#trying out a new rose design too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jeondesu · 2 months ago

Text

ೀ⋆ SKZ + PRINCESS TREATMENT !

── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ rich bf!skz x gf!reader ˒˓ established relationship 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. fluff, kissing, minor profanity, mentions of alcohol, jealousy/possessiveness, skinship, petnames, the boys are soo whipped for you, slightly suggestive but nothing explicit 𝔀ords. 2.6k

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — so.. i’ve had this in my drafts since forever ago and i just decided why not post it lol, i wrote most of this like months ago but i did try and edit some stuff so hopefully this ain’t too bad !

방찬/BANG CHAN — “ eyes full of desire, a soul full of fire ”

Chan doesn’t just spoil you— he worships you.

You’re the jewel of his empire, the one person he always makes time for, no matter the chaos surrounding him. When he’s not finalizing contracts in glass-walled boardrooms or flying across continents for meetings, he’s home— on his knees, lacing up your strappy stilettos with fingers that tremble slightly from desire and reverence.

His touch is careful, almost ceremonial, like he’s handling something sacred.

“Damn, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your ankle bone. “You’re gonna be the reason I lose my mind tonight.”

He buys you dresses in silk and velvet, personally approves every outfit sent by your stylist, and only wants you in heels that make you stand taller— closer to his lips when he pulls you in for a kiss.

At parties, you’re not just a date. You’re the moment. Every man in the room glances your way, but none of them matter— not when his hand stays on the small of your back, his arm slung over the booth with a dangerous smirk. “Eyes off,” he warns anyone too bold, “she’s mine.”

After too many glasses of Dom Pérignon, your heels dangle from your fingers and you’re barefoot in the back of a Rolls-Royce. He cradles your feet in his lap like they’re precious, rubbing gentle circles into your arches.

Later, in the bathroom of his penthouse, he removes your jewelry piece by piece. Each kiss that follows tastes like champagne and sin.

“Every man in that room wanted you,” he rasps against your collarbone. “But they’ll never touch you. You’re my queen. My only one.”

리노/LEE KNOW — “ he’s got a diamond mind. cold and hard, and brilliant ”

Minho is as sharp as the rings he wears— cold platinum, perfectly polished. To the world, he’s a calculated tycoon in black-on-black suits, the man who never cracks, never falters. But with you?

He melts.

You’re the only one who sees the cracks in the diamond. The softness buried deep beneath the cold precision. And he spoils you— subtly, intentionally, and always on his terms.

He doesn’t send you roses. He sends your favorite rare orchids, personally grown in his rooftop garden. Doesn’t give you a black card— he hands you a new Amex encased in velvet with a lazy, “Here. Don’t hold back.”

You’re perched on the marble countertop one morning, oversized button-down barely hanging on, as Minho fastens the dainty clasp of a new necklace around your throat— rose gold, with a sapphire he hand-picked to match your eyes.

And then comes that signature move: neck kisses.

“You wear my shirt better than I do,” he hums, mouth grazing your skin. “But next time… leave something on underneath. Or we’re not getting out of this house.”

Despite the stoic front he wears in public, Minho makes time for soft things. Coffee dates with just the two of you in private rooftops. Moonlit car rides where his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your thigh as he drives with one hand on the wheel.

But jealousy, oh, it turns him into something else.

One night, at a high-profile fashion event, a designer flirts a bit too comfortably with you. Compliments your neckline. Suggests a private shoot.

Minho’s jaw ticks.

He’s subtle— always— but you feel the way his grip on your waist tightens, the faint curl of his lip when he leans in and presses a possessive kiss just under your ear, hands splayed over your exposed back.

“Do you want him to lose his contract?” He murmurs against your skin, low and sweet like honey over broken glass.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Relax, Min. You’re the only one I want.”

“I know.” He pulls you even closer, “but I hate when other people forget.”

And that’s the thing: to Minho, you’re not just his girl— you’re his weakness in a world where he allows none. He’ll slice through empires for you. And if someone touches what’s his?

He makes sure they regret it.

창빈/CHANGBIN — “ he’s like a song she can’t get out of her head ”

Changbin doesn’t date you. He composes you— in verses, in rhythms, in the way he memorizes your laugh and turns it into art.

You’re everywhere in his life. His phone wallpaper, the reason he wears color now, the girl who turned his penthouse into a second home instead of a museum of expensive furniture. And he doesn’t just want to impress you— he wants to drown you in the knowledge that you are it for him.

He flies you out to a private beach house on a whim— “You looked tired. I wanted you to breathe somewhere pretty.”

You’re barefoot, wine-drunk, and giggling under fairy lights when he plays you a new track on his portable speakers. It’s all soft bass and yearning piano.

You recognize the lyrics.

It’s you.

Your voice.

Your phrases.

Your name, laced with adoration and something so achingly desperate it makes your chest burn.

He pulls you to him, lets the wine and music blur the night. “You’re stuck in my head,” he breathes, lips ghosting yours. “I can’t write a damn thing without you bleeding into it.”

Changbin isn’t flashy, but he’s relentless. You mention liking a certain perfume? It’s already sitting on your nightstand in every size. You love vintage vinyls? He’ll bid half a million at an auction to get you the rarest edition.

He treats your smile like it’s the hook of his best chorus— repeating it, obsessing over it, addicted to the feeling it brings.

And when he kisses you? It’s never just a kiss. It’s a confession. A climax. A plea to never let him go.

현진/HYUNJIN — “ for she is his poet, and he is her poetry ”

Hyunjin lives like he’s stepped out of a sonnet— and loving you is the most extravagant poem he’s ever written.

You’re his muse, obsession, and masterpiece all at once. And he shows it in the grandest ways: silk sheets painted with roses, handwritten letters sealed in wax, moonlit portraits of you sprawled across his studio in nothing but his shirt and an entire chandelier’s worth of candlelight.

When he sends you flowers, they’re never basic bouquets.

They arrive in curated color palettes.

Blush, cream, and wine-red for love.

Lavender for the days you feel low.

Once, he sent 100 white roses— each with a note tucked into the petals:

‘For every time I thought of you today.’

His kisses are soft— reverent.

He doesn’t kiss like a man in a rush. He kisses like he’s studying art with his mouth. Like he wants to taste every emotion that made your heart beat that day.

And when you read to him— bare legs over his lap, glasses slipping down your nose— he looks at you like the heroine of a tragic romance film.

“Read slower,” he spoke softly, voice thick. “I wanna remember the sound of your voice for the rest of my life.”

On nights when the world gets too loud, he takes you to his gallery—one he privately owns, hidden in the hills. There, in a room filled only with paintings of you, he pours you wine and tells you about the constellations in your eyes.

Sometimes the moment turns heated— almost desperate. Passion rising like a crescendo as you press him against the canvas, smudging paint between fevered touches.

“You’re art,” he whispers into your skin. “Every inch of you.”

한/HAN — “ my entire sky craves your only star ”

Jisung’s love is loud, messy, and utterly devoted. He acts like you invented the concept of romance— like you crash-landed into his world and rewired the stars just by smiling at him.

He’s the type to fly you across the globe because “the moon looks better in Florence, babe. Come see it with me.” The type to sneak up behind you mid-morning and tuck his face into the crevice of your neck like you’re home, like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t touch you every 10 minutes.

You are, quite literally, the only girl in his world— and he makes sure you know it.

His penthouse is littered with photos of you: polaroids from date nights, selfies you didn’t know he took, your face mid-laugh framed in gold on his nightstand. When his producer teases him about being “whipped,” he just grins and shrugs.

“She’s my star. My oxygen. You want me to breathe without her?”

He keeps you close in every way possible. His lyrics? About you. His passwords? Your name. His favorite hoodie? Now smells like your perfume.

But Han’s love language? Affection. All. The. Damn. Time.

Kisses when you wake up, featherlight and lingering, paired with sleep-drenched words like:

“Still dreaming about you.”

Kisses at parties, where he grabs your face in both hands and kisses you like you’re the only reason the lights are still on.

And kisses when he’s drunk— messy, dramatic, whiny kisses where he keeps telling you how hot and smart and amazing you are, face buried in your chest.

He’s never been good at subtlety.

He buys you matching jewelry— because, “If I get hit by a bus, I want paramedics to know you’re my soulmate.”

He keeps your favorite snacks in every car he owns.

And once, during a red carpet interview, he straight up walked off mid-question to bring you your forgotten lipstick because, “she can’t go without her lucky shade, are you insane??”

필릭스/FELIX — “ he smiled, and his face was like the sun ”

Felix is your personal sun— bright, constant, and utterly devoted to orbiting you.

He doesn’t just love you. He cherishes you. In his world of tailored suits, gold cufflinks, and first-class flights, you are the one thing that keeps him grounded. While his wealth might buy him anything, you are the one thing he never stops feeling lucky to have.

And he never lets you forget it.

Showering you with endless compliments (and gifts) was standard for him, he just couldn’t help himself— not a single minute went by where he didn’t think you were the most angelic little being to have ever graced this earth.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed while you’re getting ready for a gala, his eyes following every move intently, like a painter observing his subject. With his chin resting in his palm, gaze warm and unblinking, he proceeds to utter, “You’re so beautiful,” for the fifty-fifth time that night. “I doubt I’ll ever move on from it.”

He holds your shoes as you slip into your dress. Carries your clutch. Stands behind you at the mirror, fixing the necklace he bought you—a delicate chain with a charm shaped like the sun. “So everyone knows who you belong to,” he says with a wink, even though his eyes go warm with something much deeper.

And when you’re tired? He runs you a bath filled with rose petals, lights candles everywhere, and sits beside the tub just to massage your feet and tell you stories about his childhood in Australia.

His kisses are soft and lazy— like summer afternoons under silk sheets. The kind that makes your skin grow hot even after he pulls away. He holds your face in both hands like you’re made of crystal, brushing his lips over yours like he’s asking permission each time, even after years of being yours.

Felix doesn’t get jealous. He gets possessive in the gentlest way.

You catch a waiter lingering too long with your wine at a rooftop event, and he slips beside you like clockwork, arm wrapped firmly around your waist, lips brushing your temple.

“You doing okay, baby?” He whispers, voice light, but his eyes never leave the waiter’s.

Afterward, he doesn’t bring it up— just holds you a little tighter and tucks your hair behind your ear like a silent reminder: mine.

승민/SEUNGMIN — “ passionate and glowing, burningly real ”

Seungmin’s love doesn’t scream. It simmers. Beneath the rolled eyes and sarcastic quips is a man who burns for you— constantly, intensely, and without apology.

To the outside world, he’s calm, dry-humored, a little aloof— the heir to a clean-cut dynasty with a jawline that’s made headlines. But with you?

He’s yours. Only yours.

He shows up at your apartment with your favorite takeout and a scowl because “the chef was taking too long, so I made them re-do it with less salt. You’re welcome.”

But it’s the little things— the deliberate things— that give him away.

Like how he memorizes your coffee order down to the temperature. How he always opens your car door, even while pretending to grumble about it. How he lets you steal his hoodies and pretends not to notice, but secretly buys more just so you never run out.

At night, when his walls fall, his passion flares like firelight.

You’re wrapped in sheets, faces inches apart, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone. His voice lowers, serious and breathy.

“I don’t care about anything else. Not the company, not the press. Just you. Just this.”

And then he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will disappear. Slow. Intense. Real.

He’s not touchy in public— but his eyes never leave you. If someone flirts with you at a fundraiser? He won’t make a scene. He’ll wait—cool and quiet— and when you’re alone in the car afterward, he’ll say, “Didn’t know I had to mark my territory so obviously.”

You’ll tease him.

“Were you jealous, Kim Seungmin?”

He just smirks, pulling you into his lap.

“I don’t share.”

And that’s the truth of it: he treats you like his world, because in a life that feels built on glass, you’re the only thing that feels solid.

아이엔/JEONGIN — “ you’re a love that i’d cross oceans for ”

To everyone else, Jeongin is the golden boy. Rich. Well-mannered. The face of his family’s empire with a smile that could charm billionaires. But to you?

He’s soft. Boyish. Yours in the most tender, achingly steadfast way possible— as if loving you is the only thing he’s ever known how to do.

It’s all or nothing when it comes to Jeongin. He doesn’t know how to be half-hearted. He brings you breakfast in bed— every Sunday, even if he’s jet-lagged. Keeps extra hoodies in his car just in case you get cold. Carries your lipstick in his pocket like it’s sacred.

He spoils you with the quietest kind of luxury. Not just designer bags or black cards, but experiences no one else could give you— like a private boat ride at golden hour where he kisses your shoulders under the sun and whispers,

“I’d sail across the world if it meant I got to come home to you.”

He kisses like he means it— sweet, slow, and then suddenly desperate, like he’s just remembered you’re real and he’s terrified he might lose you.

His favorite thing is watching you sleep in his shirts, sprawled across his massive bed while the morning light catches on your skin. He’ll sit at the edge, brushing hair from your face, cheeks flushed.

“You look too good,” he whispers. “It’s unfair how much I love you.”

But sweet Jeongin has a possessive streak— one he hides under soft eyes and polite smiles.

At a friend’s yacht party, someone calls you “gorgeous” a little too casually. Jeongin doesn’t say anything at first— just wraps an arm around you, kisses the top of your head. However, you can sense the tightness in his hold and the smile that stops short of his eyes.

He draws you in later on the balcony.

“I don’t like people talking to you like that.”

You laugh gently, “He was just being nice.”

He leans in, lips brushing your throat, voice low.

“Don’t care. You’re mine.”

And then he kisses you like he’s trying to erase any memory of someone else touching your air.

He’s soft, but he’s also the kind of man who’d fight the ocean for you— and win.

perm taglist: @justwonder113 @emilyywhyy @leeknowslefteyebrow @min-doesnt-know @velechi @kayleefriedchicken @jeonginsbaee @thelittletobsterthatcould @queenofdumbfuckery @met30rc1ty @mouthfullobats @geni-627 @amarecerasus @emma-your-goofy-girlfie @n4tr3ad5 | if you wanna be tagged in any of my future posts fill out this form here. ♡

3K notes · View notes

screampied · 1 year ago

Text

❛ BON APPÉTIT, BABY! ❜ g. satoru

☆ sum. stupid ovulation week is approaching soon and out of nowhere, you get baby fever. you ask your sugar daddy for help but his version of ‘help’ is trying to get you pregnant.

wc. 5.1k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy!gojo au, age gap (early twenties/early thirties), praise, dirty talk, mentions of pregnancy, implied multiple rounds, size kink, ōral (f! receiving), he makes out w your panties, overstim, major brēeding kink, nıpple play, spıt, impact play, petnames.

➤ sd! gojo masterlist.

fuck, these cramps never knew when to quit.

you were crawled up in a ball on the sofa, suffering in agonizing silence. you sigh, taking a brisk glance near the grandfather clock that sits beside satoru gojo, your sugar daddy’s glass cabinets. oh, you missed him. it’s been a few good months with him as his sugar baby and you felt like a princess—no, a queen. he’s showered you with many many praises, not just gifts but of course, that too. you’re so lonely in his mansion, but you wondered what he was doing right now. probably working, you knew how busy of a businessman he was, but you missed him. his smell, his presence, his petnames. whipping out your phone, you unlock it, skimming toward his contact. ‘toru’ with a pretty pink heart as his contact, you text him a sweet forward ‘miss you.’

not even seconds later, he replies, giving your message a heart. ‘Hi, sweetheart. i miss you too. being a good girl for me, yeah?’

with a pout, your eyes skim through his flirty words and you press the video call button. you couldn’t wait. . you needed to see him. satoru answers it, and as expected, he’s sat upright in his office. so handsome, his snowy white hair was ruffled yet neatly slicked back and parted. he wore the suit you picked out for him, the jet-black one with a tie that makes his pretty blue eyes pop. “hey you,” a raspy voice utters on the phone, and he’s snickering at how you’re just lazily slump on the couch, bored out of your damn skull. “put some clothes on, darlin’.”

“no,” you grump, although you did have clothes on. clothes that basically consisted of a thin sage tank top and panties. satoru was typing on his computer. you heard the quickness of his fingers typing away as he’s taking every few glances to look at you again. “come home, ‘toru. these cramps are killin’ me,” and you mumble the last part under your breath. “. . andiwantababy.”

it’s a long silent pause and he’s fully looking at you through the screen now. all that could be heard in the background was the screeching and beeps of his costly fax machine.

satoru’s got a glint in his eyes before his voice pitches, and he slyly hums. “oh, you want a baby, sweets? my, you really do need me ‘ta come home, huh.”

you squeeze your thighs together, positioning your phone to lie in landscape mode—you were still a bit sensitive from earlier, from touching yourself. as your breath excitingly hitches, you couldn’t help but pout again.

“ ‘toru, think ‘m havin’ baby fever or something,” and your words were oh so sweet. satoru’s sitting up against his chair, leaning up against his palm. the shine of his expensive g-shock glimmers in the light within each time he moves. “come home, please.”

“sweetheart,” he tsks, two white arched brows piercing together. he could never say no to you, he spoiled you so much . . not that he never minded either. you were his baby, and satoru playfully scoffs at your needy declaration. “you really can’t wait another hour? i’m almost done.”

“no,” you grouse, a cute glower stretching across your features, marinating as you speak. satoru chuckles at your bratty persistence, and you watch as he fixes his tie, lightly tugging on it.

“fine, fine,” he gruffs. “i’m coming, princess. wear that new designer set i bought for you, okay? ya know the one, the rose-gold?”

smearing your glossed lips against each other, you give him a nod. you ached for him, each second you spent on the phone was a constant reminder of how he wasn’t there with you. satoru found your clinginess adorable though. it was cute how you’d always text and call him while he’s at work. even if his responses were hours late, he’d always get back to you, sending you sweet ‘hi baby’ and ‘i miss you more, pretty,’ ‘s.

if you were feeling bold, you’d send him a few pictures of yourself in one of the many expensive custom-made sets of lingerie he buys you.

his favorite would have to be the ‘satoru gojo’ exclusive brand of lingerie for women, he literally bought the entire stock of all colors just for you.

“okay,” you mumble, already making your way toward his bedroom. a few of his servants and butlers were dusting away at furniture and his entire mansion was huge. it was spacey, you could practically get lost in it. as you stomp lightly, the bare soles of your feet slide against the glassy-textured floor before you glance down at your screen. “drive safe.”

“i will, sweets. see you soon, yeah?”

with a beep, the call ends and it’s just you trapped in your own silent thoughts.

as you made your way to the master bedroom, immediately, you’re met with the loud cologne scent of satoru. it’s enchanting, it’s always the same smell of cinnamon and spices. satoru gojo always smelled rich regardless. rich was his middle name. you dig through your walk-in closet he had made for you, fishing out the set he wanted to see you wear. it was dashingly pretty.

he bought the rose-gold set as a gift for your birthday, and even if it did hurt his pockets a lot, he never cared. anything for you—his pretty baby.

about forty minutes later, satoru returns home finally and he yawns, stretching his long limbs. you scurry to him, your head reaching just near the center of his chest and he lightly jerks back.

“hey baby,” he returns the hug, big callused hands roaming up and down your exposed skin. the lingerie fit you perfectly, displaying your curves and gorgeous physique. satoru buried his face into the crook of your neck, planting a soft kiss. “you’re so spoiled. i can’t always leave work jus’ because you miss me, y’know.”

“i know,” you let off a soft moan, his soft lips creating gingerly mushy traces everywhere near your skin. he was always so tender, nips of kisses slowly turning into flicks with his tongue. satoru’s left hand slowly snakes near your leg, raising it up before wrapping it around his slim torso. your ankle rubs against the burberry belt he wore. it clanks loudly and he then lifts you up. “s- satoru!”

“what?” he hums, leading you closer toward the bed.

you heard the playfulness in his tone, and he’s got you in such a firm grasp. his fingertips continue to roam down your soft skin, snagging against the laced fabric that wraps around your body like a christmas present. “god, you’re so hot,” he murmurs in a raspy tone, and you glance at his parted slick backed hair. it’s unkempt now, white strands and tresses running down his eyes. he lies you down on the bed gently, and that’s when he gets on top of you.

you gulp, meeting the eyes of satoru. pretty blue eyes, they’re always so mesmerizing to look at.

but this time, he’s got a more feral look in his pupils as they dilate. “sweetheart,” he whispers, using a thumb to caress the edge of your twitching lip. with the way you’re prettily sprawled all out like this for him at his very mercy, there’s so much he wanted to do. satoru’s eyes never leave yours, not for a single second. “do you really want a baby or is just the baby fever?”

“b- both,” you gasp, not even noticing his hand creeping down between your legs, parting them apart.

you moan, feeling his palm rub up against the outline of your panties. so soaked, satoru’s breath hitches at your sweet whimpers and he’s so close up to you. so close that his rock-hard boner presses up against you and fuck, it’s hard. a visible tinted bulge was sticking out the center of his slacks and it’s driving him mad.

the mental image of you with a swollen tummy, all plump and baring his child, it makes him groan. satoru’s had his fair share amount of sugar babies in the past, but none of them were you.

“such a silly little girl,” he huffs, a bit of humor in his tone. but not wanting to waste any time, he leans in, capturing your lips into a deep hungry kiss.

whiny moans pour into his mouth - he’s sweet.

the minty kind of sweet where you taste peppermint lingering on his tongue.

satoru kisses sloppy this time, gradually grinding his body against yours. it’s incredibly sloppy, not much passion and more-so filth—strings of spit tangle with each other, forming little lustrous cobwebs of saliva before he sucks on your tongue. his pretty white lashes flutter before he opens them, staring at you, grunting right in your mouth. his boner continues to rub off against your clothed pussy and his groans only grow louder.

“fuuuuckk,” he swears, smacks of lips ringing through his ears. it was something about you, he didn’t know what it was but you were addicting.

satoru starts to peel off the pieces of lingerie piece by piece. by peel, he’s carelessly tearing through it as if the entire designer set didn’t cost him an arm, a leg, and a fucking torso. but again, even with his pockets swollen and suffering because of you, he’d buy you the whole world if he could. well, he probably could. he’s satoru gojo. “sweets, ‘m gonna devour you.”

five words.

five words that constantly went on a loop in your head as satoru’s eating out your cunt like a starved man.

he was starved, it’s been hours since he’s seen you. as he’s delving his face right between the plush of your thighs. you moan, chomping the front row of your teeth down on your quivering bottom lip. fuck, he was just nasty.

merely seconds passed and he’s already slobbering over your pussy. strands and strands of glossy spit trickles from his lips and onto your folds. “ ‘toruuuu,” you whimper, relishing in the way his tongue curls all throughout your drooling core. he’s maneuvering all kinds of shapes and circles, even spelling all letters of his name on your cunt with his tongue. scarlet plump lips of his gently kiss near your labia whilst warm breath ghosts near your sappy slit. shaking all from his tongue, the bed grows rickety from your movements and you inhale a sharp breath.

your fingers get intertwined between his white locks of hair and you pull tight.

his head tugs forward into you and he grunts, swaying his slick pink muscle in and out of your cunt. “mngh,” he groans, and that’s when he sneaks a hand between your pried open legs.

you stare down at him as he’s devouring you whole, slurping everything out of you until he’s satisfied - and that won’t be for a good while.

it doesn’t take a while before he’s already completely pussy drunk.

satoru’s fingers slither near your pussy and as his flat tongue repeats to lap lap lap up your syrupy sweet juices, he pops inside a single finger.

an exasperated breathy gasp snatches straight out the back of throat before you immediately feel the mouthwatering stretch of his digits and it’s toe curling.

if it was one thing about satoru, his fingers were long, slender, and also very very thick.

with a single swirl motion he’s making with his finger shoved deep inside, you’re already at the verge of breaking. crumbling because of his sloppy tongue. his fingers could stretch you out just as much as his cock could.

satoru even had you keep your panties on for him. the same panties he bought you as a gift.

a gift where he collaborated with victoria’s secret, your panties had both of his infamous initials bedazzled on the front and back. god, every time he traces his tongue over the tiny little beads, it drives him crazy every time.

you drive him crazy.

his flat laid tongue teasingly licks at the silk fabric before it turns into a whole raunchy make out sesh. pretty white lashes flap as he’s slurping everything out of you, missing no spot.

he couldn’t afford to, not when you tasted this good.

“we’re a ‘lil squirmy today, huh,” he snickers, feeling your weak thighs writhe because of his tongue.

it felt so good, the way he’s casually slurping you, eating your pussy as if it was the last thing to devour on earth. such raunchy sloshing sloshes cry out from your cunt and he groans. your fingers remain tangled in his hair, yanking on his messy tresses before he flicks his tongue against that spot.

it’s soft and spongy, and with the help of his long fingers curling and scissoring in and out of your sopping pussy, you let off a candied three-second shriek. “oh, darlin. found it, did i?”

“fuck, ‘toru,” your body falls back against the silk pillows.

multiple wanton whimpers slither from your lips as he’s continuously toying his tongue against your g-spot. it seemed as if his tongue was helping with your cramps entirely. such pressure builds up in your body and you were just so hot that you felt like you were gonna explode. “gonna cum, fuck fuck.” you’re babbling out pathetic cries that fall deaf to his pointed ears. satoru hums in smug amusement, jaw feeling tight and locking but he doesn’t care.

he was feeling pretty exhausted from coming back from work but just a single taste of your pussy and suddenly, he was energized once again.

ironic.

his two fingers continue to swivel around inside your gripping walls as your body slumps into the mattress in lewd defeat. satoru grunts, grinding his boner against the edge of the bed to calm himself but you made it so hard.

you made him hard.

as he’s luxuriating in this eagle view of your legs prettily laid up for him, he’s merely knuckles deep.

you can barely stay still and the bed’s staring to grow rickety. satoru’s speed of his tongue doesn’t falters, and as he’s slurping every drop from your sappy folds—you let out your final elongated moan. it’s long, your legs erupt dramatically and shake within his hold before you’re finally cumming. it drags for a long time and you’re just nothing but hysterical.

overwrought with emotions and pleasure, your legs finally collapse—as if they weren’t already basically limp, you exhale deeply.

“fuck, fuck fuuuck,” you repeat, watching with hazy murky eyes as he pulls your panties back toward the center with his teeth. satoru licks up your sweet saccharine-flavored juices that seep out from you, savoring the honeyed taste on his tongue before you pull on his hair . . hard.

“tsk. watch the hair, girl,” he warns you, still being cheeky and playful.

your cunt embarrassingly twitches once he makes eye contact with you again. satoru sits up, his entire chin coated with nothing but your slit. its a stream of it and it’s pretty. it was just the way it trickles down and he laps the crevices of his lips with his tongue. “so cute,” he murmurs, and he closes the gap between you both. as satoru feels your trembly legs wrap around his waist, he pulls you into another deep passionate kiss.

you moan right into his mouth, lazily tossing your arms over his broad-built shoulders before feeling him yank your panties down your legs and ankles.

satoru’s body was hot.

he still had his business attire on, and he feels your hand slowly removing his tie. your other hand runs down his tux, sliding inside the center to feel his washboard chiseled and hiding underneath the piles of formal work clothes.

“such a needy ‘lil thing,” he whispers gruffly between kisses, chuckling once he sees the forming pout tweak against your swollen lips.

satoru rubs a thumb over you lip before his crystalline-colored irises meet yours. the silence was cold, he’s got a wolffish smirk compressing against his lips before he mutters right near your ear. “now, let’s give ya that baby, sweetheart.”

saying ‘baby’ was an understatement.

with the way satoru was about to fuck you, he planned on giving you triplets.

maybe even more, and the constant rambles of how little ‘ole you was stuck in his mansion all day with baby fever did something to him. oh, poor thing, suffering with cramps all day. it was the end of the world. to you at least it was. but like the loving sugar daddy he was, satoru figured he’d do his best to ease your little ‘problems.’

“gimme that pretty arch, goooood..” he purrs, using a hand to rub down your exposed back.

satoru groans—his formal trousers / pants were pulled down to his ankles and he’s staring at your pretty ass. so cute. he watches with a carnal glint in his eye as you position yourself, gnawing on your lip and the bars of your enclosure. the anticipation was about to bury you six feet under.

his leaky tip slowly smears and bedaubs against your dripping clit and you whine. your hands, clammy and all, roughly grip onto the richly-made sheets.

his tip was fat, it’s got a glistening swollen head that’s teasing you. satoru’s breathing grows shallow once he sees your pussy cutely trying to swallow. “fuck, please,” you croak, desperate for him to go inside. he always does this—everytime.

right before he’s preparing himself to fuck you raw, satoru smacks his bulbous cockhead against your sappy weeping folds, hearing your sweet little cries grow unsatisfied. all you could think about was having him breed you full . . over and over and over again, you didn’t just want it, you needed it.

you needed him.

“relaaaax, sweet thing. ‘m comin,” a chortle dies from his throat as he feels you trying to wriggle your hips.

you’re impatient, and once he’s fully aligned, he’s finally dipping his weighty cock inside your perfectly tucked folds.

suddenly, your needy whines stop and they turn into whines of rapture. satoru trails a big hand toward the cusps of your ass, tracing down the cute curvy curvature of your body before your skin’s met with a rude swat.

you moan as he’s easing himself inside your gummy walls, stretching you open even more than his fingers did. “atta fuckin’ girl. let me in, biiiiiig stretch, there we go.”

the stretch . . you’d never get used to it, never.

your stomach heaves once he’s reeling his hips in. “s- shit,” you kiss your teeth, your knees already buckling and becoming weak. satoru spanks your bare ass again just to hear those sweet yelps leave your lips. he’s so fucking big, it doesn’t take long before he’s bottoming out and you hear the welcoming ‘pop’. satoru groans once he starts to move, one hand holding onto your hip—another focused on your pretty perked ass. he likes this view, the view of his sweet girl arched over on all fours. satoru bites his lip as he starts to make delicious haste with his sharp keen hips.

“god,” his head throws itself back briefly at a certain angle.

already, white strands stick to his forehead with the help of his sweat substituting as glue. satoru’s voice shakes as his cock’s fully in, your clingy gripping walls were so warm and it makes his mouth water from the inside. “missed my favorite pussy so fuckin’ bad, so bad,” and you feel a few droplets plop down your back. satoru’s eyes rove over, watching you writhe again and he sheepishly snickers.

he was drooling.

“heh, sorry.” and he wipes his mouth with his wrist, the feral feeling pooling in his gut never fading.

you’re a mess underneath him, the second he starts to drill his hips into you—it’s over.

satoru’s stamina was always unhinged.

the bed croaks and groans from the constant shakes ‘n creaks it has to endure each second. the hinges were quite loud, you heard the rusty creaking wood that reverbs throughout the room. his cock continued to pound into you as his body’s on top of yours, in full sync with your own sloppy movement.

you’re whimpering, your head already being smushed against the pillow as the undersides of his thigh start to feel minuscule pangs. “toru, toruuu,” you mewl out in a melodic whisper. he’s hitting you deep, your glossed lips part into a circle before you huff.

each strike of his hips felt more precise and brutal. . you wanted more, you wanted to feel him more.

“i know, i know,” he coos, thumbs circling around your waist as he holds you in place.

satoru’s hips were so sculptured and sharp that they give you whiplash every time. he’s got such power within each salacious strike that it makes your head spin. every single stroke, you’re left stupid and speechless with your tongue already dangling out of your mouth. the room grew steamy within a span of a few minutes. it smells like nothing but pure passionate sex.

by now, your eyes were rolling toward the very backs of your sockets in utter elated pleasure. you’re seeing nothing but splashes of ivory black and white. “aht aht. c’mere, don’t fuckin’ run sweetheart,” his voice was as smooth as silk. satoru feels your unsteady hips trying to crawl away but he reels you back in. “nuh uh. take it, take it, take it, girl.” he groans, his heavy hanging balls thwacking right against your ass within each pivotal thrust.

the band of his platinum-colored watch rubs off against your skin again—he’s watching you jerk back against him. his cock was so full, he licks his lips at the thought of your pretty pussy and how you were gonna wring him dry like you always do.

“fuck me, fuck me ‘toru,” your whimpering words were repeating itself over and over as if you were a broken record. the pit of your stomach coils as each second draws itself out before he’s grunting gruffly. your cunt’s sloppy, coating his base with sheeny amounts and globs of slick. white hairs from his neat pubes stick against his skin and satoru’s now grinding into you. “ah, right there, ngh please.”

“thaaaaat’s it pretty girl,” he snarls in a raspy voice, feeling the fat smacking stings of your ass jolt backward into his pelvis. “fuck me right back, mhm. gimme this pussy, make me proud baby.”

as he’s whispering all sorts of praises and dirty words, you can feel yourself reaching your limit soon — it’s so close.

a fluttering sensation brews up inside your stomach before satoru suddenly groans. “fuck,” his cock’s wholly stretching you out to your elastic limit before it meets that same textured spongey barrier again. he knows right away because your knees buckle, your breath grows quicker, and you let off another surprised shriek.

right there, x marks the spot after all and he was constantly hitting his tip there until you let out cute shrilling screams.

“goddamn, ‘m gonna cum, sweets,” and his voice grows more shakier the longer he’s inside.

it’s as if time stood still.

the constant rotation of swiveling gyrations from each angle, each body has your head spinning like a merri-go-‘round.

you were probably looking a dumb cock-drunk mess. unkempt strands of hair were already flopping down your face and occluding your view of vision entirely. satoru pierces his white brows together before lightly shoving you further into the mattress. as you’re cutely arched forward with your ass raised up, he leans way into your back, wrapping a hand softly around the back your throat.

“gonna fuckin’ give ya twins. one isn’t enough, pretty girl. need that tummy swollen ‘n plump s- so bad,” and he inches his lips toward your spine, still pumping into you deep. “gonna make you my pretty ‘lil mama.”

as he continued to spoke, you whine as his cock plummets into your wet sopping cunt over and over. it’s to the point where your ears recognize the slapping sounds of skin. the squelches your wet cunt made had him groaning.

he’s breathing in huge chunks of air as he’s merely crushing you with his weight. as you both robustly rut into each other in flawless unison, satoru’s hefty weight that hovers over you anchors into yours, slamming further into you.

“fuck, don’t stop, hngh,” and your words were as shaky as your chattering teeth.

he couldn’t keep his hands off you, literally.

sweaty open palms paw at every part of your body. near your doughy tits, your ass—his favorite part, and even your pretty plush thighs that were nearly gluing together. “satoru, satoru, pleaseee.”

“mhm, sweets..” his voice tremors and cracks before a sharp gasp wretches out of him. out of nowhere, you feel his hips come to an abrupt stop and he groans loudly.

it’s so loud that it’s an almost bellowing roar, both of his ears clank at the blissful sensations. satoru grows quiet once he feels it, that familiar pressure that’s been stored full inside him for the longest.

he’s cumming, and it’s so much, a slimy knot shoots out and freely dribbles into your inviting swollen cunt and he chews the inside of his cheek. “fuck m- me,” he stammers, still holding both sides of your rickety hips.

the room’s filled with husky pants and skin slapping until he’s slowing down - velvety stringy ribbons spurt into you raw until he’s hoarsely panting like a dog at the sight.

he can’t stop staring. such a mess, but you’re his mess. god, the way it just leisurely trickles inside of you, spilling all down the sides of your jittery folds because it can’t keep all of it in. the sounds were even more filthy, sloshing squeaks feels the room and he goes quiet just to get a good enough listen. satoru came so much—so so much that it lasted for a plethora of long obscene seconds. as he’s trying to get over his orgasm, he’s still chewing at the inside of his cheek, his face growing flustered. his hips become strikingly sloppy and he’s basically humping you. “god, have my fuckin’ kids, sweetheart. ugh,” and satoru’s as prettiest as he’s ever been.

with his lip dragging from his teeth biting near the bottom, his eyes scrunch shut and white brows curl up. huffing out a big deep exhale, he’s sweating bullets.

his thick calves felt like they were on fire but he didn’t have enough of you yet. there was never enough of you. you had him whipped—he’s allowing you to milk him, relishing in the fact that your sweet cunt was just wringing him dry to the max.

satoru steadies your hips with his quavery hands, peering down at the masses of sweltering hot cum that drips down your legs and he grunts. “s- satoru,” you shiver, gasping once he pulls out only to flip you right over.

“not done. still got so much more ‘ta give my pretty girl,” he breathes, and it’s a feral look in his eyes. satoru raises your leg up slowly, his rings tickling against your bare skin. “lie on your back. i fuckin’ need more.”

satoru fucks you for hours.

any position you could even think of, he’s doing it.

both stacked bodies glisten with sheets of sweat as they rut back and forth against each other, fingers merrily intertwined. he’s determined to get you pregnant and your moans only fuel him. the rowdy snaps of his vigorous hips only grew stronger.

his stamina, you’re blinking, wondering if he’s even human. despite the drops of perspiration tearing from the sides of his face and his heaving long breaths, satoru showed no signs of fatigue.

he was drilling his thick cock into you again and again—giving you orgasm after orgasm.

your toes curl as you’re trying to keep up with him but it’s to no avail. weighty balls continue to rigorously slam into your core as you’re currently in mating press. the compressing weight of satoru melting against you makes you whine.

he’s so warm, and with the way he’s breathing down your neck, babbling how he’s gonna make you the most prettiest mommy in the world makes your cunt throb. “you’re so pretty like this,” he moans into your neck, his thrusts becoming weak yet again.

globs of cum dribble from your pussy as he’s right between your thighs, his cock springing up. he hisses at the feeling, feeling your arms wrap around his back. satoru groans at the twinge near his extensor muscles that flex.

you gave him scratches that ran all down his back. he pays for your weekly manicures just so you can paint his back with scratches with your pretty acrylics.

his pretty girl.

you’re a stammering mess, plugged all the way up with such creamy thin ropes and your body was already limp. with his dick still delved inside, satoru grabs your chin—pressing another kiss against your lips. you moan, twisting and tangling your balmy hot tongue with his before he presses a hand down on your tummy. you whine in his mouth, skimming your crumped up fingers down his little undercut.

satoru groans at the feeling of your digits toying with the back part of his hair. “s- satoru,” you speak between kisses in short gasps for air. your ankle brushes up and down his back and it makes him grunt - your touch made him weak. “ ‘m so full, fuck.”

“yeah you fuckin’ are, sweetheart,” he licks near your bottom lip.

satoru’s body was so hot against yours, even while he was fully milked out he was still stuffing you full. the sheets were a mess, but he didn’t care in the slightest. his cerulean-blue eyes rove down towards your chest before he leans down. you stare at him, panting—and that’s when he latches his tongue against your neglected tits.

so perfect,

he makes sure to lather viscous strings of saliva on both of them, including your sensitive perky nipples. “mhm.” he groans, feeling your fingers fish through his white tangled strands. he’s sucking on each of your breasts with the most stupidest pussy drunken grin.

after a few seconds, he removes his spit-slick lips, a string of saliva following before he gazes up at you. with a sly worn out gaze, he cups both of your tits with his hands, giving them a good squeeze. “aw. my girls are gonna be full of milk soon,” and satoru kisses near your chin, your forehead, your cheek, and then finally, your lips.

you return the wet sultry kiss before he abruptly pulls away, holding your chin. “can’t wait to be a daddy, darlin,” he says in a gruff drowsy voice. you watch as he gradually pulls out, moving his head down toward your bare tummy. satoru presses a kiss near your navel before his eyes stare right back up at you.

“now let’s wait for this pretty ‘lil bump, hm?”

7K notes · View notes

barnesonly · 4 days ago

Text

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 7k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Seven — „Hope” | Previous | Next

Over three months had passed.

You moved to England.

The day you arrived, it rained. Of course it did. Soft, cold drizzle that clung to your coat and hair, made everything smell like stone and damp earth. You were tired. Jetlagged. Sick to your stomach, still, even though the nausea had started to fade.

But the house—

The house surprised you.

You had expected something ugly. Bland. Temporary. Another box to hide inside.

But it wasn’t that.

It was small, yes. And old. The stairs creaked and the windows stuck, and the kitchen tiles were crooked if you looked too close. But it had a kind of quiet charm to it. The walls were pale and sunlit in the morning. There was a fireplace that probably hadn’t worked in years, but looked beautiful anyway. A narrow garden in the back, wild with overgrown roses and some tired lavender that hadn’t given up yet.

It wasn’t much, but it felt… safe. Yours. At least for now.

You furnished it slowly. Secondhand things. Mismatched mugs. Blankets you didn’t need but bought anyway. You even picked out a small, plain crib. Left it unassembled in the room that slowly began to look like a proper nursery.

Some nights, you sat on the floor beside the unopened box, just… staring.

Wondering what it would be like.

What they would be like.

What you would be like.

You talked with James regularly. But only when he called. You were too afraid to reach out yourself, feeling like a burden or… attachment he shouldn’t have.

You told him where you lived. You weren’t supposed to, but you did anyway. Just in case. If something went wrong—if something happened—he should know. You didn’t trust anyone else the way you trusted him, even now. Even after everything.

You updated him. Short texts, sometimes a picture. One time a recording of the heartbeat from your latest checkup. You almost didn’t send that one. But you did.

He cared.

Just not about you.

You were trying to live. Trying to move on.

You went on walks. Learned which shops were open late. Sometimes you sat in the garden and let the air cool your skin. Sometimes you’d talk to the baby, soft and quiet, like a secret. You told them about the colors of the sky, about the stupid bird that kept building a nest in your mailbox, about how you were scared but trying.

And still—

Your heart ached.

You didn’t cry as much. Not every day. But the ache hadn’t gone. It lived under your ribs now, like it belonged there. Like it had claimed that space and wouldn’t let go.

You still loved him. God, you still did.

And maybe you always would.

Maybe some parts of you would always belong to him, even if he didn’t want them anymore.

You tried not to think about it. About him.

But it was impossible not to when everything around you was new, and different, and still… not whole.

So you thought about the future instead.

About what it might look like.

You wondered if the baby would look like you. Or if they’d have his eyes. His quiet frown. His stormy silences. Would they carry the weight of all this without even knowing where it came from?

Would you be enough for them?

Could you love them enough for two?

James had said he wanted to be there. For the baby. And you believed him. As cold as he’d been, as final as it felt, there was something in his voice that day—something broken and careful—that made you think he meant it.

But how was it supposed to work?

He was still thousands of miles away. You were part of a government program designed to erase you. You had new names, new addresses, a whole new life on a whole new island.

Was there even room for him in that life?

Still…

He called. Asked how things were. Asked how they were. And every time your phone lit up with that second number, your chest ached in a way you couldn’t fully describe.

You didn’t know what kind of mother you’d be.

Some days, you felt strong—calm, steady, capable.

Other days, you could barely drag yourself out of bed, guilt and fear twisting in your gut before the sun even rose.

You worried about everything.

How you’d keep them safe. How you’d explain the missing pieces in their life. How you’d raise a child with no real past and no honest name.

The kettle whistled on the stove.

You rose slowly, pressing a hand to the small curve of your belly as you moved. The sun had dipped low outside the window, casting long amber shadows across the kitchen tiles. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A door shut. Life kept moving.

You poured the water. Sat back down. Wrapped both hands around the mug like it might anchor you.

This was your world now. Quiet. Strange. Yours.

And tomorrow—

Tomorrow you’d keep going.

———

You sat cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, the late afternoon light spilling in through gauzy curtains. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and new fabric. A soft pile of baby clothes sat beside you—tiny onesies, soft socks that could fit in the palm of your hand, a little hat with bear ears. You folded each piece carefully, smoothing them out, as if the act alone could keep the rest of your life from unraveling.

The ultrasound had been just a few days ago.

You hadn’t planned to cry, but when you saw the image flicker across the screen—those delicate limbs, the tiny flutter of a heartbeat—you had. Quietly, with your hand pressed over your mouth.

It was real. This baby. This life inside of you.

And somehow, even through the fear and the ache and the sharp edge of loneliness that didn’t seem to dull… you were happy.

You loved them.

God, you loved this baby more than you ever thought you could. More than yourself, more than James. Maybe more than anything that came before.

You folded another onesie. Yellow this time, with little embroidered clouds.

They would be safe here. Not untouched by the past, but safe. And that had to count for something.

Then came the knock.

You stilled—hand hovering above the next shirt, mind catching up. Probably the postman. You’d ordered a few more things last week: muslin cloths, a lamp shaped like a cat. You stood, brushing off your sweater absently, and padded down the hall.

When you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t a package. It wasn’t the postman.

It was him.

James.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, his face unreadable, wind-touched and tired. Like the sea had brought him all the way across the world and left him there on your doorstep.

You gripped the doorframe lightly. “What are you doing here?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He swallowed, gaze flicking past you like he might catch a glimpse of what his imagination had filled in for months.

„Checking up on you.” He said casually as If it was nothing.

You stepped aside without a word and let him in, the door clicking shut behind him. He walked in slow, careful—like the walls might bite.

“You could’ve told me you planned to visit,” you said, following him into the living room, then making your way back to the nursery. “Finally.”

There was a hint of something bitter in your tone. Not angry. Just… tired. A quiet ache. One you didn’t mean to let slip, but it was there all the same.

He glanced at you, then away again. Following your steps to the other room. “Yeah… I know,” he muttered. “I just needed space. And—well. Had a lot of ‘work’ after your deal. Had to cover everything.”

You nodded slowly, folding your arms. “Right.”

“It was messy.” He didn’t sound like he was making excuses—just telling the truth. “Took longer than I thought. I didn’t want to show up if I didn’t know what I’d say. Showing up in person is quite different than phone calls.”

You sat back down where you’d been before, on the floor in the nursery, surrounded by little clothes. He lingered in the doorway, watching.

“And now?” you asked softly. “Do you know?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the room—at the folded onesies, the tiny socks, the soft blue blanket. And then at you.

“Not really,” he said.

You nodded, slow and quiet. The silence stretched between you, not hostile, just… uncertain.

His gaze drifted around the room again—then landed on the unassembled crib in the corner. The pieces leaned against the wall, still untouched since you’d dragged them out of the box a week ago.

“You need help with that?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You looked over at the crib. You hadn’t gotten to it yet—partly out of exhaustion, partly because it felt like the last real thing to do before everything became real.

And no, you didn’t need his help. You could’ve done it yourself. You would’ve.

But something in you cracked a little at the offer.

You glanced back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sure. If you want.”

His mouth twitched like maybe he’d meant to smile—but didn’t. Instead, he just stepped forward, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. And for a moment, you both pretended it was simple. That this was normal.

You stood up slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watched him crouch by the crib frame, sorting screws and wooden panels like it was second nature. And maybe it was.

God, you missed him.

Not just the way he made you feel safe, or the quiet confidence he carried—but him. His presence. The sound of him around. In your life. You missed how it felt when he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Now he wouldn’t even look at you for more than a second at a time.

You kept watching as he tried to fit a side rail into place. He turned the piece twice, then shifted it again, frowning.

“That’s not where it goes,” you said gently.

“I know.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you teased, voice just barely light enough to count as a joke.

“I know what I’m doing, okay?” he muttered, and then he chuckled. Actually chuckled. Low and rough and a little sheepish.

You smiled, almost in disbelief.

It was the first happy moment you’d shared since everything fell apart. Since the day he found out. Since the day you lost him.

He kept working, fingers moving with a little more confidence now as he secured the next piece into place. The silence stretched—not tense, just… tentative. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to break whatever fragile peace had settled in the room.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “How are you feeling, by the way?”

You shrugged a little, your arms still wrapped around yourself. “Tired. Sore. Kind of like I’m lugging around a bowling ball in my stomach.” You exhaled, then added more quietly, “But… okay. Better than I thought I’d be.”

He nodded, tightening one of the screws. “You look good, though.”

That made you glance at him.

He looked up too, just briefly—and managed a soft, fleeting smile.

You smiled back, your voice quieter now. “Thanks.”

You rolled your eyes at yourself, biting back the nerves bubbling up in your chest. You weren’t sure if you should say it now or wait—but the words pressed on your tongue, too heavy to hold in.

So you said it.

“It’s a girl.”

His hands stilled instantly. The screwdriver paused mid-turn, his whole body going rigid before he slowly turned his head to look at you.

You tried to keep your voice even, casual, but it cracked at the edge. “I… I found out a few days ago.”

James didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like the words were still circling his brain, taking their time to land. Then he let out the smallest breath—barely even a sound—but his eyes looked glassy, like the thought had hit him somewhere deep.

“A girl,” he repeated, softer this time. Like he needed to say it to believe it. He looked down, then back up again, and you saw it—hope. Or maybe fear. Maybe both.

You nodded, arms folding loosely over your belly. “Yeah.”

He ran a hand over his jaw, blinking a few times. “Is she okay?”

“She’s healthy,” you said. “Strong heartbeat and all.”

He smiled again, and this time it stayed a little longer.

“I’ve been thinking about the name too,” you said, voice quiet, almost testing the waters. “Have one in my head.”

That made him pause completely. He looked down at the screwdriver still in his hand, then set it on the floor without a word.

When he stood, the whole room shifted. His attention—so focused a minute ago on wooden pieces and instruction sheets—was entirely on you now.

“You do?” he asked, voice low.

You glanced down at your hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on your shirt. “Rebecca.”

His brows drew together immediately.

“Your sister’s name,” you added quietly. “If you’re… okay with that.”

He blinked, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “That’s—” He frowned. “You don’t have to.”

“Well. I like that name,” you said, meeting his eyes. “And I feel like… I owe you that.”

His voice came softer now, almost a whisper. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I still want to name her that. For you.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, something unreadable flickering across his face. And then he nodded—once—like he couldn’t speak just yet.

“You really want that?” he asked, quieter now.

You offered a small smile. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

He took a slow breath, the kind that stretched his chest and made his shoulders lift and fall like the weight of it all was settling into place. His eyes flicked toward the wall, then back to you—like he didn’t quite know what to do with all the feelings sitting heavy in the room now.

“I’d be very happy for her to have that name then,” he said finally.

You felt your throat tighten, the weight of that moment sitting warm and trembling in your chest.

You nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

James looked at you a long time. There wasn’t a smile this time, not exactly—but his eyes softened. Something about him had changed, just a little. Like he could see the shape of the future, even if it still scared the hell out of him.

Then, he glanced toward the unfinished crib with a little shake of his head. “Think she’s gonna hate me if I screw that up?”

You huffed out a laugh, blinking fast. “Well, if she’s anything like me, she’ll definitely point it out.”

He smiled—genuinely this time.

———

Some time later, the evening had settled quietly around the small house. James was finally done with the crib, its soft wooden frame standing sturdy and ready in the nursery.

You led him through the house, showing him the little clothes, blankets, and toys you’d gathered—everything soft and sweet, chosen with care. His fingers brushed over the fabric, eyes lingering on the smallness of it all.

Now, you sat together on the couch in the living room, the low hum of the town outside mixing with the quiet between you.

You felt a fragile kind of happiness, the kind that came from having him there, if only for a moment.

You stayed silent for a moment, letting the quiet stretch between you. Then, unable to hold it back any longer, you whispered, “I missed you.”

His jaw clenched, and he didn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the room, like your words were a weight pressing down on him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low but heavy with pain.

“Don’t say that. It only makes this harder.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching. “But it’s true. Even after everything… after all this mess, I still want you here. I want us.”

He finally turned to face you, his eyes glistening, the fight inside them crumbling for just a second. “You think it’s that simple? That I can just forget what happened? What you did?”

“I know I fucked up,” you said, voice trembling. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I’m still here, James. I’m still trying. For the baby, for us—I want to make it right.”

He looked away again, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Maybe you’re the only one trying.”

„Please,” you breathed, voice trembling as you leaned forward slightly. “It’s not too late yet—”

“No!” His voice cracked like a whip between you. Sharp, raw, louder than he meant it to be. It made you flinch.

He turned to you, eyes glassy now, jaw clenched. “I don’t love you anymore.”

Silence. Just for a moment. The kind that settles between two people like dust after a bomb.

You stared at him, and a single tear escaped before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly, as if he hadn’t seen it, as if it didn’t count if you erased the evidence.

“That’s not true. I don’t believe that.”

“It is.” He stood up, ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, you think I want this?”

“Then don’t do it.” You stood too, voice rising now, hurt twisting into frustration. “Don’t fucking lie to me just because it’s easier for you to walk away!”

“I’m not lying.” He turned toward you, pacing like he couldn’t bear to stand still. “You think I don’t want to be around my baby? My daughter? That I don’t think about her? That I don’t think about you every goddamn day?”

“Then why?” You were crying now, not even hiding it. „Why are you pretending like this is dead? Like we’re already buried when we’re still standing right here?”

He exhaled sharply and pointed at you—shaky, not angry. “Because every time I look at you, I remember what it felt like. The lies. The betrayal. How it felt like everything was real and then it wasn’t. And I can’t— I can’t pretend it didn’t break me.”

You were quiet for a beat.

“So you punish me for that?”

His expression twisted. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes, it is!” You stepped closer now, your voice lower but no less intense. “You think I didn’t break too? That it didn’t kill me to lie to you? You think this—” you gestured between you “—didn’t matter to me? It still does. And I know you feel that too.”

He stared at you, breathing hard. Like he wanted to yell. Or cry. Or take it all back. But instead he said nothing.

“You’re wrong then,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “I closed this chapter.”

You blinked at him. The words hit like a slap—clean, deliberate.

He wasn’t yelling anymore. That almost made it worse.

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Just like that?” you asked, stepping back from him like you physically couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. “You closed it? Like it was some book you got bored of?”

“It wasn’t boredom,” he said tightly. “It was survival.”

“And what the hell do you think I was doing?” you shot back. “You think I wanted any of this? That I didn’t lie awake every night thinking about what it would cost me—what I’d lose—if the truth came out? You think I didn’t know what it would do to us?”

“Then maybe you should’ve picked something else,” he said bitterly. “Some life that didn’t involve screwing me over.”

You went still.

It hung there between you for a long, horrible second.

“Screwing you over?” you echoed, your voice nearly a whisper. “I was doing my job, James.”

“Exactly,” he bit out. “Your job. Not us. That was never your priority.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed. “You were everything to me. You still are. That’s what makes this so fucking hard. Because even now—after all of it—I still want you.”

He shook his head, stepping away like he couldn’t bear hearing it.

“Well, I don’t want to be your almost, or your regret, or your mess to fix.”

Then softer, nearly breaking, “I don’t want to love someone who could lie like that.”

You stared at him, feeling your heart cave in your chest.

“I didn’t want to lie,” you whispered. “But I also didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well,” he said quietly, “you did both.”

And then he turned his head away again, shoulders heavy, eyes full of a storm he didn’t let fall.

„Please, James. I’m scared too, you think I’m not? But we have a chance now, a chance to fix this. For her. For us.”

He didn’t look at you. Jaw clenched, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides like he wanted to punch the air or disappear into it.

“You think a baby is going to fix what you broke?” His voice rose, sharp and aching. “You think a crib and a name and a few soft smiles are enough to cover the fact that you lied to me every day?”

“I didn’t lie about you!” you snapped. “About us! Everything I felt, everything I gave you, it was real—God, it was so real—”

He finally turned to face you, and his eyes were rimmed red now, glassy with the tears he wouldn’t let fall. “Then why does it feel like none of it mattered?”

You froze. Your breath caught. Because you didn’t have an answer to that. Because it did matter. It still did.

“Please,” you said again, more fragile this time. “I know I hurt you. But we could still be something. We could still have everything.”

His chest rose with a deep, tired breath. “I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t think there is a way to come back from this.”

“You don’t have to know how,” you said softly. “You just have to try.”

He stared at you like he wanted to believe you. Like some part of him still did.

But the silence between you grew thick, heavy with the weight of everything you’d ruined and everything you still wanted.

And when he spoke again, his voice was just a whisper. „I’m so tired of hurting.”

You reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

„No,” he said one last time and shook his head.

“I’m not gonna give up on us, James. Not now, not ever.”

Your voice trembled, but the words came out steady—anchored in something deeper than pride. You stood there, heart thudding painfully in your chest, your eyes searching his face for the smallest flicker of softness. Of hope. Anything.

But all he gave you was a sharp breath and a furious shake of his head.

“Well, you should!”

His voice cracked like a whip in the room, sudden and cutting. You flinched as if he’d struck you, the weight of his words slamming into your chest before settling like a stone in your gut.

Then, all at once, a stabbing pain bloomed low in your abdomen. You doubled over, one hand clutching the edge of the couch for support while the other flew instinctively to your belly.

“Fuck,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your whole body tensing with the sharp cramp that clawed through your stomach like a warning.

James was on you in an instant, instinct overpowering the argument. His arms came around you without hesitation, grounding you, steadying you even as panic filled his voice.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you managed, eyes squeezing shut as the pain pulsed through you again.

He didn’t let go. One hand moved to your back, the other hovering near your belly like he didn’t know what to do, only that he needed to do something.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice tight. “You’re not fine—I think we should go, or call someone—”

“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, louder than you meant to, louder than your body could handle.

He flinched.

You could feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, from the pain, the tension, the goddamn vulnerability of it all. You didn’t want him to see you like this—curled over, hurting, scared out of your mind. Not when it came to her. Not when this was the only thing left you hadn’t already ruined.

Not when this—being her mother—was the one thing you needed to get right.

You shook your head, trying to catch your breath, your hands trembling now. “I don’t need your help. I can handle it. I have been handling it.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t,” he said quietly, still steadying you. “I just—god, let me help you. Please.”

You blinked up at him then, lips parted, and for a moment, neither of you said a word.

Because despite everything, despite the argument, despite the distance, despite the fact that he’d just said he didn’t love you anymore—

He was still holding you now.

You exhaled shakily, slowly straightening up. The cramp faded—dull now, no longer sharp—and you nodded to yourself like you could will your body back into calm.

“I’m fine,” you said softly, hand still resting protectively over your belly. “I swear. It passed.”

James didn’t look convinced. He hovered close, his hands twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should stay that near or give you space. You could feel the tension in him—coiled tight, jaw clenched.

You eased onto the couch with a wince and a sigh. “It was just… the stress. All of this.”

He was quiet for a beat, then he spoke.

“I shouldn’t—,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have—started that fight.”

You looked over at him, the way his brows pulled inward, the guilt swimming under the surface. You knew he meant it.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter.

You nodded, rubbing a slow circle against your belly. “It’s fine… I shouldn’t have said that.”

You inhaled, tried to center yourself.

“I just—” The words snagged in your throat. You glanced down at your belly instead, watched the quiet rise and fall beneath your palm. “Nevermind.”

The silence lingered, heavy. You cleared your throat, pushing through it.

“So,” you said, shifting back on the couch and changing the topic, your voice softer now. “How long are you planning to stay in England?”

James hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as he leaned back, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared ahead like the question itself was a weight in his chest.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Wasn’t supposed to be long. Just a few days. Maybe a week. Check in. See how you were doing.”

You nodded, lips pressed into a line. It made sense. Of course it did. You just hated how temporary it sounded.

“You don’t have to rush out,” you said anyway, quieter than you meant. “If you need… a place to rest. Or if you want to help with more baby stuff.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was measured.

“I’ll help where I can. But I’m not staying.”

You nodded again, this time more stiffly, your throat tight.

“I know.”

“I just… I needed to see you. Her. That’s all.”

You bit down on the ache rising in your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

He gave a faint nod, rubbing his palms against his jeans. “Yeah.”

His voice was rougher now. Quieter. Like he was already halfway gone.

“I should probably go then,” he added, glancing toward the door. “Let you rest.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. Because what else were you supposed to do—beg him to stay? Again?

Your throat felt too tight anyway. So you nodded. Once.

“Okay.”

He stood slowly, like his body didn’t quite want to follow the decision his mouth had already made. For a second, he lingered—eyes sweeping the room, the unassembled chaos of baby things, the soft shape of your belly beneath your hand.

He left.

And the door clicked shut behind him like the final note in a song you never wanted to end.

You didn’t move at first. Couldn’t.

Your hands rested over your belly, fingertips pressing gently like they could ground you, like they could hold back the storm building inside your chest.

The silence was deafening.

No more footsteps. No more hushed words or half-smiles that felt like home. Just the hum of the fridge and the blood rushing in your ears.

God.

You sat on the couch, one hand still holding your stomach, the other pressing against your lips like it could stop the guilt from spilling out.

God, you were pathetic.

Begging him. Pleading for him to stay. To try again. As if love was enough to fix what had been broken. As if the ache in your chest could somehow erase the pain in his.

You had looked him in the eye and asked for something he couldn’t give. And he told you—he didn’t love you anymore.

You should’ve left it at that.

You should’ve nodded, accepted it with grace, and let him walk out without tearing yourself down in the process.

But you couldn’t.

Because you still loved him.

Too much.

So much it hurt to breathe.

Even now—after everything—you still looked at that damn door like maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe he’d come back in, say he was lying, say it was anger talking, fear talking, anything but the truth.

Eventually, the silence got too loud.

You stood—slowly, with one hand braced on the arm of the couch and the other instinctively resting over your belly. Your legs felt heavy, like the weight of everything that had just happened was trying to anchor you in place. But you didn’t want to sit there anymore. You couldn’t.

So you walked. Quietly. Barefoot. Through the soft, dim glow of the hallway and back into the nursery.

You looked around at it again. Let yourself feel how final everything was.

And then your eyes stung again.

You didn’t mean to talk. You just… needed to say something. To someone. Your palm slid over your bump in a slow, shaky circle. You breathed in deep, trying to steady yourself.

A small, broken whisper left your lips.

“Your mama’s trying,” you said, voice catching. “She really is.”

Your throat burned, but you smiled, just barely, as your hand stilled. “I don’t know if I’m saying that for you… or for me.”

You let out a trembling breath and looked at the crib again—perfect, sturdy, real. A reminder that something good was still coming. Something worth holding on for.

You stepped closer and rested both hands over your belly this time, rubbing slow warmth into the curve of it.

“I promise I’ll be enough.”

You closed your eyes.

Because maybe you were comforting her or maybe you just needed someone to hear it.

———

The night settled soft and slow over the town, throwing a dull lavender haze through the bedroom window. The room was quiet, still warm with the faint scent of clean laundry and the remnants of the day. But the ache in your chest hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had settled in deeper, heavier—right between your ribs.

You shifted on the bed, your body tired but your mind still running. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow across the covers, and your phone lay face-down beside you, screen blank, waiting.

You stared at it for a long while before reaching out and flipping it over.

And then you hovered.

Mike.

Your thumb lingered above the name.

You always called him at night because of the time zone and he always answered. Always picked up, no matter the hour. No matter what.

Especially after everything.

You’d told him the truth, after you moved. Once you were safe. Once you knew no one was watching anymore. You told him everything—not just the mission, not just the cover, but the part you’d kept hidden from everyone else.

That somewhere along the way… you’d fallen in love with James.

Told him that it hadn’t been part of the plan. Of course it hadn’t. But it had happened anyway. Quiet and slow and terrifying. You still remembered the way Mike had looked at you across the small kitchen in this house when he came to visit you—when you’d said the words. Like he was trying to make sense of the timeline in his head.

He didn’t even feel betrayed or didn’t scold you, well maybe a bit. But mostly he just… felt heartbroken for you.

And he’d listened. That’s the thing—he’d let you fall apart, let you explain how it hadn’t felt like a lie. How pretending had slipped into something else. How it had made everything after feel… impossible.

You inhaled. Then pressed the call button.

The line clicked, and a second later, his voice filtered through—a little hoarse, but unmistakably Mike.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Figured.” There was a rustle on his end, like he was in the middle of doing something. “Everything alright? Baby behaving?”

You looked down at the rise of your belly under the blanket. “Yeah. She is.”

“She?” He huffed a laugh. “You didn’t tell me you found out.”

“Didn’t feel like saying it over text.”

Another beat passed. Then, gently, “So… what’s going on?”

You hesitated. Picked at the seam of the blanket. And then—

“He came here today,” you said.

Silence.

“…What?”

You swallowed. “James. He showed up. Helped me build the crib.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Mike exhaled, sharp. “I told you that was a bad idea.”

“It’s his baby too,” you murmured. “He deserves to be here. To be a part of this.”

“Yeah, Yeah I get it but being there, being around you? That’s different.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just chewed your bottom lip and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

Mike continued. „He’s still a dangerous man. I know you two have a story but it’s just wrong. You’re under witness protection if—”

“He said he doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Oh.”

You heard the shift in Mike’s voice—from frustration to something quieter. Something that hurt for you.

“I told myself I wouldn’t ask for anything,” you whispered. “But then I did.”

“Of course you did,” he said.

You pressed your hand to your belly again, as if to ground yourself. “It was stupid.”

“Well,” he replied firmly. “I think you deserve to move on.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

So you just listened to the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line—steady, present, the only thing in the world right now that didn’t feel like it might slip away.

“…What if I don’t want to?” you finally whispered. “What if I can’t?”

Mike was quiet. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because he knew you needed the silence first. The space to let it breathe.

“Then that’s where you are right now,” he said gently. “But you won’t be stuck there forever.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “I wish I hated him.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “I know you do.”

And you meant it. You wished you could hate him as much as he hated you. As much as you hated yourself. But you didn’t and that was the worst part of all.

———

The next evening was quiet. The flat smelled like rosemary and garlic, something warm bubbling gently on the stove. You moved slowly around the kitchen, one hand absently resting on your belly as you stirred the pot with the other, humming under your breath like it might keep the loneliness at bay.

Then—a knock at the door.

You wiped your hands on a towel, shuffled to the door, and opened it.

James stood there, a little awkward, his free hand tucked into his coat pocket. In the other, he held a small gift bag—soft pastel yellow with white tissue paper peeking out.

„Hi,” he cleared his throat. „Sorry for coming so late,” he muttered, „I just… I was in town today.”

His eyes dropped to the bag and he lifted it slightly. „It’s for Rebecca.”

Something hit your chest—thick, heavy, soft. You reached out without a word and took the bag from him, your fingers brushing his.

Inside was a plush teddy bear, caramel-colored and impossibly soft, with a ribbon around its neck. Beneath it, a few tiny onesies folded neatly—neutral tones, soft fabrics. One of them had little stars on it.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until you looked up at him again.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, letting him step inside. „She’ll love it.”

His eyes softened at that. “Hope so.”

He hovered near the entrance a moment longer, then glanced at you—down at your belly, then back to your face.

“You feeling better?” he asked. “The cramps… did they come back?”

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “No. They didn’t. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he murmured, nodding. “That’s… good.”

There was a pause—comfortable, almost. He glanced around the house, taking in the warm light, the faint music playing from your phone in the kitchen, the scent of dinner still lingering in the air.

You moved to set the gift bag down gently on the coffee table, brushing a hand along the plush bear’s head before turning back toward him.

“You hungry?” you asked, voice soft. “I made enough.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening like he was weighing the risks. Then—

“Yeah. Sure.”

You gave a small nod and turned back toward the kitchen. He followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, eyes trailing over the shelves and photos and small signs of a life you’d started to build.

Plates clinked gently as you set them down. You didn’t say much—just moved around the kitchen like you knew it would be easier not to look at him too long.

James sat at the small table, fingers tapping once against the wood. “Smells good.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, sliding a plate in front of him. “It’s just pasta.”

“Still smells good.”

You sat down across from him. He ate slowly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

Halfway through the meal, he looked up. “You picked out a name,” he said, voice gentle. “Clothes. The nursery. You’ve done all this alone.”

You swallowed, but didn’t deny it. “Well, you helped me with the crib yesterday.”

James’s brow furrowed, gaze flickering down before he met your eyes again. “I should’ve—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “I should’ve been there. I know that.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He wasn’t telling you anything you hadn’t already told yourself a hundred times.

“She’s not even here yet and I already feel like I’ve failed her,” he said after a beat, quieter now.

You looked at him then. And despite everything… despite what he’d said the night before, you could see it written all over his face—the guilt, the conflict, the way he still wanted to be good.

For her. Not for you anymore. But still… for her.

“She doesn’t need perfect,” you said gently.

He exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of his plate. “I still don’t know how this is gonna look,” he admitted, voice low. “I can’t just… leave everything back in the States. The people I’ve dealt with—what I’ve done. It doesn’t just disappear.”

You nodded, eyes on your hands now, fingers brushing a flake of dried basil from the table. “I know.”

And you did. Of course you did. You’d known what his world looked like—how deep he was in it, how far gone.

But still… it stung. Watching the way he said it like it was out of his control, like it had already been decided. Like he wanted to be here but wouldn’t let himself.

He ran a hand down his face, tired, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to be the kind of father who shows up once every few months with a toy and a sorry.”

You looked at him.

And there it was.

Worry carved deep into the slope of his brow, his eyes glassy with all the things he hadn’t said. It was eating him alive already—just the idea of not being enough. Of missing too much. Of being a stranger to the little girl growing in your belly.

“She’s not even here yet,” he whispered, “and I already feel like I’m losing her.”

You reached across the table, your fingers brushing his—just barely, just enough for him to know you meant it.

“You’re not losing her,” you said softly. “Like you said—she’s not even here yet, and she already has a dad who’s thinking about her every day. Who cares. That’s more than a lot of kids ever get.”

James didn’t look up right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the plate in front of him, as if grounding himself with something, anything, that wasn’t the ache twisting in his chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You start by being here when you can. By calling. By asking about her. By showing up with teddy bears even when it’s hard for you to look me in the eye.”

You smiled faintly at that last part, trying to keep it light, but your voice cracked a little.

“You’re trying, James. That’s what matters.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were rimmed with red, but something in them had softened—like he wanted to believe you. Like maybe, for just this second, he did.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Of messing it up. Of hurting her without meaning to. Of not being here when she needs me.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“She won’t need perfect,” you said again, firmer this time. “She’ll need real. And you’re real. Scared and broken and trying… but real.”

And when he swallowed, his throat bobbing with emotion, you let your thumb trace over his knuckles, steady.

“She’ll love you anyway,” you whispered. “Because you’ll be hers.”

Chapter Eight… 💸

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you—you’re crossed out—it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetesharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj282 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot @lilylilyyyyyy @rue963 @miirasarchive @fleurenoir @figtreesandmoonlight @steph88x @starstruck-cowgirl @okaytrashpanda @lovely-seb @sinistersnakey @bananaminn @readscreamrepeat @yes-ilovetowrite @g0back2bed @jbuckybarnesimp @zombi3-girlz @paristheonewhoreads @justagirlcalledaddie @lovinqbella @thriving-n-jiving @lumpypoll @avivarougestan @wickedfun9 @borkybawnes

comment to be added to the tag list!

⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

503 notes · View notes

cadelinhadaromanoff · 18 days ago

Text

𝙽𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜

Summary: After a messy divorce, Scarlett Johansson moves to a quiet house in the woods with her young son. Her plans for peace are quickly derailed by nosy cattle, a sarcastic neighbor, and a series of chaotic (and hilarious) encounters. But somewhere between wild animals and electric fences, a strange and unexpected connection begins to grow.

Paring: Scarlett Johansson x Reader

Word count: 6907

Warnings: Divorce, Dead Rat, Ox doing gardening, Scarlett being a diva

Author's notes: First of all, I want to apologize for the pause in Keep Telling Yourself That. I’m still stuck in a creative block and honestly have no idea how to move the story forward besides the lack of time as well 🤡. And I am going to reply all your asks very soon thanks for all the love you guys are giving me <3

In the meantime, I brought this as a little apology… and because I laughed way too much while writing it. I really hope it makes you laugh (or at least smile) as much as it did for me. Fair warning: this will very likely NOT get a part two.

゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🪻 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🐄 ‎ ₊

　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶´ᵔ ᵕ ᵔᵕ˶ ₎ა ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

　　　˳ 　　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　˚₊

After her divorce, Scarlett had sworn off everything that even vaguely resembled Los Angeles — the cameras, the parties, the constant need to smile like she wasn’t slowly being eaten alive. She didn’t want another staged interview where she had to laugh about her “exciting new chapter.” She didn’t want to wear makeup. She didn’t want to talk about her ex. She didn’t even want to talk about her career.

She just wanted to breathe.

So she bought a house in the woods. A real one. Not a rustic fantasy designed by architects for a Vanity Fair photoshoot. No. This one had creaky wooden floors, a fireplace that hadn’t worked in decades, and ivy claiming every inch of the southern wall. The place smelled of damp soil and something older. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was quiet. And it was hers.

She started waking up before the sun. Drinking coffee in a heavy mug she found in the attic. Planting things with her bare hands — mostly wrong, she suspected. She didn’t care. The garden grew unevenly, wildly, like it was celebrating her freedom with her.

She wore the same boots every day. Cut her own hair in the mirror with sewing scissors. Answered texts only when she felt like it, which was almost never. If the world wanted her, it could wait.

So when she heard a car pull up behind her one morning — the crunch of tires on gravel just loud enough to cut through the buzz of insects and the rustle of her gloves in the soil — she didn’t look up right away. She assumed it was the delivery guy who always left her packages too far from the porch.

And then she heard a voice.

A compliment.

Low, casual. Like you belonged there. Like you knew her.

She rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her hands, not even turning around before replying with just enough bite in her voice to make her point.

“Look, I moved here for a reason. If you’re a fan or—God forbid—a paparazzo, I will not hesitate to call the sheriff. Or worse, I’ll give you my ex-husband’s number and let him deal with you.”

She turned.

And that’s when she saw you.

Not with a phone. Not holding a camera. Just standing there like someone who lived here. One brow slightly raised. Your arms crossed as if you couldn’t believe her ego had actually reached these trees.

You rolled your eyes — an honest-to-God, theatrical roll — and let out a dry little scoff.

“I was just trying to be nice,” you muttered. “Wanted to let you know the neighbor’s Nelore cattle broke through the fence and they’re, uh… currently trampling your lavender.”

Scarlett blinked.

You looked her up and down once. Not in admiration. In amusement. Like she was the absurd one here.

“They’re territorial. Real beasts. Ready to kill something if they’re feeling moody.” You paused, pointing lazily over your shoulder. “Might wanna call the neighbor before you end up on the evening news.”

And then you were gone. Just like that. Hopping into your car with a half-laugh still lingering in the air, dust rising behind your tires, and Scarlett left staring at her lavender patch being annihilated by two very large, very aggressive cows.

She didn’t know whether to scream… or laugh.

Scarlett stared at the lavender — or what remained of it — in a daze. Two massive Nelore bulls stood in the middle of her flower bed like smug, horned villains straight out of a Western. One of them mooed at her. Mooed. Loud and long, like it knew she had once been the highest-paid actress in the world and still didn’t care.

She took three steps back, whipped out her phone with dirt-stained fingers, and hit the number she swore she’d never use unless it was a literal emergency: Mr. Alfredo, the elusive 84-year-old neighbor who owned the “ranch” next door. Ranch was generous. It was mostly fence posts and chaos.

The phone rang five times.

He picked up with a grunt.

“Your cows,” Scarlett said, voice shrill, “are ATTACKING my lavender! I’m not kidding, Mr. Alfredo, they are OUTSIDE. They are HERE. On my land. Breathing on my tomatoes.”

“Which cows?” he asked, bored.

“The murdery ones!” she shrieked. “The big horned ones that look like they’re planning a coup!”

He sighed. “Ah. Joaquim and Dandara. They get emotional sometimes.”

“EMOTIONAL?” She looked over just in time to see Dandara trying to sit in her antique wheelbarrow. The wheel snapped clean off. “One of them just crushed my cradle!”

“What cradle?”

“My decorative cradle! It’s vintage!”

Silence. Then a slow chuckle.

“I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t provoke them. Joaquim hates sarcasm.”

Scarlett hung up mid-sentence, clutching her phone like it could save her.

But now… she had another problem.

You.

She hadn’t asked your name. Or where you lived. All she knew was your smug little half-smile, your warning about beasts ready to kill something, and the deeply annoying fact that you were right. She scanned the treeline, practically vibrating with the need to track you down and… thank you? Apologize? Shove a cow at you?

She stormed up her driveway, determined. The only other house down the road was a charming A-frame with a mailbox that read “Lancaster.” Cute. She marched toward it with all the ferocity of a woman who once did her own stunts.

Except—she stopped halfway there, realizing she was still in her gardening overalls, one strap falling off, gloves tucked into her waistband, her boots caked in mud, and was that cow poop on her sleeve?!

She gasped.

“No. No no no—this is not how I meet people!”

She turned back, tripped over a root, caught herself, then turned back again.

“Whatever. I’ve been in worse premieres.”

By the time she reached your porch, she’d rehearsed five different ways to sound breezy and casual. All of them failed immediately when she knocked and shouted:

“HELLO?! You were right the demon cows are emotionally unstable and possibly psychic, and I’m pretty sure they’ve cursed me and my garden!”

No answer.

“Hello? Neighbor?! I—ugh.”

She peeked in through the side window and caught a glimpse of something pink. A cat bed. Of course. You were probably the type who rescued kittens and gave them vintage names like Myrtle or Captain Whiskers. She sighed and sat down on your porch, cross-legged, utterly defeated, smelling vaguely of manure and heartbreak.

Behind her, in the distance, Joaquim mooed again.

Scarlett flinched and groaned.

“God, just take the house. You win.”

Scarlett was about to give up entirely — possibly even accept her fate as a disgraced lavender farmer with cow trauma — when she heard the creak of a screen door behind her.

She turned, hopeful, brushing her hair from her face with the back of her wrist like she was in a movie and not… visibly smeared with cow shit and shame.

You stepped outside, squinting at her from the porch like she’d just stepped out of a swamp. You were holding a half-eaten piece of toast and wore pajama pants with tiny stars on them like this was all very routine.

You looked her up and down once — slowly — then raised your brows and said:

“I don’t give stale bread to rude blonde women covered in cow crap.”

Scarlett blinked.

You took another bite of toast.

“Just a personal rule. It’s on a sign somewhere. I think it’s the Fourth Commandment.”

Before she could form a reply — or a comeback, which was hard with her dignity leaking from her pores — your cat slinked past your legs and trotted straight toward Scarlett like she’d been summoned by chaos itself.

A pale, elegant thing with a dramatically poofy tail and a little jingle on her collar.

Scarlett gasped. “Oh my God—hi, sweetheart,” she said instinctively, reaching out.

The cat immediately rubbed against her shin, purring so loudly it was almost suspicious.

You squinted again and took another bite of toast, chewing slowly.

“Petunia, get away from her. She’s probably contagious with, like, spoiled caviar parasites or a yacht flu.”

Scarlett straightened. “Excuse me?!”

“She might’ve touched a champagne flute before washing her hands. I can’t risk it. I just got you dewormed.”

Scarlett opened her mouth to respond — something dramatic, maybe noble — but paused.

“Wait. Petunia?”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I knew it.”

You blinked. “Knew what?”

“That your cat would have a vintage floral name. You look like the kind of person who would name a cat after a Victorian ghost.”

You stared at her for a second. Then grinned.

Scarlett hated that it was kind of cute.

Still, she huffed. “Well. I didn’t come here for carbs, or to be insulted. I came here to say thank you. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I might have… misjudged you earlier.”

“You think?”

“You were smug.”

“I was right.”

She pursed her lips.

You shrugged and stepped off the porch, scooping Petunia into your arms before she could fully imprint on Scarlett’s aura. “She’s already got asthma. I don’t need her developing diva lung.”

Scarlett muttered something about diva strength and crossed her arms — which only made the strap on her overalls fall again. Petunia pawed toward her longingly from your arms like she was being torn from a one-woman cult.

You turned halfway back to the door, then paused. “You want coffee?”

Scarlett stared.

You smirked. “Don’t worry. It’s not stale bread. And I can brew it without emotionally scarring anyone.”

She hesitated for one full second.

Then followed you inside like it was a perfectly normal morning and not the weirdest, most chaotic thing that had happened to her since the 2017 Oscars.

Scarlett stepped inside, and immediately it felt like she’d walked into a page torn out of one of those “Live Simply” lifestyle magazines — except yours didn’t feel curated or performative. It felt… real. Warm wood floors, pale curtains catching the breeze, soft cushions in earthy tones, and dried flowers hanging like delicate whispers from old hooks. Everything smelled faintly of cinnamon, books, and something that might’ve been lavender tea.

She blinked, caught off guard by the softness of it all. By the lack of chaos.

The only sound was the low rumble of the kettle heating on the stove and the little clink of mugs being set on the counter — and, well… the soul-piercing stare of a cat.

On the couch, stretched like an offended loaf of pumpernickel, was a small black feline with a short, crooked tail that twitched just once as their glowing yellow eyes locked onto her with a disgusted intensity that felt… biblical.

Scarlett stilled.

The cat didn’t blink.

Its entire vibe screamed: You don’t belong here, peasant.

“Oh my God,” Scarlett whispered. “Is he judging me?”

You turned from the counter without missing a beat. “Yeah. That’s Captain Scratches. And yes, that’s the correct reaction to someone who threatens Petunia with rich girl germs.”

Scarlett’s jaw dropped.

You slid a mug toward her — clean, ceramic, with tiny little blueberries painted near the rim. The steam rising from it smelled like the beginning of a forgiveness arc.

“Fresh coffee,” you said. “No cow spit. No passive aggression. You’re welcome.”

Scarlett took it slowly, half expecting another insult to be hiding at the bottom. But it was warm. Comforting. Possibly the best-smelling thing she’d encountered since she moved into her disaster of a fixer-upper.

She took a careful sip, then glanced back at the couch.

Captain Scratches hadn’t moved. Still loafed. Still judging.

“He… kind of looks like a very angry loaf of bread.”

“That’s because he is an angry loaf of bread. He was born cranky and partially tail-less. The vet said he’s fine physically, just spite-based.”

Scarlett gave a soft, involuntary laugh — the kind that slipped out before she could control it.

“I mean… respect,” she muttered. “He gets it.”

You leaned against the counter, eyes glinting with amusement. “And you? You still feel personally victimized by the cows?”

She groaned. “I was not emotionally prepared for a livestock ambush.”

“They broke your cradle.”

“You don’t have to keep bringing that up.”

You sipped your own coffee, smiling into the mug. “You sat on my porch like a haunted Victorian governess and yelled about cow curses.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

Captain Scratches let out a long, slow sigh, as if offended by the flirtatious undertones.

Scarlett raised her mug in the cat’s direction. “To your judgment, Captain. May it be as eternal as your disapproval.”

He blinked once.

She looked back at you. “He likes me now. That was a blessing.”

You laughed softly. “If you survive the next 24 hours without Petunia bringing you a dead beetle offering, I’ll believe it.”

Scarlett took another sip of coffee, slowly settling into the strange warmth of it all — the soft morning light, your unapologetically sarcastic presence, the two weird cats, the mug in her hand.

She hadn’t expected any of this. But maybe that was the point?

The coffee between you and Scarlett was warm and surprisingly soothing, like a gentle exhale after the chaos of the Nelore invasion. Your kitchen smelled faintly of fresh herbs and old wood, the sunlight filtering through linen curtains casting soft, golden pools on the floor.

You leaned against the counter, sipping from your mug while she cradled hers with both hands, occasionally glancing around the room — curious but hesitant, as if trying to decide whether she was still dreaming or actually here.

Between sips, you offered her practical advice about the fence, your voice low and casual but unmistakably firm.

“Honestly? That fence? It’s a joke. You’ll want to reinforce it, or those Nelore beasts will show up at your window with a cow’s head pressed right against the glass. Imagine your kids waking up to that nightmare.”

Scarlett chuckled, a little breathless, almost like she appreciated the vivid image.

“You’re not kidding. That would definitely ruin my ‘quiet retreat in the woods’ vibe.”

You shrugged, smirking.

“Mr. Alfredo’s got a good heart, but the man’s lucky if he remembers his own birthday. If you rely on him for fence repairs or anything more complicated, you’re on your own. Best bet is to call a contractor yourself, fix it right, and then just send Alfredo the bill.”

She raised an eyebrow at you.

“Send him the bill?”

“Absolutely. He sold you the house, he won’t mind — or he’ll mind a little, but it’s his mess to clean up.”

Scarlett smiled, the kind of smile that was both amused and grateful, the kind that told you she was beginning to appreciate this strange, sarcastic neighbor with a penchant for feline judgment.

The conversation drifted then — a little less formal, a little more easy. You swapped stories about the occasional wildlife visitors, the quirks of living out here, and the mysterious charm of rural life that city folk could never understand.

She admitted she missed the city sometimes — the energy — but this? the anonymity this was something else. A chance to start over without an audience, without expectations.

You joked that she might want to invest in a scarecrow shaped like a Terminator to keep the cows in line.

She laughed, nearly spilling her coffee, and told you she’d consider it.

Eventually, she stood, smoothing down her overalls and gathering her things.

“Thanks for the coffee… and the advice. I’ll probably need more of both.”

You nodded, already imagining the next time you’d cross paths.

Scarlett stepped back outside, the cool air brushing against her cheeks like a soft reminder that this place — wild, unpredictable, messy — was hers now. She looked down at her hands, still a little stained with soil, and then toward the patch of lavender struggling to survive. The memory of your sarcastic warning about the cows’ murderous tendencies made her smirk despite herself.

As she walked back toward her house, a sudden rustling in the bushes made her freeze. Her heart jumped—not out of fear, but because she was beginning to expect the unexpected here.

The afternoon morning came slowly, wrapped in the kind of pale, golden light that makes everything feel softer than it is. Dew still clung to the grass, and the fields smelled of earth and promise. Somewhere, a rooster cried far too confidently for someone who hadn’t seen the city in years. The kettle began to hiss inside just as she stepped out onto the porch with bare feet and sleepy eyes.

The world was quiet again—but not the kind of quiet that made her wary. The kind that felt like a pause, like something was holding its breath.

But it was just you, casually leaning against your car, arms crossed, watching her with that same half-amused, half-exasperated look.

“Missed me?” you teased.

Scarlett rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just making sure my garden didn’t get totally destroyed.”

“Well, I am telling you’ve got a few days before the next attack,” you warned, pointing toward a sagging section of her fence. “If you don’t fix that, your kids might wake up to a cow’s face pressed against their bedroom window.”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe they need to toughen up.”

You laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Or maybe you do.”

The air between you felt lighter than before, more charged too—as if the shared battle against rampaging cattle had broken some invisible ice.

“Seriously though, do it. Don't wait for the men to do something” you said, stepping closer, “I’m serious about the fence. And Mr. Alfredo? Good man, but if you want that fixed right, you’ll have to call someone yourself. Then send him the bill. Trust me.”

Scarlett sighed, nodding. “Sounds like I’m going to need a lot of help.”

You shrugged. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

For a moment, you both stood there, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the gravel road between your houses. Then Scarlett tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Think you can help me find someone who knows how to fix a fence?”

You smirked. “I know a guy. And he owes me a favor.”

Her smile softened. “Good. Because I’m not going to let any more cows invade my garden.”

You laughed. “Deal. But only if you promise not to sit on my porch yelling about cow curses again.”

She grinned. “No promises.” Scarlett did get the guy’s number, but instead of calling, she stubbornly decided to ignore your advice and wait for Mr. Alfredo to show up…

A few days passed. The lavender began to show signs of recovery — stubborn little green shoots curling back toward the sun — and the house started to feel less like an escape and more like something she could actually belong to. Scarlett kept busy. Fixing up the porch. Reorganizing the kitchen cabinets. Pretending she wasn’t glancing toward your house more than she should.

She didn’t run into you again — not at the mailbox, not in the woods, not even at the quiet gravel road that connected your two lives. She told herself that was fine. Good, even. You were just a neighbor. Helpful. Direct. Infuriatingly funny. It wasn’t like she was waiting or anything.

Still, on the third morning of silence, she stood barefoot in her kitchen, pouring coffee into a chipped blue mug, and muttered to herself, “I should’ve at least asked her name.”

As if on cue, there was a sudden, sharp thud from the back of the house — followed by a muffled, very unholy moo.

Scarlett froze. “No.”

Another thud. Louder. Closer.

“No no no—”

She sprinted to the window and yanked open the curtain. And there, with the exact dramatic flair of a horror movie monster, stood Joaquim. Again. His massive head just inches from the glass, eyes blank, chewing something she prayed wasn’t her oregano.

He stared at her like he’d returned to finish what he started.

She cursed under her breath, scrambled for her phone, and punched in the only number she knew would answer in under five rings.

You.

“Hello?” Your voice, casual. Calm. Possibly still in bed.

“There’s a cow at my window.”

A pause. “Again?”

“I think it’s the same one. I think it’s holding a grudge.”

You snorted. “Did you fix the fence?”

“I— I meant to!”

“Well, he meant to eat your entire herb garden, so.”

Scarlett growled softly. “Do you have a broom? Or a taser? Or a very firm voice?”

“I’ll be there in five.”

True to your word, you arrived in five minutes — hair pulled back, boots half-laced, holding a metal rake like you were preparing for war.

Scarlett met you at the back gate, pointing dramatically at the oversized menace.

“There. That’s him. Joaquim. The lavender-crusher.”

You sighed deeply and marched past her like this was all painfully routine. With a few loud claps and a stern voice (and one incredibly creative insult involving beef jerky), you got him to move. Slowly. Disrespectfully. But move, he did.

Scarlett stood there, stunned.

You turned to her. “You really didn’t fix the fence?”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what? Staring at tomatoes?”

She hesitated. “…Yes.”

You shook your head with a laugh and gestured toward her toolshed. “We’ll patch it. Temporarily. Just enough so he doesn’t come knocking like some weird ex-boyfriend.”

She followed you toward the shed, her coffee still in hand, trying not to smile too much.

“I didn’t catch your name last time,” she said quietly.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Y/n.”

Scarlett repeated it under her breath. “Y/n.” Then smirked. “Well, Y/n… Now I owe you coffee.”

You looked at her with a glint in your eye. “Make it strong. I don’t rescue women from cows for free.”

And that’s when Scarlett knew this wouldn’t be the last time she called you.

Scarlett didn’t know what she expected when you said “patch the fence”, but it definitely wasn’t this.

You stood at the edge of her property, sleeves rolled up, a coil of electric wire over one shoulder, work gloves on, and a multitool strapped to your belt like some kind of intimidating rural superhero. Scarlett trailed behind you in boots she wasn’t sure were waterproof and a denim jacket that did nothing to hide the fact that she was already regretting every decision she had ever made regarding livestock management.

You dropped the coil next to a splintered post and turned to her, serious as death.

“Alright. We’re going electric.”

Scarlett blinked. “Like… electrocute the cows?”

You gave her a look. “No. Just a little buzz. A warning zap. Enough to say, ‘Hey buddy, this is not your salad bar.’”

She stared at the wire like it might leap up and bite her.

“I’m not sure I love the idea of weaponizing the perimeter…”

“You know what I don’t love? Looking out my window and seeing the reincarnation of Mufasa standing in your herb patch.”

Scarlett huffed. “He’s not that big.”

“He’s an emotional terrorist in a fur coat,” you shot back, already threading the wire through the insulators. “Trust me, your kids will thank you.”

She sighed, folding her arms. “My kids are three and eight. I don’t think they’ll thank me when they get their first life-altering trauma from your fancy cow taser.”

You snorted. “Then don’t let them lick the fence.”

Scarlett blinked. “Who does that?!”

You pointed at her with a gloved hand. “Children. Children do that. They see a fence and think it’s a snack or a challenge. Tell them it’s cursed or full of ghosts or something.”

She groaned. “You’re a menace.”

You grinned, completely unbothered. “I’m a practical woman. Now hold this.”

She took the spool of wire reluctantly, standing awkwardly while you moved with practiced ease, hammering in a new post, securing the lines, and connecting the charger to a very ominous-looking battery pack.

Scarlett flinched every time something clicked or sparked.

“You know, when I moved here,” she muttered, “I imagined growing tomatoes. Maybe reading a book under a tree. Not surviving The Revenant starring cow-shaped trauma.”

You stood up, brushing off your hands. “Well, surprise. You’ve officially joined the war against large ungulates.”

Scarlett looked at the now-zinging fence, wires humming softly with warning.

“And it won’t, like… fry me, right?”

You smirked. “Not unless you decide to throw yourself against it while holding a toaster.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Y/n.”

You raised both hands. “It’s safe. I promise. You could touch it and you’d just get a little jolt.”

“I’m not going to touch it.”

“Then you’re good!”

She eyed the wire suspiciously.

You stepped back to admire your work. The line was straight, tight, and honestly kind of beautiful in its own grim rural way.

“There,” you said with satisfaction. “No more bovine break-ins. Your lavender’s safe. Your cradle can rest in peace.”

Scarlett chuckled despite herself.

Then you turned to her, brushing dirt off your palms. “Now. If anything breaks? Don’t call Mr. Alfredo. Call me. I can actually read instructions.”

She smiled, one brow arched. “And what do I owe you for today’s electrified masterpiece?”

You thought for a second. “Coffee. Strong. And a muffin. Something cinnamon. No raisins. I don’t trust people who like raisins.”

Scarlett gave a slow, dramatic nod. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I work with livestock and rich people. I’ve built up resistance.”

Scarlett watched you brush the last bit of dirt from your hands, that quiet satisfaction in your posture like someone who actually enjoyed knowing how things worked. You were still smirking, clearly proud of your electrified, cow-repelling masterpiece.

And she didn’t know what came over her — maybe the lingering hum of adrenaline, maybe the weird comfort she felt whenever you were near — but the words slipped out before she had time to second-guess them.

“You want to come inside? I owe you that coffee now.”

You blinked, surprised. Just for a moment.

Then you nodded, casual as ever. “Only if your house is cow-free.”

“I checked all the closets this morning.”

You followed her up the porch steps, your boots leaving little trails of dry earth on her welcome mat. Inside, the house was warm and a little chaotic — half-unpacked boxes in the hallway, a mismatched pair of rainboots by the door, a folded quilt thrown over the back of the couch like someone had fallen asleep under it not too long ago.

The air smelled faintly of apple-scented cleaner and fresh laundry. Real. Lived in.

You were mid-step into the living room when a blur of motion came hurtling around the corner on socked feet.

A tiny, pajama-clad missile with a head full of messy curls and wide eyes. Scarlett barely had time to call out before her son skidded to a stop in front of you.

He stared.

You stared back.

He blinked slowly — a little suspicious, very curious.

You crouched a bit, dropping into that instinctive, soft body language reserved for tiny humans and cats named Petunia.

“Hey there,” you said gently. “You must be the tomato-guardian.”

He didn’t answer.

Just reached up and handed you… a half-eaten cracker he had clearly been working on for a while.

Scarlett, mortified, opened her mouth to intervene — but you just took it like it was gold, like it was a sacred ritual.

“Wow,” you said seriously. “This is for me?”

He nodded solemnly.

You nodded back. “Big honor. Thank you, Sir Crumbs-a-Lot.”

He gave a tiny, toothy grin. Then ran off again with a shriek, disappearing behind the couch like a gremlin.

Scarlett blinked. “Okay… so I guess you’re part of the family now.”

You straightened with a grin, holding up the cracker like it was your official badge.

“Do I get a sippy cup and voting privileges, or…?”

She laughed, a warm, breathy sound that surprised even her. “If you can get him to eat a full meal and not just string cheese and olives, I’ll consider you for co-parenting.”

You followed her into the kitchen, the tension from earlier bleeding into something softer. She busied herself at the coffee machine while you leaned against the doorway, watching her with a subtle kind of curiosity.

Scarlett kept her back to you for a moment longer than necessary, suddenly aware of the way she’d hastily tucked her hair into a loose clip, of the smudge of soil still near her elbow. She didn’t usually feel self-conscious in her own kitchen, and certainly not around neighbors with sarcasm in their pockets and electric wires coiled under their arms.

“You like it black?” she asked over her shoulder.

You lifted an eyebrow. “You calling me predictable?”

“I’m calling you practical,” she replied, turning around with two mismatched mugs in hand — one with a faded Broadway logo, the other with a cracked handle and a drawing of a goat that said I kid you not.

You took the goat mug with a smirk, inspecting it like fine china. “A woman of culture.”

“I try.”

You sipped, humming a little in approval. She leaned against the counter across from you, folding her arms as if settling into a new rhythm she hadn’t quite expected.

“Thanks for helping with the fence,” she said, her tone suddenly a little quieter. “I know I joked, but… really. That thing’s been keeping me up.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’re not the first newcomer who underestimates how territorial Nelore bulls are. Or how annoying Alfredo can be when you ask for help twice in one week.”

Scarlett chuckled, a warm line forming at the corner of her eyes. “He did promise to fix the gutters last Thursday. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Classic.” You sipped again. “Next time, hire your own guy. Just send Alfredo the invoice and a plate of cookies. He’ll feel guilty enough to mow your lawn for a month.”

She was still smiling when her son reappeared in the doorway, one small hand rubbing sleep from his eye, the other clutching a plastic truck missing its wheels.

He made a beeline for you again, this time less shy, his tiny legs clambering awkwardly onto the bench beside you like he’d claimed his spot.

Scarlett blinked, startled. “Wow. He doesn’t usually…”

You waved her off, setting your mug down. “He’s a good judge of character. Clearly.”

The little boy shoved the broken truck toward you as if demanding repairs. Without missing a beat, you flipped it upside down, inspecting it like a pro.

“Well,” you muttered seriously. “This is a disaster. I’ll have to bring the full toolbox next time.”

Scarlett watched as her son stared at you like you were magic. Something in her chest tightened — not in a heavy way, not grief, not longing. Just… surprise. A softness she hadn’t felt in a while.

He didn’t do that with strangers.

He barely did that with her sister.

“I think he likes you,” she said, reaching for her coffee again.

You looked at the boy, who was now leaning against your arm and chewing on a string from his sleeve, utterly content.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think I like him too.”

There was a pause. One of those rare, dense silences that didn’t feel awkward or empty — just full. Charged.

And then you ruined it, bless you.

“Maybe he just wants the rest of my cracker.”

Scarlett snorted, covering her mouth. “You’re not that charming.”

You raised your mug. “Give it time.��

The house felt a little quieter after you left.

Scarlett cleaned up the coffee mugs slowly, pretending she wasn’t still hearing your laugh in the kitchen tiles or the way her son had curled so naturally against your side, like it wasn’t a brand-new connection, like you’d always been part of the furniture.

She didn’t like that — how easy it had been. Or rather, she did like it. And that was the problem.

The next morning, she was pouring cereal into a bowl when she heard the unmistakable thunk-thunk of hammering just past the tomato bed. At first, she thought it was Alfredo finally returning from the dead to do the gutters, but when she stepped onto the porch, squinting into the sunlight, she saw… someone else entirely.

A man. Toolbelt. Setting wooden posts in a neat, curved line that followed the slope of her property.

She blinked.

He waved.

“Morning! I’m here to build the fence. Materials are in the truck.”

Scarlett raised a hand awkwardly. “Wait—what fence?”

The man pulled out his phone and double-checked a note. “Says here it’s already paid. Custom design, cedar wood, no exposed electric, kid-safe, cow-proof.” He grinned. “Pretty fancy. You’ve got good taste.”

Scarlett stared at him. Then at the posts. Then at the neat little bundle of invoices tied to the clipboard hanging on his belt.

There wasn’t a note. No smug message. Not even a doodle of a cow getting zapped.

Just… a fence.

By the time he’d finished outlining the first third of it, she realized it wasn’t just functional — it was beautiful. Curved just right to frame her garden. Sturdy, but soft in its lines. The electric wires you’d put in were subtly re-routed, now hidden inside carved channels. Still there. Still effective. But nowhere near the eyesore she’d feared.

She stood at the edge of her porch in loose flannel and leggings, barefoot, arms crossed and jaw tight in disbelief.

And then she heard it.

A snort.

From behind the oak tree near the edge of your property.

She turned her head sharply — and there you were. Hoodie on. Coffee in hand. Looking way too smug for someone who clearly hadn’t brushed their hair yet.

“Did you—”

You took a slow sip. “It’s not dangerously electric anymore. You can let the kid chase butterflies without risk of trauma.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

“You could’ve at least asked.”

“I did. Yesterday. You said thanks for helping with the fence.”

“That’s not permission to—”

“Eh,” you shrugged, already walking back toward your porch. “Charge Alfredo.”

“Wait—was this a guilt gift for insulting me in front of my child?”

You called out over your shoulder, without turning around:

“Nope. That was a gift for him. This is just me being neighborly.”

And you disappeared behind your door.

Scarlett blinked. Again.

She looked at the fence.

Then the sky.

Then back at your house, where she could still see your cat — Petunia — sprawled across the porch railing, giving her a look of absolute feline judgment.

She muttered under her breath, “This town is going to ruin me.”

It had been three days since the Fence Episode. Three days of quiet, of trying not to glance out the window every time your truck rolled down the gravel path. Three days of wondering if she should say thank you again. Or drop off cookies. Or file a restraining order for unsolicited carpentry and light flirtation.

Scarlett was mid-way through watering the potted lavender on her porch when she heard the distinct sound of something being dropped. Something wet.

Something that had a thud.

She froze. Slowly turned her head.

There, right at the top of the porch steps, stood your cat. Capitán. That small, black, rectangular loaf of disdain. His twisted tail flicked once, a lazy punctuation to the act of horror he had just committed.

At his feet lay a rat.

Not a little country field mouse. No, no. This thing was massive. A rodent built like it had been lifting grain sacks in a barn for twenty years. Dead as sin. Belly-up. One leg twitching from whatever feline justice had been served.

Scarlett dropped the watering can.

Capitán blinked slowly, then sat, tail curling around his feet. He didn’t meow. He didn’t need to. The message was clear:

“I see you. I respect you. Here is the corpse of your enemy.”

Scarlett stepped back.

“Oh my god.”

She looked around frantically, half-hoping you were watching so she could scream at you, or possibly sob. But your porch was empty, your windows dark. Petunia was sunbathing somewhere, presumably too elegant to hunt.

“Is this because I insulted your grooming routine?” she hissed at the cat, who continued to stare like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle.

She considered just going inside and pretending it wasn’t there. Let the wind take it. Let time erase the trauma.

But then her son toddled to the screen door behind her, curious. “Mama?”

Panic. Immediate.

“No! No no no—back inside, buddy. That’s not—there’s nothing fun out here!”

She slammed the door shut, turned back to Capitán, and pointed a trembling finger. “You. You stay right there.”

He yawned.

Two minutes later, she walked a few meters down the gravel path armed with an old dustpan, Scarlett marched down your path like a woman on the edge.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t ring.

She yelled from your front yard.

“HEY. YOUR CAT IS A SERIAL KILLER.”

You opened the door slowly, still chewing a bite of toast. “Capitán?”

“HE BROUGHT ME A RAT. A DENSE ONE.”

You stepped onto the porch, peering past her. “Oh. Huh. That’s generous of him. He doesn’t usually like blondes.”

Scarlett stared at you, disheveled, holding a plastic Target bag that now contained a double-bagged rodent corpse and what was left of her faith in the countryside.

You sipped your coffee, eyes twinkling. “That’s actually a good sign.”

“HE’S TWISTED.”

“He’s family.”

Scarlett shook the bag lightly. “What do I do with this?”

You gestured calmly. “Tie it. Hang it from your porch like a warning to other rats.”

She blinked. “I hate you.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing her porch with vinegar and soap, cursing both the cat and your unnerving ability to stay completely unbothered by woodland murder. The lavender was spared, but her dignity wasn’t. Her son, however, had pointed at the dead rat with the wide-eyed wonder of someone discovering The Lion King in real life.

“Scawy!” Cosmo had whispered, crouching dramatically like he was about to narrate the Circle of Life.

“Exactly,” Scarlett muttered under her breath, scrubbing so hard her shoulder ached.

It had been a long time since she’d done this kind of work — hands raw, knees dusty, back bent and sore in ways no personal trainer could’ve prepared her for. She wiped sweat off her brow with the inside of her wrist, only to realize she’d smeared soap and rat-related trauma across her temple.

“Ugh. Why is it sticky?” she groaned.

Cosmo, perched on the step above her, was still staring at the scene of the crime with a kind of reverent silence.

“He died-ed?”

“Yes, baby. He died-ed.” She gave one last furious scrub to the floorboard, then tossed the sponge into a bucket with a dramatic splash. “And he probably had a name, because that cat doesn’t kill strangers. He kills friends.”

Cosmo blinked slowly. “Cap’tan make him sleep?”

Scarlett paused. “…Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He looked pensive, chubby hand pressed to his mouth like he was in mourning.

Scarlett sighed, standing with a groan and stretching her back. “Listen, kiddo. If Capitán brings you a rat, it’s not a snack. It’s a threat.”

Cosmo nodded solemnly.

“And if you ever pick one up—”

“I eat it?”

“No! No, no—God, absolutely not.”

Cosmo blinked up at her, unbothered, a little smudge of dirt under one eye and curls damp with summer sweat. “But Cap’tan eated it.”

Scarlett held his squishy little cheeks in her hands and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s because Capitán is a sociopath, honey.”

Cosmo giggled, mostly because she made a face when she said it, not because he knew what it meant. Then, with all the grace of a drunk duckling, he leaned into her neck and yawned. “You sme’ like pickles,” he whispered sleepily.

She let out a laugh, weary and warm, and scooped him up again, stepping back into the house with him wrapped around her like a sloth. His tiny fingers clung to her tank top as his breathing slowed against her shoulder.

The house smelled like soap and lemon oil and the faint, fading stench of rat crime. She dropped the towel by the door, walked barefoot across the floor she hadn’t quite finished cleaning, and gently laid him on the couch. Capitán was still curled there, glaring like a Victorian ghost. Scarlett narrowed her eyes.

“We’re not speaking.”

The cat blinked. Slowly. Unapologetically.

She sighed and slumped into the armchair opposite them, letting the quiet settle for the first time all day. Her eyes drifted to the porch through the open window. Your yard was just visible through the trees, the faint shimmer of your electric wire catching the afternoon sun.

She had laughed when you explained it earlier — that dry, sarcastic smile of yours wrapped around a warning not to traumatize her children with barbed voltage. The way you just… existed out here. Like it was easy. Like animals and chaos and strange cats were just part of the rhythm. And that damn joke about not giving dry bread to rude blonde women — she should’ve been insulted.

She wasn’t.

She couldn’t even deny it — there was something about you. The way you spoke like everything had a punchline. The way you rolled your eyes like her fame meant nothing out here, like you weren’t afraid to call her ridiculous when she was being dramatic (which, fine — maybe, maybe she’d overreacted about the cow invasion). It was oddly grounding. Infuriatingly so.

“Ugh,” she muttered aloud, rubbing her temple. “Why do I like you?”

Cosmo, now barely awake, lifted one finger in the air. “She funny,” he whispered again, as if it solved everything.

Scarlett looked over at him, startled.

She smiled despite herself and leaned her head back against the chair.

“Yeah,” she murmured, watching the light move across the ceiling. “She kinda is.”

And just like that, the silence folded in around them again — warm, strange, a little dangerous. The kind of quiet where something new could start.

#natasha romanoff #scarlett johansson x reader #scarlett johansson #sapphic #lesbian #farm life #farmcore #cottagecore #baby!fic #natasha romanoff x reader

616 notes · View notes

everythingspokenfor · 3 months ago

Text

All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI.

You have a dragon cock dildo, a ginormous, black, bumpy toy, with thick ridges and prominent veins, it's a gift, from yourself.

It stays hidden in the depths of your closet, never sees the light of the day, unless you have your girl friends over and you pull it out for shits and giggles.

Even then, it's not necessarily a sex toy but perhaps a piece of decor, only if your were bold enough you would actually display it.

If you were being honest, you had forgotten about it, until today, until this very moment, until this very text.

Shouto: Is this what I think it is? *Image* 3:34pm

You stare in utter shock, as your crush cradles your 16 inches long dragon cock dildo, in his arms, his cheek smushed slightly against the flared tip of the dildo, one arm wrapped around it, the other holding the inflated base.

You rush home, sick to your stomach, at the verge of throwing up, there goes my chance of even having a friendship with him.

Thousand thoughts race through your mind, of all the things he would say to your face, look at you in disgust as he rushes out of your apartment, your panic increase when you think him telling others why he broke of the friendship, she had a dragon cock dildo, ew.

The keys jingle loudly, along with the thumping of your rapid heartbeat, in the otherwise empty hallway.

You open the door abruptly, the image of utterly disgusted and disappointed Shouto painted in your vision, you wheeze out slightly, heaving as you try to catch your breath.

The walk to the living room is dreadful, you turn sharply, hoping that fate isn't cruel, hoping that he is understan-

"Oh! You are home early." Shouto tilts his head in question, as he takes in your disheveled look, "Was the bus too crowded?" He queried, as he stood up to hover around you.

His calmness scared you a little, shouldn't he have left by now, "I was just excited to be home, rushed here as soon as I got off." You mumbled sheepishly, hands clammy as you moved to put your bag away

"Here, let me." Shouto reacts immediately, thick fingers coming to grab the straps of your bag, placing it on the couch beside you, before reaching for your coat, he helps you take it off, "I ordered food, I was going to cook but that wouldn't go well."

You smile at him, as much as you want to move on and pretend that image didn't exist, your brain doesn't allow it, curiosity gets the best of you, as you ask him, "Umm Sho, that picture you send me-"

He ears turn red immediately,"I put flowers in it, if that's alright."

What. The fuck.

"What vase, Sho?"

"The one in the photo, the opening was really small, so I could only fit in two stems." Shouto moves into the kitchen, gesturing for you to follow him. You turn to look where he is looking and-

Lo and behold, a rose and what seemed like a daffodil was poking out of the tip of the toy, their stems slithered into the opening, the toy itself was placed at the very centre of your small dining table.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Shouto admires his own work, arms folded behind himself as he looks at his own masterpiece. "If you don't mind we should keep this here, I'll bring new flowers for it too."

Your eye twitches a little, it's difficult to tell if this is better or worse than what you initially thought, "It's pretty... but it's a bit dull too, so I think we should get a prettier vase for the dining table."

You hope that is convincing enough, that he'll let go of the topic and you'll yoink that thing and shove it your closet again.

"You are right, it is a bit dark for the dining room, I'll look for different variant soon." He concludes, you let out a sigh of relief.

"You can do that, I'll go and take a quick shower before dinner," You tell him over your shoulder, moving to grab that thing off the table and walking towards your room.

To Bakubestie: Can your parents re-design this vase with brighter colours? *image* 5:15pm

From Bakubestie: IS THAT A FUCKING DILDO ICYTHOT??!??! 5:16pm

What.

Dividers by: @diviniyae 💖✨

434 notes · View notes

dxrlingluv · 3 months ago

Note

Pranking the other gods with Hermes as your partner and crime? 👉👈 Gender neutral pls!!

Thanks you

Partners

Summary : Pranking the gods with your partner in crime, Hermes.

A/N : Please do support me by joining my discord server, thank you! Hermes art belongs to Zieru.

WARNING : GN!Reader, Platonic relationship… or is it?

Word Count : 2.2k

The golden halls of Mount Olympus were, to put it mildly, a snooze-fest. Zeus was delivering his ten-thousandth lecture on the proper etiquette for thunderbolt appreciation. Hera was seen polishing her crown, occasionally shooting glares that could curdle ambrosia at anyone who dared breathe too loudly. Ares was sharpening a sword with such vigor it sounded like a chorus of angry cicadas. In short, it was just another Tuesday.

You were perched on a cloud, idly trying to teach a cherubic cloud-sheep to play fetch with a miniature lightning bolt—It wasn't going well – the sheep mostly just looked confused and slightly singed—when a familiar blur of winged sandals and an even more familiar grin appeared beside you.

"Bored, darling?" Hermes asked, already knowing the answer. He didn't so much sit as materialize in a state of relaxed readiness, one eyebrow arched in a way that screamed 'I have an idea, and it's probably against several divine decrees.'

"Hermes," you sighed, giving up on the sheep, which had now decided the mini-bolt was a chew toy. "If I have to listen to one more syllable about thunderbolt acoustics, I might actually volunteer for Sisyphus's rock-rolling duty. At least that's got a consistent rhythm."

Hermes snapped his fingers. "My dearest partner in potential pandemonium, you read my mind! Or, well, I read yours. Perks of the job. Anyway, this celestial serenity? It's offensively dull. I was thinking Olympus could use a little... redecorating." His eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that promised laughter, chaos, and possibly a few minor divine tantrums.

"Redecorating?" you echoed, a slow smile spreading across your face. "Are we talking a new color scheme for the throne room, or something a bit more... interactive?"

"Oh, 'interactive' is my middle name," Hermes declared, puffing out his chest slightly. "Well, it's not, but it should be. I'm thinking a series of carefully curated experiences designed to liven things up. A festival of delightful disorder, if you will. And I, the God of Messengers, Thieves, and Excellent Ideas, require a co-conspirator of your particular genius."

And so, the Great Olympian Prank War was conceived, not with a bang, but with a shared smirk and the rustle of winged sandals itching for action.

Phase One: The King's New Squeak Toy

"Alright," you whispered, huddled with Hermes behind a particularly fluffy cloud that offered excellent surveillance of Zeus's private study. "Target number one: Papa Zeus. The man takes himself more seriously than a philosopher contemplating the meaning of a particularly stubborn olive."

Hermes nodded, already vibrating with barely contained energy. "The plan is simple, yet elegant. We swap his Master Bolt – the big, dramatic one he uses for emphasis – with... this!" He produced, with a flourish, a gigantic rubber chicken. It was bright yellow, had googly eyes that seemed to follow you, and when squeezed, emitted a sound that was less 'mighty thunder' and more 'strangled duck.'

"Perfection," you breathed. "But how do we create a diversion? He guards that bolt like Cerberus guards... well, you know."

Hermes winked. "Leave that to your friendly neighborhood speedster. You just be ready for the fallout. I predict a seventy percent chance of divine apoplexy, twenty percent confused sputtering, and a solid ten percent chance he actually finds it funny. Nah, who am I kidding? Zero percent on that last one."

True to his word, Hermes was a blur. One second, Zeus was admiring his bolt, the next, he was distracted by a sudden, inexplicable infestation of hyperactive squirrels — a Hermes special delivery — in Hera's nearby rose garden. The ensuing shrieks and calls for extermination provided the perfect window. Hermes zipped in, made the swap, and was back by your side, dusting off his hands, before Zeus even noticed the squirrels were, in fact, an illusion.

Later that day, during an emergency council meeting called to discuss the "grave threat" of the phantom squirrels, Zeus prepared to make a thunderous proclamation. He raised his hand, a dramatic pause filling the hall. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash verbal fury and a crackle of lightning...

SQUEEEAAAK!

The sound echoed. Zeus stared at the rubber chicken in his hand as if it had personally insulted his entire lineage. Poseidon, mid-sip of his saltwater smoothie, choked and sprayed a fine mist over a horrified Demeter. Apollo outright howled with laughter, falling off his sunbeam. Athena, ever composed, merely raised an eyebrow, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

"WHAT," Zeus bellowed, his face turning a fascinating shade of purple that clashed spectacularly with the yellow chicken, "IN THE NAME OF TARTARUS IS THIS?!"

Hermes, leaning against a pillar and buffing his nails, called out innocently, "Having some technical difficulties, Father?"

You had to stuff your fist in your mouth to keep from exploding with laughter.

Phase Two: Aphrodite's Azure Adventure

"Next up," you said, consulting the "Master Plan of Mayhem" you'd scribbled on a spare piece of ambrosia-scented parchment, "Aphrodite. She's been a bit too smug about her new 'Glow of Eternal Perfection' skin cream."

Hermes tapped his chin. "Ah, yes. The one that supposedly smells like 'a thousand dawn-kissed roses and the tears of unicorns who've just won the lottery.' We can do better."

Your grin was positively wicked. "I was thinking something a little more... vibrant."

The plan involved a delicate operation: replacing Aphrodite's prized cream with a concoction of your own. It still smelled divine, but it had a secret ingredient: a highly concentrated, fast-acting, but entirely harmless dye that would turn skin a brilliant, shimmering cerulean blue.

While Aphrodite was engrossed in a heated debate with Eros about the proper trajectory for love arrows: "Aim for the heart, not the kneecap, darling! It's about romance, not orthopedic surgery!"

Hermes, moving like a whisper, made the switch. He even left a tiny, complimentary "sample" of the blue goo for Ares, labelled "Macho Man Muscle Rub - Extra Potent!"

The results were spectacular. Aphrodite emerged for the evening symposium looking like a very surprised, very beautiful Smurf. There was a collective gasp. Hephaestus, her ex husband, actually dropped his hammer.

"My... my glow!" she shrieked, catching her reflection in Apollo's polished lyre. "I'm... I'm BLUE!"

Dionysus, never one to miss an opportunity for revelry, immediately declared, "Blue is the new gold, my dear! Utterly divine! A bold statement! You're a trendsetter!" He then tried to convince everyone to paint themselves blue in solidarity, an idea that was met with mixed, but mostly horrified, reactions.

Meanwhile, a distant roar of "HERMES! YOU INSIGNIFICANT GNAT! MY PECS ARE THE COLOR OF A FORGET-ME-NOT!" echoed from Ares's training grounds.

You and Hermes shared a high-five, nearly collapsing with silent laughter behind a statue of Hestia, who simply shook her head with an air of long-suffering amusement.

Phase Three: Hades Gets a Hobby

"Okay, this one's a bit more challenging," you mused, tapping the parchment. "Hades. He's not easily ruffled. And frankly, a bit scary."

Hermes waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense! Uncle Hades just needs a little... brightening up. A new passion! A hobby!"

"And what hobby did you have in mind for the Lord of the Underworld?" you asked, skeptical.

Hermes's grin was pure, unadulterated mischief. "Competitive flower arranging."

It took some doing. First, Hermes had to "acquire"—he insisted it was a long-term loan—several crates of the brightest, most cheerful flowers from Persephone's secret garden in the Underworld – much to her initial confusion and eventual begrudging amusement when she figured out who was behind it. Then, you both snuck into Hades's throne room—which, surprisingly, had excellent acoustics for dramatic pronouncements but terrible lighting for floral artistry.

You carefully arranged the flowers into elaborate, almost aggressively cheerful bouquets, placing them on his obsidian throne, his desk of damned souls' paperwork, and even perching a particularly vibrant sunflower on Cerberus's middle head. The pièce de résistance was a giant banner you'd fashioned from black silk that was borrowed from Nyx and glowing phosphorus borrowed from... well, best not to ask, proclaiming: "HADES: OLYMPUS'S PREMIER PETAL PUSHER!"

When Hades next entered his domain, he stopped dead. He stared at the explosion of color. He stared at the banner. He stared at Cerberus, who wagged his tail, the sunflower bobbing merrily.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant wailing of the tormented which was the standard Underworld ambiance. Then, a slow, creaking sound emerged from Hades. It took you a moment to realize he was... chuckling. A dry, rusty chuckle, like tombstones rubbing together, but a chuckle nonetheless.

"Flower arranging," he rumbled, picking up a daisy and examining it with a surprisingly gentle touch. "Persephone will be... intrigued." He didn't even seem mad. In fact, he looked almost... pleased?

Hermes looked at you, bewildered. "Well, that was unexpected. I was banking on at least a minor curse."

"Maybe he's got a secret soft spot for daisies?" you offered.

The Grand Finale: The Ambrosia Switcheroo

For your grand finale, you decided to go big. The annual "Feast of Eternal Boredom" — as you and Hermes had privately nicknamed it— was approaching. The highlight was always Zeus's toast, followed by the ceremonial sipping of the "Nectar of Unending Power," a beverage so potent it made mortals spontaneously combust. Allegedly; no one had actually tested it.

"This year," Hermes declared, rubbing his hands together, "the Nectar of Unending Power will have a little... extra kick."

Your "extra kick" was a carefully brewed potion, with ingredients sourced from Hecate's 'for experimental use only' shelf, thanks to a very fast Hermes, that had a peculiar side effect: for one hour, everyone who drank it would speak only in rhyming words. And, for an added dash of fun, their hair would temporarily change to the color of their deepest, most secret admiration.

The feast was in full swing. Gods and goddesses mingled, blissfully unaware of the impending poetic and chromatic chaos. Zeus stood, raising his goblet. "To Olympus!" he boomed. "May our power never fade, and our enemies always be afraid!"

He drank. The other gods followed suit.

A moment of silence. Then Apollo, his golden hair suddenly streaked with the vibrant purple of something you could almost hint as a Hyacinth, blinked and said, "My lyre feels quite absurd, I've just spoken a rhyming word!"

Pandemonium.

Hera, whose usually brown hair was now a shocking shade of peacock blue—matching her favorite bird, not Zeus, notably— shrieked, "Oh dear, what is this curse I feel? This rhyming speech is so unreal!"

Ares, his hair an unsurprisingly shade of soft pink, roared, "By my spear, this is a fright! I cannot seem to speak things right!"

Aphrodite, whose own hair was now a mosaic of colors reflecting at least three different minor deities and a particularly handsome satyr, giggled, "My beauty shines, a vibrant hue, though rhyming words feel strange and new!"

Even Hades, whose hair remained stubbornly black (some secrets are best kept in the dark, apparently), grumbled, "This feast has gone quite off the track, I wish these rhymes I could take back."

You and Hermes, who had cleverly substituted your own drinks with plain nectar, were nearly in tears from trying to suppress your laughter. Hermes's hair had a faint shimmer of H/C, and you noticed your own had a distinct golden brown mirroring his. You both caught each other's eye and quickly looked away, a new, unexpected warmth blooming alongside the mirth.

The sight of the most powerful beings in the cosmos struggling to express themselves in iambic pentameter while sporting hairdos that revealed their innermost affections was, by far, your greatest masterpiece.

The Aftermath

The rhyming eventually wore off, as did the technicolor hairstyles—though not before several embarrassing admissions were accidentally poetically declared. Olympus was in an uproar, but beneath the bluster, there was an undeniable lightness. For the first time in centuries, the gods had been genuinely, thoroughly surprised.

Zeus, after a week of demanding to know who was responsible—and secretly enjoying the fact that Hera's hair had not turned thunderbolt-yellow(seriously when will Hera get the happy marriage she deserves), eventually just sighed and ordered a new batch of nectar, "And for Olympus's sake, Hermes, make sure this one isn't... lyrical."

You and Hermes became legends, the Bonnie and Clyde of divine buffoonery. Whenever boredom threatened to settle over Olympus, a nervous energy would ripple through the halls. Gods would check their ambrosia, guard their symbols of power, and eye their hair with suspicion.

"You know, darling" Hermes said to you one evening, watching a particularly spectacular sunset paint the clouds, "we make a pretty good team."

"That we do, Wing-Foot," you replied, bumping his shoulder. "So, what's next on the agenda? I hear Poseidon's been getting a little too proud of his trident lately..."

Hermes's grin was blinding. "My thoughts exactly, partner. My thoughts exactly."

And as the stars began to prick the darkening sky, the universe seemed to hold its breath, wondering what delightful chaos the two of you would unleash next. Because with Hermes as your partner-in-crime, life was never, ever dull.

#epic the musical #epic x reader #epic fanfic #fluff #epic hermes #hermes x reader #epic apollo #hermes #epic zeus #i love hermes marry me #zieru hermes #zeus x reader #hera x reader #apollo x reader #dionysus x reader #athena x reader #epic the musical x reader

455 notes · View notes

followmybadreligion · 1 year ago

Text

Thinking about bf!art who’s so obsessed with you that it borders unhealthy…

You’re the first thing on his mind in the morning; what do you want for breakfast, is that position you’re sleeping in comfortable, are you going to kiss him good morning or just say the words— all questions he sifts through. He doesn’t even have time to wipe the sleep out of his eyes before you consume his thoughts.

Most of the time, he sits on his side of the bed and gazes at your serene figure glowing softly in the early morning light. He hates to disturb you, knowing how upset you usually are when he does, but seeing you like that never fails to awaken an almost desperate need for you within him. He’ll fight it off for as long as possible, but as you release a deep sigh and shift your head his way, showcasing that pretty fucking face, he just can’t help it. So, in the blink of an eye, he’s pressed his body against you, one arm underneath your torso and the other on top of it, caging you in his warmth. He’ll lay there like that with you, matching your rhymic breathing like it were the beat to his favorite song, until you wake for the day, ready and willing to give him all your love.

And boy is he demanding of your love.

Art's like a battery of sorts when it comes to affection. When you've given him enough, charged him with your kisses, affirmations, or whatever else you were willing to give, he's at his best and brightest, going through the world with a big, lopsided grin and tingles in his chest. This is where he likes to be--- full of your love. However, if he feels as if he hasn't gotten his fair share, and starts feeling a little neglected or ignored, be prepared for a completely different boyfriend.

He'll show his discontent in small ways at first-- way more touching, little whines and grumbles when you're focused on something else, pointless reminiscing just to get you to talk-- all ways of him trying to scratch his itch for your attention. But if all that fails, and you're still not giving him what he wants, he gets more and more demanding. You were working on an important work project? Guess who just shut your computer! You were in the middle of a phone call? Guess who has the overwhelming urge to kiss you now! You were on the way to meet up with a friend? Guess who's not letting you out of the house (at least without a fight)? He just can't help it. When it comes to you and your love, he needs all of it and then some.

But, he's also incredibly aware of how smothering he can be sometimes. It's one of the things he's most insecure about in your relationship, actually.

To him, his want for you never runs dry. He could sit in an empty room, with nothing but you to entertain him, and he'd feel as if he'd just sailed the seven seas. So why don't you feel the same? Why do you constantly seem to push for space? Why don't you want all the love he has for you?

He'll rarely ever bring that insecurity up, though. To him, it's pointless-- you can't make yourself want more of what you already have. Instead, he'll just try to find new ways to present it to you.

Naturally, he likes to show his love through his money and his time.

In the beginning, you had to get used to his on-a-whim, thousand-dollar restaurant dates or his random weekend vacations for the two of you. You had to learn how to accept the designer clothes he bought you, or the big bouquets of roses he sent to your house and your job. You had to learn to lean into having a man who was willing to drop any plans he had the second you called him.

And it was a lot.

Sometimes too much, and Art started to pick up on that.

So he adjusted.

Instead of buying you lavish gifts and taking you fancy places all the time, he started to cut back to maybe once or twice a month (still insane but he's trying). He planned smaller, quieter dates for the two of you, like cooking dinner or baking together, or trying new desert shops around the city, and can you tell this boy really likes to feed you? He began to focus his efforts on being more helpful to you, as well. Need him to pick up some dry cleaning? Done. Sick of washing dishes? He's got it covered. Forgot to order groceries for the week? He's already made a list. Any and everything he could do to make life stress-free for you, he'd do.

And then don't even get me started on the sex.

Art is absolutely drunk on you. Your body, your scent, your voice-- all of it.

Before you two were together, Art was ashamed of the way he lusted after you. It made him feel perverted and dirty sometimes, the way he’d be practically drooling at the slightest glimpse of your shape. He was always the first to view your Instagram stories, (because he had your page notifications on) and at first he told himself that he was just eager to see your cute little selfies or your adorable little fit checks. The amount of cleavage you displayed was just a plus! But soon after, he found himself fiendish over the detail pictures you’d post, showcasing your tight-fitting shirts, or the necklaces that dangled just above your tits, or the low-waisted jeans that curved artfully around your ass. The way you presented yourself was just so enticing to him. A little at a time, just a glimpse per picture. Enough to let his imagination run wild, but not enough to fulfill his fantasies.

So you can imagine that from the time Art got his first fill of you and then on, he was in heaven. You were better than every fantasy, dream, thought- everything he’d ever dreamt up. The second you pulled off his shirt and told him to lay back, that you’d give him what he needed, he was a lovesick puppy under your care, and he loved that. He swore with every command you gave or moan you drew from him, he was falling deeper into you.

However, this also ignited a new passion in him. He had to be the best, just as he felt you were. Had to be good for you, or else what was his purpose?

So, he spent hours and hours studying the porn you watched, trying so desperately to mimic the strokes and moans of the men you got off to. He studied the positions you liked and even did a little research on his own to know which ones would feel the best for you. He wanted to make you throw your head back in bliss, moan uncontrollably, and glow from how good you felt, time and time again, and he was determined to do what it took to make that happen. He'd do it all and then some, and all he needed to hear was you saying his name.

Oh, and speaking of saying his name, that's one of his biggest turn-ons. He likes to say there's a certain tone you use, intentionally or not, that mimics the sultriness of a siren, and he can't stop himself from getting hard every time he hears it. Maybe it's the tone itself, or the fact that you're calling him in the first place, but he can't help the way his mind gets all fuzzy from it, only focusing on your voice and the way your lips move to say the syllable.

There’s nobody else on the planet that has ever, or will ever make Art feel the way you do. You make his body feel ways it never has, make his heart light up with feelings he didn’t know existed. In such a short span of time, you’ve become his everything, and that’s why he’s determined to keep you as his for as long as he can.

As long as he can. As long as you let him. Because he’ll be only yours for forever and ever.

Your sweet, lovesick bf!art.

part 2

this was just a massive brain dump for art since he’s ben on my mind since i watched the movie LOL. want him SO BADDDDD

#challengers #art x reader #mike faist #bf!art #obsessed #reader insert #challengers fanfic #challengers art donaldson #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x female reader #art donaldson x you

2K notes · View notes

madridnoora · 2 months ago

Text

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Pedri - A Flower in Bloom.

⋆｡˚Pairing - pedri x fem!reader

౨ৎ Summary - Pedri and you were once 'friends' back in Tenerife, running in the same circle of friends but as you grow up circumstances change and people lose contact. What you never expected was to cross paths in Barcelona, five years after you last spoke and in your flower shop.

⋆｡˚Word Count - 4.6k (this is way longer than I intended)

౨ৎ Warnings - none! just angst.

requests open :)

౨ৎ

The flower shop was thick with the delicate scent of jasmine and peony, warm with the hot midday sun seeping through the large glass windows of the front. You stood behind the wooden counter as the quiet bustling of people coming and going filtered into the background. Your younger cousin Marta was working on the tills, and handling customer sales while you stood in an apron designing new bouquets of vibrant colours to display in the windows.

A floral apron wrapped around the waist of your baby pink sundress and black gloves covered your hands as you snipped away at the stalks of roses, and lillies. Mother's day was only a few days away and this was one of the busiest times of the year for the shop, or at least that was what your grandmother had told you in the notes she left behind.

You were never meant to be the owner of a flower business at twenty two, but when she passed away six months ago and left it to you in the will it seemed you had no choice -- not that anything was keeping you in Tenerife anyway. So, you up and moved your life to Barcelona. Now you live in an old weathered apartment above the flower shop that often smells of damp and your grandmothers lingering perfume, but it's oddly comforting. The only family you had here in the city were some young cousins and an uncle, and friends were sparse with trying to keep the business afloat.

The busy nature of late April was welcomed, and there was something so calming about arranging flowers. The quiet nature of arranging different patterns and colours, then wrapping them up in paper with a lace ribbon. It was the kind of activity that kept you from thinking too much, from imagining your grandmother walking around and managing the shop floor with her bright smile and perfectly styled grey bob.

When the bell of the baby blue wooden door rang, you didn't even look up.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," a male voice said, stress in his words.

"Just something that looks pretty," another male voice said, and for a moment you thought you recognised the hoarseness of it but you couldn't have done. You didn't know any men that weren't your uncle in Barcelona.

You focussed again on the bouquet in your hands, as the two men walked to the other side of the story and their voices becoming more hushed.

You were just finishing up, wrapping a ribbon in a delicate bow around the stalks of some flowers when a deep voice startled you.

"Excuse me, can you help us?"

You looked up.

A man with golden skin and short brunette hair stood in front of you, looking slightly fed up and with a pair of black prada sunglasses pushed up his head.

"Sure, what are you looking for?," You said, removing the gloves from your hands and placing them on the wooden counter before brushing any stray dirt from your apron.

"Flowers for mother's day" He told you.

"What kind of flowers?" You asked.

The man looked confused, like he was unaware there were than roses or tulips to pick from.

"Anything pretty and motherly"

You let out a small chuckle and nodded your head, you were about to tell him to wait for a moment while you grabbed a bouquet you had made yesterday specifically with mother's day in mind, but something stopped you.

"You find anything?"

He came around the aisle of the shop like a past memory.

Pedro.

For a dizzying second, it felt like you were sixteen again. Like you were back in the classrooms, back in the hallways and avoiding his gaze at house parties involving underage drinking and cringy dancing. Memories you barely ever thought about came flooding back like a tsunami that couldn't be stopped. You remembered when you were dating one of his friends and Pedro would roll his eyes when you sat down at his table, or when he would make petty and boyish jabs at you as you ate lunch opposite each other. You remembered the way you would bicker with each other in the middle of a lesson, and the way he would get you so frustrated.

You remember that tension because it exists now, in the end aisle of your flower shop, five years on. Except, it's different, the tension is older and sharper like the dark features on his sculpted face.

Pedro paused for only a second. The confidence on his face flickering quickly before returning. His friend didn't notice, but you did because you used to watch it happen in school.

"Y/n?"

"Pedro?"

The mystery man's, who had initially asked for your help, eyes darted between the two of you in confusion. He felt the instant shift in the air when you saw each other too, even your cousin at the cash register noticed it.

"What are you doing here?," Pedro asked with furrowed brows.

"This is my shop." You stated matter a factly, not really enjoying his tone and his furrowed brows that made you feel judged.

"Since when? You're allergic to flowers," He questioned you, he also surprised you by remembering the allergy you had when you were younger.

"Medicine exists Pedro, or is it Pedri now?," You can't help but make a dig at the nickname he had made for himself since playing professional football. You never intended to keep up with his career, but it was hard to avoid in your hometown. Everyone loved him, the sweet boy from the island who was making a name for himself as one of the great football players in the world. You didn't like to buy into it though, he wasn't that sweet to you at school.

"Whatever you want," Pedri shrugged, a smirk painted on his bronzed face.

That makes you stand up an inch straighter, and swallow.

You studied him. He was older, and mature now but the boyish cheek still lingered beneath the surface. His brunette curls were styled with wax on top of his head, his Dior sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his oversized black t-shirt allowing you to see a glimpse of his toned chest.

Pedri studied you. You were older, a blossomed flower but still with the pouty face of the girl he remembered from the island. You hair was hanging loosely in a claw clip at the back of your head, with a few strands framing your glowing face. The pink sundress was flattering on you womanly figure with a low neckline and the belt of the apron cinching in your waist sharply.

He felt like he was sixteen again, like he was seeing you in the back of the crowded classroom or sitting two rows in front of him while he made dumb jokes or comments about your boyfriend to wind you up.

Ferran cleared his throat, "Sooooo"

That makes both Pedri and you snap out of the intensity of what just happened.

"Ferran, this is y/n. We went to school together. Y/n, this is Ferran. He's my teammate," Pedri introduced you both as he scratched the back of his neck and his cheeks lightly flushed pink.

"Hola, Ferran"

"Hola, Y/n"

You smile at each other.

"We both need flowers," Ferran adds, nodding his head to Pedri.

You simply nodded your head and began to walk to the back of the shop to grab some bouquets.

When you left, Ferran couldn't help himself tease Pedri.

"She's cute"

Pedri rolled his eyes, an uncomfortable feeling rolling over his stomach as he listened to his friend talk about you like that.

"She dated Alvaro"

"Huh," Ferran's head snapped to Pedri, "Our Alvaro"

Pedri nodded with tight lips, "When we were teenagers".

Pedri and your ex-boyfriend were still friends, not that you knew that, and he lived just outside of Barcelona. He hung out with Pedri, Ferran and the other guys at least a couple times a month.

"Sucks for you"

"What?," Pedri's own head snapped back to look at Ferran.

"Please, I think god himself felt the shift in the air when you two saw each other," Ferran laughed at his own joke.

"You're stupid," Pedri just rolled his eyes and let out an agitated sigh. Not liking what Ferran was hinting at. Sure, now that he was older he can admit that in school he had a crush but so did every boy in his class and you picked Alvaro. That was a long time ago. You had grown up and so had he. You were different people now, strangers.

Finally, you came back with two bouquets. One a sea of white, pink and green with accents of purple, wrapped up in some brown paper and a pink lace ribbon. The other was a sea of blue and purple, with white and yellow daisies sprinkled throughout and wrapped in some pink tissue paper with a white string ribbon.

"These two are the best we have," You handed the pink one to Ferran and the blue/purple one too Pedri because you remembered his mother would always wear those colours whenever you saw her. But, you wouldn't tell him that's why you chose that one.

'They're pretty" Ferran complimented, and you felt yourself flush a little bit. You looked down and shuffled on your feet a little bit.

Pedri watched you. A strange pang of an unknown emotion in the centre of his chest as he watched you blush from Ferran's words. He swallowed quickly.

"We're going to be late," He said, causing you to look up at him.

Ferran nodded his head in agreement, before turning to speak to you. "Thanks for the flowers, y/n" He offered you a bright which smile you returned, then he and Pedri began walking off the the cash register.

And that was that.

But it wasn't. After about five steps, Ferran turned back to where you were still standing and now adjusting the displays.

"I'm having a barbecue on Friday, you should come"

Your jaw slacked slightly, not expecting to be asked to a party by a man you had just met.

"There's going to be a lot of people, friends of friends, that type of thing." Ferran explained further, while Pedri looked at him like he had just grew a second head.

You shift on your feet, unsure what too say and weighing up the options available in your head. You could either say no, and life would remain unchanged or you could say yes and potentially make some friends that made the loneliness you felt in Barcelona less painful.

Fuck it.

"Sure, sounds like fun," You say.

Pedri can't quite believe it, can't quiet fathom why Ferran has invited you to his party even though you have only just met. He also can't understand why you say yes. He stands and watches as Ferran placed his number in your phone, and tells you he will text the details over when he gets home. That strange pang of emotion beats even harder against his ribs, making him feel almost sick.

Pedri's posture changed too, stiff and rigged. His honey gaze now cold and his lightly stubbled jaw clenched. You noticed it. You were confused by it, but you gave up on understanding Pedro when you were teenagers.

The boys eventually pay for the flowers, and Ferran leaves out the door first. When he does, Pedri pretends to drop his sunglasses as an excuse to hang back and talk to you.

"He invites people to things all the time, and he's on and off with someone right now," He said after a beat, his voice lower and quieter. "It doesn't mean anything"

At first your taken aback by his harsh words and the cold tone in which he speaks to you. Then you remember that this is Pedro, and this is how he had always seemed to speak to you.

"You can't stop me going," You snapped as you brought your arms across your chest and folded them. For a second, you could have sworn you watched Pedro's eyes flicker down but they came back up so quickly that you couldn't be sure. When his eyes met yours, he gave you that look, the one from when you were kids. The one he would give you across classrooms and lunch tables. The one he would give you during arguments which were so charged that they never really felt like arguments at all but something else. Something intense and meaningful.

"I won't" He said, though his voice was tighter than before like he was holding something back.

"But?"

"I'm just warning you, there will be a lot of people there" Pedri's gaze dropped to his feet and he let out a sigh like he was feeling the weight of something. The weight was the fact that Alvaro would be there and for some reason he couldn't explain he didn't want you two seeing each other again, almost like he was scared of what could happen. But you didn't know that and Pedri wasn't about to tell you.

"I'll be okay," You sigh.

"Okay." He breaths.

"Okay." You breath.

Then, he walks out of your store and your left feeling the same way you did when you were sixteen.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The uber rolled to a stop at the bottom of the long sloping driveway lined with clipped tree and low golden lights. You stepped out the car slowly, nerves seeping into your skin and your heart already beating a little faster as you clutch the bottle of wine you picked up last minute, not wanting to turn up to a party empty handed.

The house was beautiful, and modern but not cold. Glass meshed with stone and somehow created warmth as it tucked itself into the hills just outside the main city. A sprawling view of the skyline under the pink hued skies.

The smell of delicious food drifted through the air as you walked up the driveway. Laughter and music floated from the backyard also, voices carried alongside the clink of glasses.

You smoothed a hand down the side of your baby blue tank top and the white linen maxi skirt you wore, nervous and unsure of whether you came under dressed or over dressed to such a luxurious place. Then, without giving your anxiety a chance to make you turn back, you walked through the open gate and into the garden in the back.

You didn't really know why you said yes, or why you actually showed up. Maybe it was the idea of finding friendship in this new city, or maybe it was the fact that Ferran's invitation had been so kind and casual.

When you stepped into the back garden, you scanned the crowd. Music pulsed through some set up speakers and a group of people lounged near the pool with drinks in hand. Ferran stood speaking with some other boys, ones that looked younger, behind a long table piled with grilled foot, tapas and a cooler filled with Spanish beer.

Like he felt your eyes on him, Ferran turned.

"Y/N," He smiled, waving for you to come over and join him. You did, not really having any other option.

"I brought you some wine," You told him, he laughed and told you he figured. You pursed your lips trying not to smile at the jab, then he handed you a glass of homemade sangria and introduced you to the fresh faced boys that lingered around.

You tried to remember their names, a Gavi, a Pau and a Hector maybe. Honestly, you would likely forget their names by the end of the night and once the sangria has seeped into your bloodstream.

Within moments, you sank into conversation and the anxiety you had previously seemed to fizzle away into the summer evening's breeze. You laughed at their boyish jokes, surprised by how easy you had seemed to slip into the conversation. The warmth of the sun kissed your skin, and for a while you didn't think of him but when you felt a gaze burning into the side of your head you knew it was him.

That familiar shift clicked in the air between you.

That pull of tension and something underlying.

Pedri was stood across the garden, leaning back against the fence as he smiled at something the blonde haired man next to him said, but his eyes focussed on you.

You let your eyes scan him for a moment. He was dressed well, in a plain white t-shirt with some light wash jeans that hung loosely on his legs. The white made his tanned skin look darker, and brought out the sharpness of his features. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist, and his soft hair shined under the golden lanterns that hung from the fence. You swallowed and looked away, engaging back in the conversation with the boys.

Pedri let his eyes scan you. A tight blue tank top that clung to your body, and a white linen skirt which was slightly see through over your legs. Gold bangles decorated your forearms and complimented your olive skin. The way your hair danced in the breeze as it cascaded down your back, stopping at your waist. When you looked away and spoke with his teammates, that strange pang came back. Pedri had figured out it was jealousy, but he was reluctant to admit it to himself. How could he be jealous over a girl he hadn't spoken to in five years?

He kept watching as you spoke with Hector, a young boy who seemed to be getting a little bit too close but you didn't realise.

Occasionally, you would glance back and catch him still watching making heat prickle up the back of your neck and your stomach flip. He'd always had that effect on you, even in school. You assumed you had grown out of it, but it was obvious to you now that you hadn't.

You broke away from the conversation with the boys and headed over to the drinks table laid out on the slate patio. The sun was properly beginning to set now, with the sky turning a deep burnt sienna and the city lights illuminating the skyline in the distance. The drinks table was stacked with bottles of wine, cava and a few too many mixers going warm and flat from the sun.

You reach for another glass of sangria, the cold glass offering relief against the heat of your fingertips. You took a long sip, trying not to think about Pedri, who you can see watching you from the corner of his eye as he takes your place in the conversation you just left. You turn slightly away from him, letting the cool breath brush against your skin.

"No way. No fucking way"

You spin quickly because you know that voice, granted it's a little more raspy these days.

When you turn, Alvaro is there with disbelieving grin and a half drank corona in his hand as he spread them open to hug you instantly.

"What the hell are you doing here?," You laugh with shock as you embrace him back taking in the smell of cigarettes and oak scented cologne. You were happy to see him, relieved almost to have a friend at the party now. Alvaro and you 'dated' when you were kids, although you weren't even sure it could be classed as dating, more a relationship of crushes and convenience.

"I live here, and this is my friends party. What are you doing this far away from Tenerife?," He laughed like you had asked him a stupid question, and maybe you had. Pedri and him were close in school, and it was stupid to assume they had stopped being friends just because he moved away for football and lost contact with you.

"I live here too, I inherited my grandma's flower shop in the city," You tell him happily then let out breath of laughter at the fact he is actually her tonight.

"You look well, y/n," Alvaro says meaningfully.

"You too, Alvaro," You tell him back as you find yourself feeling warm, almost as if you had been given a gift from home. You hadn't really spoke with Alvaro in almost two years but he still felt to safe and familiar.

"Pedri is here as well, have you seen him," Alvaro says enthusiastically because he doesn't understand the history or the relationship between you and his hometown friend.

You take another sip of your drink, your stained lips wrapping around the glass while you subtly nod your head, "He's kinda how I got the invite"

"Oh," Alvaro nodded, "Yeah, that makes sense"

Off to the side, Pedri was watching with an intense glare. He watched the way his friend hugged you tightly, and the way you embraced him back. He studied the way your face lit up when you saw him, the way the light pooled in your eyes. The pang of jealousy was stronger now, more like a hammer to his stomach causing a numb aching. His face was unreadable, no anger, no smile just a straight glare that could cut through ice. He took another swig of his beer while he watched, Alvaro give you another hug and then dash off into the house.

You stood there still by the drinks cart, taking in the party around and watching on as people danced to the music.

Pedri knew this was the only chance he had to talk to you. So, he made his move. Leaving his teammates without saying a word, and ignoring them as they asked where he was going.

"You're ignoring me," His words are stern yet hold a lingering hesitation.

You tutted and looked at him, "I'm not ignoring you". Denial dripped off your every word.

"Oh, you just avoid everyone's eyes huh," His chirped back.

You let a silence stretch between you again, dense and charged like usual.

Pedri breaks it.

"You look nice tonight, blue and gold suit you,"

You roll your eyes at him. He was always like this.

"Don't flirt with me like we're sixteen, Ped,"

The old nickname slipped off your tongue before you even realised, like a breath from a past life becoming reborn. You see Pedri falter for a moment, and you wonder if you mirrored him. You wondered if he could tell that the simple three letter version of his name had made your stomach flip and your chest constrict like all the air had been taken from the atmosphere.

"Haven't heard that in a while," Pedri quietly spoke, looking up at the fading sunset, "five years I think". You were the only one who called him that, the only one he allowed too in school because he only liked the way it sounded when it came from your mouth.

"Five years," You confirmed and realised a low breath.

"My teammates like you," Pedri looked back at you, changing the conversation to try and escape how heavy it felt on his shoulders, "they like you a lot."

You notice his tone, how it's almost bitter and you think you must be imagining it and yet you know you're not. You'd heard that bitterness before, when he would speak to you while Alvaro would wrap his arm around you in the lunch hall. You thought you were imagining it then too but time seemed to be the biggest teller of the truth.

"Don't act jealous, Pedri," You looked at him with a furrowed brow, always annoyed with the mixed signal he gave you. One day in school you were friends, the next day he hated you and on an occasional third day you thought he was going to kiss you but he never did. He never had the courage.

"I'm not," He blurted out too quick for it to be the truth.

"You are, you always did," You take the last sip of your sangria and feel the confidence of being tipsy coming into effect. "You could have said something, back when we were kids. You could have done something, anything" You murmured glancing at your feet and then meeting his big honey filled eyes as they seemed to soften.

"I couldn't," He said with what seemed to be subtle frustration, "You were dating Alvaro"

You scoffed, "Alvaro and I were friends who held hands and kissed a couple times. You knew it wasn't real"

"He was my friend, he still is!," He argued back, his voice rising slightly but not loud enough to catch the attention of other people at the party.

"And what was I?"

That stilled him. The rawness of your voice, a confession seeping out that should have been told years ago. His heart knocked once and hard as he looked at you. Your eyes glassy and seemingly filled with a tired sadness.

"Fuck" Pedri ran a hand through his hair, lightly tugging at it. "I don't know, y/n, I don't know what you are."

Silence swallowed his confession. His words equally raw and helpless, like seeing you had completely turned his world upside down.

With a thick throat you spoke hesitantly, "You don't know what I am?"

"I mean," Pedri looked down at the ground, his shoulders tensing but his voice softer. "When I was a kid, I didn't know what to do with you or myself. I'd say something stupid just to make you look at me and then I'd be mad when you did"

You cut him off, "You were always cruel, Pedri"

"Because I wanted you, and I couldn't have you"

That made your breath catch, but not from shock because you knew it all along secretly. You knew because you felt the same way, you dated Alvaro for so long just to stay close to him. Hearing it out loud after years of painful silence made your chest ache.

You looked away, towards the glowing light spilling from the inside of Ferran's house, where the party was still taking place. Distant laughter and clinking glasses, all of it happening while your world seemed to be crumbling.

"You could have," You whispered, "You could have had me, all you had to do was tell me and I would have been yours"

Pedri took a hesitant step closer.

"I should've kissed you," He said low and lifting a hand to push a stray strand of hair from your face. "That final day of school before our last summer break, when you stayed at the gate to argue with me over something stupid. When it was so hot and humid, and yet the rain just wouldn't stop pouring and you wouldn't stop talking"

You smile at the memory, because you had stayed just to see him. You stayed because you knew he would be leaving to some fancy football team, and you knew he would fade from your life. You wanted him to kiss you but it never came. Just another moment that seemed to pass you both by.

"You should have," You push out in a hushed breath.

Pedri looks at your sangria stained lips and back to your doe-eyes, contemplating doing it now. Instead, he decided on something else. Something more mature, and serious.

"Can I take you out? Like properly"

"Are you asking me on a date, Ped?" You tease him with a teenage smile.

"Yes." His voice unwavering.

"Then, yes." You didn't even have to think about it.

"Okay." He smiled, a glint of cheekiness in his eyes.

"Okay." You smiled, warmth pooling in your stomach.

The air shifted, something lighter lingering. Now charged with excitement and anticipation rather than thick tension.

It took five years.

Five years for him to finally make his move.

But, at least he had done something and so had you,

You said yes.

and like a flower in spring, you could bloom.

౨ৎ

#pedri x y/n #pedri x reader #pedri imagine #pedri #pedri x you #pedri gonzalez #fc barcelona #barcelona imagine #pedri fanfic #fc barca #la liga #pedri imagines #football imagine #spain nt

220 notes · View notes

soulcaketuesday · 3 months ago

Text

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

#revolutionary girl utena #rgu #take my revolution tarot #mine.png #posting these without the frame #thats why theres a lot of empty space at the top and bottom

372 notes · View notes

kcandyliciouss · 2 months ago

Text

Make his day, buy a bouquet!

Synopsis:

Florist!Izuku x reader

You tell Izuku that you plan to confess to your crush with a bouquet. He tries to keep it together but can't help but wonder who the lucky guy is. Later, when he finds you sitting alone on a bench in the pouring rain, tears streaming down your face, he's ready to throw hands.

Cw: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, jealousy, Izuku is oblivious, reader kinda plays with his feelings(?), incredibly cheesy

Wc: 1.8k

Not beta read!!

The sun shone through the sheer panels while Izuku was cutting the stems of the fresh dahlias he had ordered the day before. He glanced at the clock: he still had a few minutes more before he had to open the shop. Once he was done, he set the pink beauties aside and flipped over the “closed” sign to “open”.

It was only nine in the morning so Izuku wasn’t expecting any customers. Most of the time people came by in the evening, ordering an arrangement for the next day or buying a quick bouquet of roses for a dinner date and whatnot. With that in mind he allowed himself to sink into this chair behind the counter; a mug of green tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. He might as well just work on a new arrangement design while he’s waiting for customers.

Just as his pencil starts grazing the paper, the bell above the door lets out a soft chime as a head pokes through the door.

Izuku's eyes met yours, his eyebrows raised. His surprised expression was replaced with a big smile in an instant.

“Why hello, my favourite customer,” He stood up and leaned on the counter with a grin stretching across his face.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“So…what brings you here so early? I just opened the shop a few minutes ago.”

He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised considering you’d been coming by pretty often since you’d first met.

Although you had met only a few months ago, you and Izuku had become close friends. You had stumbled upon his flower shop when it had just opened and happened to be his first ever customer. You were really sweet, listening to him ramble while he was preparing your bouquet, even offering to help when the shop was understaffed. The way you smiled at him sweetly and shook your head whenever he apologized for talking too much, or the way you’d prop your chin up against the palm of your hand and asked about the meaning of the flowers he was putting together— it just made him feel all gushy and flustered.

Despite working with flowers every day, Izuku had discovered that you were even more pleasing to look at than any of the flowers that were sitting pretty on the shelves.

He had never met anyone who was so attentive towards him, so patient with him. He found himself smiling every time you came by, eagerly waiting for the next time he’d get to chat with you.

You snort at the nickname and place your hands on the counter, leaning in a bit. “Today will be a great day, ‘Zuku. Today I'm going to confess to the guy I like!”

Izuku’s smile falters for a second and you don’t miss the way the light in his eyes dims.

“Oh.”

He quickly clears his throat and tries to maintain the cheerful demeanor he had just a second ago.

“Right! Right, uh..Of course. And I’m guessing you want to get him a bouquet? That’s really nice..I uh..Yeah, I can do that.”

He looks at the small smile plastered across your face— you seemed happy, you’d been his friend for a while so he should be happy for you, should be excited.

He clears his throat again, “So…Who’s the lucky guy? I don’t remember you mentioning anybody to me,” he asked, trying his best not to sound upset.

“Oh well, I met him a few months ago. He’s really sweet, and hella smart too,” you giggled, a faint blush on your cheeks.

Izuku felt his heart sink even further.

He gave a small nod and a forced smile, he was happy for you, really he was…

“ooh…he sounds nice.”

He looked up from the flowers he had already started picking out to meet your eyes again and quickly looked back down.

“Okay well, for the arrangement I think we start off with some white carnations, they uh..they are often associated with pure love and devotion.” he cleared his throat for what seemed like the fifth time. “Do you perhaps know what his favourite flower is?”

You perk up slightly, “lisianthuses” you cherp immediately.

Another pang of jealousy shot through him as he grabbed the requested flowers. Of course you knew the guy's favourite flowers off the top of your head.

“Lisianthuses…gratitude, appreciation, and lasting bonds. Also considered a symbol of rising above challenges,” he mutters, turning to the shelf behind him.

“Well, he has good taste. I like those too.”

He can’t help the bitter smile that forms on his face as you happily talk about your soon-to-be boyfriend.

“And they’ll fit nicely into the arrangement.” He adds, not daring to look up from the flowers he was working on.

You look through all the flower options before suggesting “I was thinking you could add some baby’s breath too. They represent innocence and purity, right?”

Izuku turned around to look at you with surprise,

“...You remember?”

“‘Course I remember. You think I don’t listen when you talk?” You tilted your head with a small smile.

He chuckled a bit, a smile of his own forming on his face, he shook his head, “I mean, you’re a great listener, but I tend to go on so much about the flowers that I didn’t know if you’d remember,” He grabbed a small handful of the white, bell shaped flowers, adding them into the arrangement carefully, setting them in the middle of the carnations, “but yeah, you’re right they symbolize purity and innocence…”

He finally looked up to meet your eyes.

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes…okay?” He tried his best to keep a cheerful tone.

You quickly nodded with a cheeky smile, “Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”

Forcing another smile, he looked back at the bouquet, “Good.”

He set the vase down on the counter in front of you before he began wrapping it up in thin white crepe paper, trying his best to ignore the small ache in his heart knowing it was a gift for some other guy, “You know,” he said quietly, “whoever he is, he’s really lucky to have you” he looked you in the eyes and for a moment everything went still.

“There…all done.” He tied the ends of the paper with a pink ribbon before setting it down in front of you.

A small wave of heat passed over your face at his words, your lips curving into a small smile as you looked down at the finished bouquet of flowers, “I’m the lucky one…he’s incredible.” you said, not braking eye contact.

With a quiet huff, Izuku looked away to check you out.

It was now four in the afternoon, and there was rain coming down in relentless sheets. Luckily, Izuku had grabbed his umbrella on the way out.

His shift was over, and all he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and maybe cry himself to sleep. Was he being overly dramatic? Perhaps. But he’d been holding back tears from the moment you ordered that bouquet.

As he made his way through the park on his way home, he noticed a figure sitting hunched over on a bench. No umbrella, no raincoat. They were clutching what looked like a bouquet in their hands. The rain dripped from their hair and shoulders, yet they seemed lost in their own quiet world.

Could it be?

Izuku’s eyes widened as he quickened his pace, rushing toward the figure on the bench. And sure enough, it was you. As he drew closer, he caught the faint sound of quiet sniffles. He called your name softly twice before you slowly turned to face him.

“Izuku…?”

Your voice barely above a whisper.

His heart clenched at the look in your eyes—so miserable. It hurt him to see you like this, sitting there in the rain, tears shimmering on your cheeks.

“Hey now,” Izuku said softly, kneeling down in front of you and offering a gentle, reassuring smile. He held the umbrella above both of you, shielding you from the pouring rain as he looked into your eyes with concern. “What happened? Talk to me.”

“It’s just— it was supposed to be a surprise! It was meant to be romantic!” You sniffled again, voice trembling. “Once I had the bouquet, I wanted to get tickets for the flower show, but they were all sold out. And then it started pouring… the flowers got ruined, my clothes are soaked…and I just…everything’s a mess.”

Izuku’s eyebrows furrowed in sympathy. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured softly. “If he rejected you just because everything wasn't perfect then he's an idiot and doesn't deserve you. You’re doing all this for him, you put in all this effort.”

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, you hesitated before speaking again, “It’s for you. You’re the guy.” You took a shaky breath. “I planned this to ask you out. I was going to surprise you after your shift… but now everything’s ruined. I— I’m sorry.” You look down at your lap, avoiding eye contact.

Izuku’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he just stared at you, processing your words.He reached out gently, taking your trembling hands into his. You raised your gaze to him as you felt his warm fingers cup your cheek. Without another word, Izuku leaned in closer and pressed his lips softly to yours in a gentle, heartfelt kiss. The rain continued to fall around you both, but that didn’t upset you anymore.

He pulled away and a small, shy smile tugged at his lips as he squeezed your hands gently. “You don’t need a fancy plan or perfect timing, I already think you’re ama-” you cut him off by pulling him into another kiss. You could feel him smile against your lips.

“You’re gonna have to pay for what you put me through, though,” he teased softly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I can’t believe you had me make my own bouquet and then made me think it was for another guy!”

You giggled at his teasing, pressing another quick peck to his lips. “I know. That was cruel. But I was going to make it up to you with the flower show tickets!”

Izuku chuckled softly, his expression softening. “Whatever, I’m happy anyway.” He paused, then gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your face. “Now let’s get you home and dry you off, yeah?”

A/n: not my best work, feel like I definitely could've written this better. Also this was heavily inspired by this.

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

Deviders are by @thecutestgrotto !!

#mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #teacher izuku #izuku x reader #mha deku #deku x reader #mha x you #mha x reader #izuku x you #izuku midoriya #bnha deku #mha fanfiction #fanfic #kcandywrites #mha comfort #friends to lovers #florist

219 notes · View notes

rhenuvee · 1 year ago

Text

Playing Animal Crossing New Horizons with HSR Men

Warnings: ugly villager slander, established relationship (can be platonic or romantic)

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

Argenti: Your fellow knight of beauty grows quite fond of the game, immediately finding the freedom of creativity in decoration endearing. He always gives you compliments on your OOTD, and takes screenshots whenever you design a new area on your island. Argenti gave himself the gardening job- spending his bells on red rose seeds. He gets proficient in following the flower guide, and is very proud of himself if he ever gets a golden rose on your island. He loves the villagers, finding them each very cute, and even beauty in the "ugly" villagers. "Did you see the villagers wearing the red rose on their head? I must say I am flattered they love it so much. Though, I am more happy that they appreciate the beauty of our island." He enjoys documenting the beautiful places in your island with photos <3

Aventurine: From the beginning he points out the fact that Tom Nook is a capitalist, which makes you roll your eyes thinking he thinks this game is silly. However, it is quite the opposite as it doesn't take him long to get out of his home loan debt and is somehow extremely lucky. It's unfair to you that he could just log in on any given day and have the best deal for turnips. However because you are his favourite he says he’s willing to buy you whatever you want, he guesses. He happens to be able to catch rare species like the Coelacanth, and it infuriates you but you really can't be if it's helping the museum. "445 bells per turnip, sounds like music to my ears~" "What's that? You want this violin? Well I guess I could spare you a few bells... is one million okay?"

Blade: Let's not kid ourselves here- it takes a lot of convincing and help from Silver Wolf to get him to even be in the presence of Animal Crossing. He says he would much rather stand and look at the wall (SW: "You already do that everyday"). Eventually he sits himself next to you, and listens to your giddy rambling about what to do in the game while he puts on a serious face not saying anything. After the preliminary tutorial/startup gameplay, he finally says, “…why is this rat harassing me for money.” However, the loans aren't the worst but the villagers chasing him down are. He purposely ignores them and grumbles when you tell him to answer ):/. He prefers to watch you play, but because he sees you smile and laugh at his sarcastic comments, he thinks it's not so bad.

Boothill: He's definitely down to try it out, but he ends up being a bit of a troll. He doesn't really mind cute/ugly villagers, until he judges them for what they say. “That’s right, (y/n) did catch all those fish.” “Did he just ask me if he could call me Muffin.” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I GOTTA PAY ANOTHER LOAN?!!?” Yeah… he quickly feels the grindy-ness, complaining that Tom Nook was working him like a forkin’ dog. A little bit of comical rage, but he won’t lie he is enjoying it. He also asks if there are any guns and he is disappointed, so he opts for the net. He's a little rough and rowdy, but he does it in style. That being said, he 100% spends his extra bells on a cowboy outfit.

Dan Heng: He agrees instantly- aw :(. He knows you (and March) have been begging him to play. He’s is fairly good at it- gets out of the tent quickly, masters catching creatures, a nicely organized house… He’s quite resourceful too, chopping down trees and going to mystery islands to farm the heck out of it. The villagers love him, both of you often seeing them run to him with the little sparkly flowers. And even though he's normally serious, you can't help but fawn over how sweet he is with the villagers. "...She wants to call me Shmoopy, do I-" "YES." Villagers asking him to catch a fish? He's immediately on it. He remembers their names and treats them like real people :(

Dr. Ratio: "Is it educational?" Bro is such a nerd. You deadpan at him, and sass him for expecting this to be IXL or something. He is also one to get through the tutorial part easily. You expected him to be overly critical of the game, but he finds appreciation in the museum: both the creatures and the art. Is it a farfetched idea that I think he'd know how to tell the reals and fakes right off the bat? "Do you really think Da Vinci spilled coffee on his work?" At least it saves you the troubles of wasting your bells and getting a fake. I think your island would not be a mess, and would have at least a few statues (you know the ones) which add his touch to it.

Gallagher: Honestly he's happy as long as he gets a little area for himself. Kind of a wild card this one- somehow calm and chaotic at the same time, and it's puzzling because how is he doing such weird things with a straight face? Trolls the villagers quite a bit (he's lucky ACNH villagers are nice) by hitting them with a net (just once though) and giving them different catchphrases every time they ask. "Why is Bob saying 'spaghettini' at the end of his sentences?" "Um, because I thought it'd be funny? Also I'm kinda hungry so-" "Gallagher ):/" Despite the randomness, he is wholesome at times. He is also one to compliment your new outfit, and stargaze with you on the new area you decorated.

Gepard: He's busy so you weren't expecting too much from him, but he takes pride in having a well-rounded island. He gets so excited when he catches a new species that you don't have yet- what a cutie. Also goes full throttle when there's a bug-off or fishing tourney. Despite being a video game, I feel like there will be some way he messes up taking care of plants. The flowers overgrow, the turnips rot, and he doesn't understand why the trees aren't growing? But with some tips from you along with your island designing skills, your island rank moves up and he is BEAMING. "Zucker asked about you." "...he did?" "Mhm, he asked how you were doing, and said he saw you laying out pathways on the island."

Jing Yuan: He finds it so cute when you ask him to play. Lowkey like Blade where he likes watching your happy expressions when playing. He's happy that this game provides him a way to relax while not getting bored. Secretly an enjoyer of villager drama: "Wolfgang wants to apologize to Audie with this present. What happens if I don't deliver it?" "Again? Ah, just give it to her quickly." "...what if I don't." "...Jing Yuan." Oddly I feel like he'd enjoy the group stretching (what an old man), and encourages you to join. Like the "Dozing General" he is, there will be times when he's inactive and gets the bed head.

Luocha: You weren't expecting him to enjoy the game, but he's surprisingly willing to be resourceful. His storage is full of materials, which you scold him for because this is the reason for his empty undecorated house. But he always has things you need so you can't exactly complain. Also one to be pretty smart with managing bells and resources, able to maximize their worth. When the island gets visitors like Label or Flick, he has items ready. "Luocha... where did you get that coat?" "This? It's a designer piece, from Miss Label." I'd say he does have a sense of beauty in design, so thankfully your island is gorgeous.

Sampo: Sympathizes with Redd like a true scammer. "Aw look, he just needs a bit of money to get started... he even gave us a 'cousin's discount'." However, a rivalry starts with Redd when Sampo's first art piece turned out to be fake (scammer gets scammed moment). He asks if he can be the salesman that he's supposed to be. When villagers run up to him to offer bells for an item he has, he accepts thinking it'll get him a deal along the way. Unfortunately friendship gets you nowhere in terms of home loans. I'd say he's pretty good with the turnip stonks, so there's a balance. Also TRASH ISLAND. I'm sorry, but your man is a hoarder, "But what if I need this?" (Literally me.)

Welt: When you ask him to play he asks why the animals are crossing. He finds the style and characters are so cute, and he can see why you enjoy it. This is definitely a way he gets in touch with his "youthful" side. He loves the creative freedom in the game, even getting indecisive about how to design your island, and thinking of what outfit to wear. He once made a simple t-shirt for fun, but was surprised when he saw a villager wearing it. It'd be so cute and funny when he learns new emotes- and he just spams them with a straight face. Not gameplay related, but I feel like in his free time he'd draw you both in villager form <3.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fluff #honkai star rail imagines #animal crossing #animal crosing new horizons #acnh #hsr imagines #argenti x reader #aventurine x reader #blade x reader #boothill x reader #dan heng x reader #dr ratio x reader #gallagher x reader #gepard x reader #jing yuan x reader #luocha x reader #sampo x reader #welt x reader

799 notes · View notes