pretty valid option. though, i don't know if chatrooms are his style." emilia tsked, "what about the captain? cameron?"

that suggestion caused vivian to snort and smack the other girl's shoulder, "rafe cameron? yeah, he definitely isn't the type to do that. i think his longest relationship was when a girl accidentally fell asleep in his bed after they hooked up, and he was too drunk to kick her out."

your eyes went to number 9, the name 'cameron' written above his number, making you shake your head and look away before you spoke quietly, "this is stupid. i don't need to know who he is. i don't want to know who he is." vivian wrapped her arm around your shoulder, tugging you close in a comforting gesture; you knew there was truth to your words, but you also knew that the reason you didn't want to know the identity of MalachiConstant was that you knew he'd be disappointed to know who you truly are. to know, that the girl he'd called witty and funny several times actually couldn't tell a joke without stuttering.

after the football game ended with your team winning, the four of you were making your way away from the field, only to hear someone calling out behind you

"viv! vivian, wait up!"

you turned your head to look at who was so eager to talk to your friend, a small snort leaving your lips, nudging vivian's side, "viv, it's your slinky." your friend looked at you with furrowed brows, following your line of sight to topper, the girl letting out an exasperated groan, "is it too late to hide?"

"hey, viv." topper gave the girl a lopsided grin that he surely thought was charming, his face slightly red from the game, "you came."

"most of the school came." vivian gave the boy a narrow, feigned smile before taking another slurp out of her slushie, "whatcha want, thornton?"

"well," the blonde scratched the back of his head while emilia, zainab and you grinned at one another, a strange contrast to the unamused expression on the pink-haired girl's face, "we're having a party, at our frat house. you should come if you feel like it."

"i'll think about it."

"you can bring your friends." topper glanced at the three of you briefly before his focus was fully on vivian once again, "hope to see you there."

"maybe." vivian said, turning around and continuing to walk away, the three of you following behind her, trying your best to control your laughter, "don't say a thing." she warned.

"come on, you've gotta come with me." vivian pouted, spinning around in your office chair, "i can't go alone, z doesn't do parties and em has an essay to finish."

"you know i don't do parties either." you mumbled, absentmindedly stroking angel's soft fur while shopping online for a birthday gift for vivian, "i think i'd suffer a stroke if i even tried to go to a frat party, of all things."

"please! i can't go alone, because then i'll end up hooking up with topper again."

"then just don't go."

"but then i'll have fomo! you know i love parties, i live for-"

YOU HAVE RECEIVED A MESSAGE ON KILDAREUCHATS FROM MalachiConstant. CLICK HERE TO OPEN.

you tuned out everything vivian was saying, instantly clicking the pop-up.

MalachiConstant: whatcha up to?

YOU: nothing much. YOU: trying to stop this annoying wasp from buzzing in my ear

MalachiConstant: a... wasp?

YOU: my friend. YOU: she's trying to get me to go to a party with her. YOU: it's essentially a babysitting gig, though.

MalachiConstant: one party won't hurt you MalachiConstant: wallflower

YOU: how do you know? YOU: what if i have a stroke the moment i step foot into that place?

MalachiConstant: c'mon MalachiConstant: what do you have to lose?

YOU: my dignity.

MalachiConstant: ah, yes. the dignified grandma. MalachiConstant: hey, if the party sucks you can just stand in some corner and send me messages MalachiConstant: might not answer immediately cause i also have a party

YOU: oooh, another frat party?

MalachiConstant: you know me so well MalachiConstant: i dare you to go, poe girl

YOU: this isn't elementary school.

MalachiConstant: i triple-dog dare you

you pursed your lips in thought, looking to vivian and narrowing your eyes at the girl, a pleading look on her face. you groaned, shaking your head in defeat and rolling your eyes, "fine, i'll come with you. but i have nothing to wear."

"don't worry." vivian jumped up from her seat with a victorious smile, ruffling your hair, "you're lucky i'm your fairy slut-mother. with piles and piles of slutty dresses and skirts. i'll go get us something to wear!"

you watched as the girl made her way out of your dorm, her long hair bouncing along with her "nothing too slutty!" you called out after her, before turning back to your computer.

YOU: if i die, i'm blaming you.

TAGLIST: @yktayy9669 @tinythebunni @dywho @melalsworld @akobx @samwinchesterisawhore @st8rkey @jjasmiineee @ltristessedureratoujours @a-lovers-card @uselessnewt @lunaleah @letstryagaintomorrow @cinnamqnnlatte @papapoy @kay133sposts @wtfisastiles @butterfly1c @emmiesummers @melodyyybubbles @toomanywhitelies @littl3loveydovey @scne-vampire @alwaysmaybank @mysticbby2009 @luna443 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @flowerluvr

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morrigan-is-a-real-girl · 3 days ago

Text

This is one of those alarming things most people would hear and think like "Oh yay, fewer summer bugs!" but like do you know how fucking intricate our fucking planet's ecosystem is? Changes in currents, water temperature, air temperature, water level, insects, animals, everything, absolutely everything, can fucking just flip the entire fucking stack.

The most apt description of our ecosystem is Jenga. Like you can only remove so many pieces before you start having collapse and let me tell you, our Jenga puzzle, looking really, really rough right now.

75% decrease in insect biomass within my lifetime and I'm supposed to care about cover letters

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writerslittlelibrary · 2 days ago

Text

Sharing a safehouse

masterlist

summary: after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?

pairing: Natasha x teen reader

warnings: none

genre: fluff

words: 1645

a/n: I would like a standing applause for the fact that I am posting another fic in the span of a month. it has happened. the apocalypse has struck

also, have I written this trope before? yes, yes I have. will I be writing this trope again? yes, yes I will

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

The silence is unbearable. It’s not like you were against the quiet, on the contrary. You liked a calm, quiet environment to work and relax. No, it was the quiet with Natasha that you couldn’t bear.

You and Natasha never were the best team, mainly because it seemed Natasha just didn’t want anything to do with you.

You didn’t blame her, truly, you didn’t. You weren’t afraid to admit you were a pretty odd kid. You liked stuffed animals, cartoons, and sometimes, when you were certain no one was watching, you’d open your drawer and take out your dolls.

It wasn’t like you got to have any fun things when you were a child, and something as simple as a doll would have been harder to acquire than literal gold.

You weren’t shy about admitting you had a fucked up childhood, and you weren’t shy to be watching Winx Club in the living room of the Avengers compound. It was funny, really, how at first Sam made fun of you, yet slowly started to get more and more invested to the point he would ask you when you were going to start the next episode.

He was a total Winx Club fan now.

The rest of the team seemed to pretty much ignore your childish side. Not in a rude manner, but rather in an uninterested manner. They didn’t think you were weird, and you liked it that way.

Natasha, however, wasn’t at all holding back when she saw you watching a cartoon or coloring at the table.

It wasn’t like she’d get angry, but she would walk away, or give you a look like you were vermin.

You never quite understood where her disdain for you came from. She was your favourite superhero, yet she treated you like dirt under her shoe. She wasn’t gentle when making her comments, either.

Sometimes, when you were drawing, she’d make a comment about how you were far too old for such things, and while you were watching a cartoon she’d scoff like you were insane.

It was a literal cartoon, not the end of the world.

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring her antics over the past year, but you couldn’t deny that they still stung. Why did she despise you breathing so much?

At the moment, Natasha was caught up in writing her mission report while you were curled up on the couch, which doubled as the bench for the table and the bed you would be sleeping in.

Tony was fucking loaded. Why the hell was this safehouse a literal trailer?

You were reading Rainbow Magic; Ruby, the Red Fairy. Occasionally, you’d glance up from your book, and you’d catch a glimpse of Natasha’s disapproving stare before she’d continue working.

Okay, fine, maybe bringing the Rainbow Magic series wasn’t the most strategic plan with such a fairytale hater, but who could blame you? Those fairy books were actually very enjoyable.

You ignored Natasha’s judgement, finishing your book before you got up, walking to the small cupboard and pulling open the doors.

Expecting for some form of entertainment in this trailer was clearly too much to ask.

The cupboard didn’t hold much, safe for a few spiders and a bucket of cleaning supplies that looked to be at least two-hundred years past their expiration date.

And then, at the far top shelf, you could see a chessboard peeking out amongst the shelves.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to reach it, but you got it.

By now, Natasha had finished her mission report and was studying your every move. Of course, you caught up to her staring almost immediately, and you turned to face her while holding up the chess board.

“Do you play?”

Natasha frowned, before sighing and giving you a singular nod. Well, more excitement was clearly too much to ask.

Natasha leaned forward, clearing the table of her papers and reaching for your book. She half expected her to just throw it on top of your bag in the corner, and you were more than surprised when she picked it up gently and handled it with much more care than you thought her to be capable of.

When the table was cleared, you put the chess board down, handing Natasha the box that the white pieces were stuffed in.

“I’m always black,” Natasha said while frowning at the colour of the pieces in the box.

“Sure.” You passed the box with the black pieces to Natasha while arranging the white pieces on your own playing field.

Once all the pieces were put in place, Natasha made the first move, to which you immediately responded by putting her piece back in its place.

“White starts,” you mention as you make your own move.

Natasha huffs but doesn’t protest, instead moving her own pieces to defend against your attack.

The game continued far into the night, and after playing for nearly three hours, you finally made your last move, trapping Natasha in a check-mate.

“I let you do that,” Natasha says before rearranging her own pieces.

“Sure you did,” you respond before placing your own pieces back on the board.

“Don’t you have to go to bed? It’s far past your bedtime,” Natasha asks, glancing at the clock on the whole.

“I don’t have a bedtime,” you remark, making your move with the chess piece.

“You act like a child, yet you don’t go to bed on time?”

To your surprise, you didn’t hear any judgement in Natasha’s tone. Just pure confusion. A genuine question not meant to insult you. You didn’t expect that.

You look up at her, frowning before shrugging.

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares,” you say, counteracting Natasha’s move by blocking her piece. “And even if I wanted to, we’re sitting on my bed.”

As if the evening wasn’t surprising enough, Natasha lets out a huff of amusement.

“We can share the big bed. It’ll help with the nightmares,” she suggests.

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the game in the hopes of preventing awkward eye contact.

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno know. Another presence helps with preventing nightmares or something. There’s a study on it.”

“No, I mean why are you so nice? Why offer to share your bed with me when you normally can’t even stand to share the same room?”

At that, Natasha looks up, a hint of guilt mixed into her usual calm facial expression.

“It’s not personal,” she says, moving her chess piece.

“Then what is it? You’ve barely shared one conversation with me since I joined a year ago.”

“You’re a child,” Natasha suddenly says after a moment of silence. There’s venom in her voice, yet you can feel it isn’t directed at you.

“You should be able to play with your dolls without having to feel the need to hide, and you should be able to go to school and make friends and stupid decisions. You shouldn’t live in a compound with superheroes and fight super villains weekly. You are a child, and you should be able to be one.”

You fall silent for a moment, shocked at her revelation of knowing about your dolls, and shocked at the amount of emotion hidden under her confession.

“You don’t hate me?”

Natasha’s head shoots up, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Hate you? What ever gave you the impression that I hate you?”

You shook your head. “You avoid me, you scoff wherever I’m drawing or watching something in the common room. It feels like you judge me, daily.”

At that, Natasha’s facial expression softens, and her expression turns glum.

“I never meant for you to feel like you were in the wrong, and I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t judging you, I was judging the situation you’re in.” Natasha inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to the chess board and making another move.

“Fury gave you a choice. Either prison, or joining the Avengers. You never even did anything wrong. You were just a child, graced with powers that no one understood and everyone feared. You didn’t deserve prison, and you didn’t deserve the threat of prison. You deserved a family.”

You sighed.

“And in a way, I got a family. The Avengers are nice-”

“They’re not your family, they’re your team. There’s a difference. Sure, they care about you, but if they were your family, they’d want you to live a life, rather than become a superhero.”

Natasha fell silent, and at her words, so did you.

Was she right? If the Avengers were your family, would they want you to live a normal, domestic life somewhere else, rather than the superhero life you were living right now?

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like I hate my life. Just the paperwork,” you remark, moving your queen to once again trap Natasha in a check-mate.

“I want to work something out, if you’ll let me,” Natasha then said, pouting when you took her king.

“Like what?” you ask.

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Something that’ll put you off missions, at least until you’re twenty-one or something. Maybe older. Something legal. I mean, you’re not even allowed to drink in the United States. Why the hell are you allowed, or better said, forced, to risk your life daily?”

At that, you snort.

“You make a good point.”

“We’ll figure something out, I promise,” Natasha states, helping you clear the chessboard and standing up from the bench.

“Now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s a bakery or something in this god forsaken place.”

You snicker, taking Natasha’s hand and allowing her to lead you. Maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you thought she did.

Bonus a/n: rainbow magic; Ruby the Red Fairy is the first ever book I read in English.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

#black widow #marvel #mcu #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #avengers #marvel reader insert #reader insert #natasha romanov #avengers x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x you #young avengers #x reader #marvel cinematic universe

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moonselune · 2 days ago

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I've been playing alot of harvest moon/stardew recently and was wondering how the companions would react to a tav or durge prefering to settle down for the farming life post game. I know Shadowheart would love it anyway but Astarion would be the type to groan about the summer heat at times.

Btw love your work ❤️

Awh thank you! I freaking love stardew valley, I actually got to the point where I would see things in real life and be like oh i need that for my bundle...

Minthara:

Minthara had agreed to come with you back to your little patch of dirt. That was the first miracle.

She stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the rows of squash you'd lovingly planted weeks ago. Her elegant armor had been swapped—begrudgingly—for leather trousers and a dark green blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She claimed she only wore it because it “blended well with the shadows.”

In reality, she looked dangerously attractive, and you told her so often enough that it stopped earning you eye rolls.

“I still don’t see the appeal,” she muttered one morning, kneeling beside you in the loamy soil as you both weeded a row of carrots. “Endless dirt. Scratching at the ground like a deep gnome grub. You truly believe this is more fulfilling than conquering the Underdark?”

You grinned, pushing your hair back and letting the sun warm your face. “The carrots don’t scream when I pull them out of the ground.”

Minthara snorted—an actual laugh, short and sharp. She caught herself, frowning like she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

“I could grow mushrooms,” she said after a pause. “Real mushrooms. Not these surface-dwelling imitations.”

You perked up. “You want to farm?”

“I do not want to farm,” she snapped, yanking a weed a little too aggressively. “I simply think someone must bring standards to this pitiful excuse for agriculture.”

That night, you caught her carefully organizing mushroom spores in neat rows in the shaded part of the garden, whispering Drow words of encouragement under her breath.

And every evening, she helped you without complaint. She said it was only because you were “hopeless on your own,” but there was a softness in her touch when she handed you tools, when she brushed dirt from your face. Once, she found a fat, horned beetle in the lettuce patch and spent nearly an hour observing it before letting it crawl onto her hand and releasing it at the edge of the forest.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured that night, curled beside you on the porch. The stars glittered above like Underdark crystal formations, distant and sharp.

“You already have,” you whispered back.

She didn’t argue.

Karlach:

Karlach loved it from the very first moment she stepped onto the farm.

“This place is sick!” she bellowed, boots thudding across the dirt as she chased one of the goats around the field. “Look at this little beastie—oh, she’s got attitude! Just like me!”

You could barely keep up with her enthusiasm.

Where you had slowly learned the rhythm of the fields, Karlach plunged headfirst into it—planting, harvesting, repairing fences with her bare hands. She named every single animal and gave them nicknames too. Your prize ram? “Sir Headbutt.” The hen with the limp? “Motherclucker”

You’d wake some mornings to find her sitting in the barn, curled up with your herd of goats, one snoring against her shoulder as she scratched behind its ears.

You stood in the doorway, arms folded. “I’m starting to think you love the goats more than me.”

Karlach looked up, grinning that wild, warm grin. “Babe. You don’t chew cud and you hog the blankets. These little sweeties are pure, no complaints.”

You made a show of gasping in betrayal, and she laughed so hard she nearly toppled into the hay.

She was clumsy with gardening, planting seeds so deep they never saw the light of day, but she didn’t care.

“I’m all about the brawn of the operation, baby!” she said, hoisting a broken fence post like a weapon of war. “You’re the one with the gentle hands. You’re the heart. I’m just the muscle.”

You couldn’t count how many times you found her fixing things, adding improvements. She built a rainwater system for the fields, oiled the hinges of every barn door, and even made a small, hand-carved sign with all the names of the animals.

She hung it crooked on purpose.

And on summer days, when the sun burned and the sweat clung to your back, she'd scoop water straight from the well and splash it over both of you, laughing as you sputtered.

“You look good with dirt on your nose,” she’d say, brushing it off with her calloused thumb.

And you’d smile, because she was the kind of fire that didn’t burn—it warmed. And here, among the goats and gardens and peace, her flame could finally just... flicker, without fear.

Lae'zel:

No one had expected Lae’zel to take well to the slow life of a farm. She had always been all sharp angles, roaring fire, and a blade ready at a moment’s notice. But then again—no one had expected her to stay, either. And she did. With you.

What none of you accounted for was how seriously she’d take the training of the livestock.

"These creatures lack discipline!" she declared one morning, standing in the field, arms crossed and unimpressed as a trio of goats casually ignored her barking orders and continued to gnaw on the same patch of fence they’d been told—repeatedly—not to chew.

She turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Do they understand Common?”

"They understand,” you said, trying not to laugh as a particularly rebellious chicken pecked at her boot. “They just don’t care.”

You would have offered to help, but you were too busy melting at the sight of Xan, the tiny Githyanki infant wrapped securely to her chest in a sling you had made together. Lae’zel had first insisted that she didn’t need it—that she could carry her hatchling in her arms at all times like a proper warrior—but even she couldn’t argue with the convenience of two free hands. Especially for chicken combat.

You’d find her some mornings standing in the pasture, her face serious as she recited commands to the goats and hens like they were soldiers on a battlefield. "Form ranks! Maintain spacing! No, Clucker, no! That is not your perch—”

And all the while, little Xan would nap contentedly against her, a bundle of soft green skin and big yellow eyes, utterly unmoved by the chaos of the yard. Occasionally he’d gurgle and tug at her leathers with one hand. Every time you saw the two of them, your heart swelled nearly to bursting.

You leaned against the fence one afternoon, watching as a pig stubbornly refused to move out of Lae'zel's designated “training circle.”

“You know,” you said, grinning as she glared at it with more intensity than she had ever shown a goblin, “maybe farming isn’t about commanding obedience.”

“It should be,” she replied sharply. “They would be more efficient.”

Still, you saw her lips twitch when a goat headbutted her in protest. And she didn’t stop them from clambering all over her later when you both sat in the grass and let Xan play in the sun.

Shadowheart:

The house was small, sun-dappled, and always smelled like hay and something baking. Scratch lay sprawled across the front steps most days, belly-up, completely spoiled. The owlbear—too big for the barn, too curious to be penned—had taken to nesting in the orchard, gently knocking apples from the trees like it was performing some kind of divine rite.

Shadowheart had fallen in love with it all faster than even she expected.

You found her in the mornings tending to the goats with a quiet, practiced grace, her long hair tied up messily, a smear of dirt across one cheek that she never noticed. Her cleric’s robes had been replaced with linen tunics and earth-toned skirts—though her armor still hung by the door, just in case.

“What happened to the chicken pen?” you asked once, only to be met with a long sigh and her pointing silently toward Scratch—muddy, feather-covered, and absolutely unrepentant.

You were never alone. Not really. The animals had adopted you both. Scratch followed you everywhere. The owlbear guarded the house like it was the holiest temple. You even had a few stray cats that Shadowheart swore she didn’t feed, but you caught her slipping them treats more often than not.

Still, there was one part of the land she hadn’t explored yet—because you were keeping it a secret.

You worked on it in the evenings, tucked away behind the western slope of the hill. A dozen rows of posts were driven deep into the soil, with the first few vines already climbing, green tendrils reaching for the sky. You’d been studying grape varieties, borrowing books from Gale, and mapping sun paths like your life depended on it.

And finally, one golden evening, you took her hand and said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She followed without question, her fingers warm in yours, and when you rounded the hill, her breath caught.

“You—” she started. “You planted a vineyard?”

“For us,” you said simply. “I know you love wine. I thought… one day, you could make your own.”

She stared in stunned silence, eyes glossy in the light.

“This is…” Her voice trembled, and she smiled so wide you saw the dimples that only showed when she was truly, deeply happy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” She launched herself at you, arms thrown around your neck, kissing you with such fervor that you stumbled backward into the half-dug earth. “You sappy, wonderful thing. I don’t deserve you.”

“You absolutely do,” you whispered, burying your face in her hair.

And from the other side of the hill, the owlbear let out a low hoot of approval—promptly followed by Scratch barking and barreling toward the two of you like a freight train.

“You know,” Shadowheart said as you braced for impact, “we might have too many animals.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jaheira:

Jaheira had said no at first.

She’d crossed her arms, brow furrowed in that eternally war-hardened way, and declared she was not the “settling down type.” A Harper, a druid, a warrior—too much duty still ran in her blood, and she wasn’t one to lie to herself.

And yet, you often found her on the porch in the morning, sleeves rolled up, tending to the basil or trimming back the ivy that tried to swallow the trellis. Her hands were calloused, steady, already shaped by years of coaxing life from the soil—and the moment she touched the earth here, she remembered. Not war. Not rebellion.

Peace.

She fit into the rhythm of the farm as if she’d always belonged. Milking the goats, harvesting herbs, reorganizing the tool shed within an inch of its life.

“A sharpened blade is less likely to betray you than a dull one,” she’d say when she caught you leaving shears in the dirt. You tried—gently—to get her to stop sometimes.

“Jaheira,” you’d say, handing her a mug of tea in the shade, “you’re supposed to relax. Remember that? The whole ‘breathing’ thing?”

She’d huff, but her smile would betray her.

“I’ll rest when the tomatoes stop growing unevenly,” she’d mutter, before adding with quiet fondness, “Besides… this is good work. Healing work.”

And the best days—the very best days—were when her children visited.

The younger ones would come tumbling down the trail with satchels and stories, running up to greet their mother, who stood like a pillar of strength at the garden gate. The number of times Jaheira had to pry Fig from a scarecrow as she was practising her 'wrestling moves' was one too many. You’d watch her soften visibly, smile lines crinkling, arms open as they piled into her.

They helped with the animals, with mixed results. One of them always ended up covered in chicken feathers, another face-first in a flowerbed, and Jaheira would roll her eyes while secretly delighting in every second of it.

It was domestic. Soft. Loud and messy and full of warmth.

Every now and then, you’d catch her staring out over the fields as the sun set, a quiet melancholy in her eyes. You knew she felt the pull of Harper duty—that someday, she’d have to return to that life. But she never pulled away from this one.

And you never stopped reminding her: “This moment is yours. Don’t let it slip away.”

Gale:

Gale loved farm life. Maybe a bit too much.

He delighted in every step of the process—from sowing seeds to baking fresh bread in the stone oven. He was the first to rise (with magically summoned coffee, of course), and the last to go to bed, always muttering about “optimal composting cycles” and “rotational planting enchantments.”

You never had to worry about the crops failing. Not when Gale enchanted the soil to stay perfectly moist and fertile. Not when your scarecrow occasionally waved to you and politely asked for new clothes.

And that might’ve been fine.

Until he started taking the produce to Blackstaff Academy.

"Look at this carrot!" he’d proclaim with the glee of a proud parent, holding up a perfectly orange, absolutely normal vegetable.

Then he’d bring it back.

And it would be the size of a horse’s leg, glowing faintly, humming with a magical pulse, and—for reasons unknown—smelling like cinnamon.

"Gale!" you’d exclaim. "It’s a carrot. It does not need to be arcane-tuned!"

“But imagine the nutritional value!” he’d insist, delighted. “It now increases constitution by two points for an hour! Also, I added a small glamour charm—look, it sparkles in the moonlight!”

You buried your face in your hands. “It was for stew. Now it looks like it is for a health potion with a beard.”

The tomatoes came back one week with eyes and a faint sense of existential dread. The potatoes exploded on contact with fire. A single cucumber once tried to recite Elminister.

You instituted a new rule: No magical alterations unless specifically requested.

Gale apologized with his signature dramatic charm, bowing deeply and presenting you with a bouquet of roses (grown in your garden, made of light, that sang quietly when touched). You forgave him. Eventually.

You did catch him sneaking a pumpkin to his satchel the next week. You pretended not to see it.

After all, the man who once swallowed a Netherese orb deserved a little whimsy.

But gods help him if your wine starts talking.

Astarion:

The summer sun blazed above your little stretch of farmland, turning the sky into a wide, cloudless expanse of light and heat. Cicadas sang from the trees. The golden fields shimmered. You were sweating through your shirt, but you'd gotten used to it by now. Not everyone had, though.

“I am wilting,” Astarion declared from the shade of a fig tree, fanning himself with a piece of parchment and looking like the most glamorous corpse in Faerûn.

You were knee-deep in the garden bed, dirt up to your elbows, pulling weeds with the satisfied sort of grunt that only came from knowing your tomatoes were going to thrill the next farmer’s market.

“You know, you are wearing a magical ring that lets you walk in the sun,” you reminded him, not even glancing back.

“Yes, and I am grateful,” he said in a tone that was both long-suffering and exasperated. “But that doesn’t mean I must enjoy it. Honestly, do farms not understand the concept of ‘shade’? Or a cool breeze? Or a bloody parasol?”

You chuckled and wiped sweat from your brow. “I can take the ring back, you know. Could always go back to lurking in crypts and brooding in velvet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “How dare you.”

You turned just in time to see him stalk toward you, predator grace still intact despite his muttering.

“That was a threat, wasn’t it?” he said, tone mock-scandalized. “You’d condemn me to a shadowed existence just to win this argument?”

Before you could get a word out, Astarion planted both hands on your chest and shoved. You stumbled backward with a yelp, landing with a mighty splash in the nearby pond, water closing over your head with a slap. When you surfaced, spitting water and pushing your hair out of your face, he was at the edge of the pond, arms folded, grinning.

“Next time you threaten to take away my precious accessories,” he said smugly, “perhaps you’ll remember who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, swimming toward him with a grin of your own. “I also remember that you’re a terrible swimmer.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you—!”

You grabbed his ankle and yanked. Astarion screeched like an offended seagull as he tumbled in after you, limbs flailing in the most elegant way a vampire can flail. The water swallowed him with a splash, and when he resurfaced, gasping, you were already laughing.

“Well,” you said, treading water beside him. “You’re cool now.”

His curls were plastered to his forehead, pale skin gleaming with pond water, clothes clinging in all the right places.

“I loathe you,” he hissed, completely unconvincing as he waded toward you.

“You love me,” you replied, and when he tried to dunk you under, you laughed even harder. He did try to drown you (with affection), and the pond echoed with splashes and laughter long into the afternoon.

Wyll:

Wyll loved the farm. Really, truly loved it. He dove into farm life with the same unshakable optimism he brought to battle: sleeves rolled up, a bright smile on his face, and an absolutely terrible sense of crop rotation.

“Look!” he said, beaming, holding up a vaguely wilted carrot. “That’s my fifth one! It only took me six tries!”

The carrot was... lopsided. And slightly blue.

You peered at it. “Wyll... did you plant it next to Gale’s ‘experimental vegetables’ again?”

He gave you a sheepish grin. “Maybe?”

Despite his noble upbringing, Wyll took to labor like it was second nature. He loved feeding the chickens (even if they pecked at his boots), singing as he milked the goats (who responded by trying to eat his shirt), and tending the soil (even if he constantly mixed up which plants needed full sun or partial shade).

But he tried. Gods, did he try.

He’d wake up before sunrise to help gather eggs and bring you wildflowers with muddy fingers and a bashful smile. He gave names to every single pumpkin, saluted the cows like old comrades, and taught the pigs how to sit. (One of them sort of learned. You suspected it was coincidence.)

The vegetables he harvested often ended up a little too bruised, or crooked, or tiny—but he presented them with the proud air of someone who had just defeated a demon lord.

“This one’s for you,” he’d say, placing a funny little beet in your hand like it was a diamond.

And honestly? It was perfect. Because Wyll’s joy was infectious. His laughter echoed over the fields. His presence made every sunrise feel warmer, every day brighter. Even if his corn always grew sideways.

“I might not be the best farmer,” he’d admit, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’m exactly where I want to be.”

And when you kissed him, fingers brushing dirt from his cheek, you couldn’t help but agree.

Halsin:

If anyone was born to thrive on a farm, it was Halsin.

Where others groaned about early mornings and sore backs, Halsin greeted the day with that warm, deep voice and a calm certainty that made the roosters crow more enthusiastically. Shirtless more often than not, with the morning light catching on his golden skin and broad shoulders, he looked like a god of the harvest incarnate—muscles flexing as he hefted hay bales like they were pillows.

You tried not to gawk every time he wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his tunic.

(You failed often.)

“I thought you were a druid,” you teased one day, leaning on a fencepost, watching him load the cart with fresh hay. “Shouldn’t you be turning into a bear and napping under trees or something?”

Halsin smiled, the kind of smile that settled in your bones like warmth. “Being one with nature doesn’t mean shying away from hard work. Besides, the goats get nervous when I shift. And they like it when I talk to them.”

He said this while gently stroking the head of a particularly moody billy goat, who stared up at him like he hung the moon.

You raised a brow. “Are you telling them secrets?”

“I’m telling them not to eat your herb garden,” he said. “Again.”

It wasn’t just his strength or his ease with the animals—it was the way Halsin belonged here. The land responded to him. Trees leaned in closer. The soil felt richer. Even the bees seemed to hover around him longer than they should’ve. And when the chores were done and you sat together beneath the old oak with your hands dirty and your hearts full, it felt like everything was in balance.

He never rushed you, never questioned your need for this life. He only helped shape it into something stronger, steadier. More alive.

And when he pressed a kiss to your temple after a long day, murmuring about stew for dinner and the chickens needing checking, and building some new play equipment for the goats -and the orphans, you couldn't help but smile.

Because your druid? He wasn’t just a bear in the forest. He was the heart of this little farm.

OMG how freaking wholesome was this, I did it more as a drabble style as I kinda had rambling thoughts about this, but I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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