oak!

twenties, Latina (Brazil 🇧🇷), she/her, avid fanfic reader

[oaksgrove]

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before anything else | my masterlist

[oaksgrove]

mds eu comentando em inglês no one shot e agora que vi q vc é br kkkkkkjjj

Não é a primeira vez que isso acontece kkkkkkkkkkkkk

Obrigada demais por apoiar minha escrita! 🥰💗💗

[starwings549]

Somebody made this post that Richeh looks like Frimmel's child and now I can't stop thinking abt it.

Well off to go watch the new episode I go

[oaksgrove]

hey im so glad you're back!! how's your life been?? 🤍

-🌊

Hi 🌊 nonnie!!! sorry for disappearing again 😭 life’s been kinda crazy lately, but i’m slowly getting back into writing!! college has been keeping me super busy, but i miss having time for myself & my hobbies™ but I’m already working on that 🤍🤍

[oaksgrove]

Hello! Can you do one of John where it's the day to go see her wedding dress, but she didn't have anyone, never had anyone, she didn't want to go alone.

Not Alone

Pairing: John Price x Reader

Synopsis: Wedding dress shopping was supposed to be joyful, shared with mothers, sisters, and lifelong friends. But standing on the edge of a moment that highlights every absence in your life leaves you overwhelmed with shame and loneliness. 

Warnings: Themes of loneliness and emotional neglect, mentions of infidelity in family background, abandonment issues, crying/emotional breakdown, insecurity, vulnerability.

The date had been sitting in your calendar for nearly two months.

Not written in bright colours or decorated with little hearts the way other women might’ve done. Just plain black text: Wedding Dress Appointment - 11:00. And somehow, that made it worse, because every time you looked at it, your stomach twisted with the same quiet dread.

You tried not to think too hard about it in the weeks leading up to the appointment. Whenever wedding planning came up, you focused on practical things instead, flowers, seating charts. catering, things you could do alone without it hurting. But dress shopping was different.

Dress shopping was supposed to be full of women crowding around, mothers clasping their chests when their daughters stepped out of the fitting room, best friends, sisters taking blurry photos…

Every bridal advertisement reminded you of it, every video online, every conversation made you feel hollow. Because you had no one to bring, no mother, well not really, she existed, technically, but years of emotional distance had left your relationship brittle and formal, calls on birthdays and some holiday texts. No sisters, no close girlfriends, no cool aunt. Just you.

You’d spent most of your life pretending that didn’t bother you. Pretending you preferred being independent. Pretending it didn’t sting when coworkers talked about girls’ nights or when people casually said things like “I told my best friend everything.”

You didn’t have stories like that, you never really learned how to keep people long enough to become permanent. You learned early not to lean too hard on people, because eventually, they left. So when the morning of the appointment finally arrived, you woke up feeling sick.

John noticed immediately, of course he did, the man noticed when you slept badly, when your smile looked even slightly forced.

You stood in the kitchen pretending to drink your tea while staring blankly out the window. John sat at the table across from you, coffee in hand, eyes quietly fixed on your face over the rim of his mug.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

“Right,” he said slowly, clearly unconvinced.

The silence stretched. You hated that silence, hated how it made emotions bubble up too close to the surface. So you busied yourself gathering your things. Handbag, coat, phone. Anything to avoid looking at him too long.

John watched you move around the flat with growing concern.

“You nervous about today?” he asked carefully.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap. “A little.”

“That’s normal.”

You nodded, but your throat was already burning. Because it wasn’t normal nerves, not really, it wasn’t about the dress.

It was about walking into a bridal boutique completely alone while every other woman there would probably be surrounded by people who loved them openly and easily.

The thought made humiliation crawl hot beneath your skin.

You reached for the front door, then stopped. Your hand stayed frozen on the handle as your chest suddenly tightened so sharply it hurt.

You couldn’t do it. God, you couldn’t do it.

The image hit you all at once: standing in front of mirrors alone while strangers asked where your mum was, smiling politely when they asked who you brought with you. Pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t hurt.

Your breathing turned uneven, the bag slipped from your shoulder onto the floor with a dull thud. Behind you, John’s chair scraped back immediately.

“Love?”

You covered your face before he could see you cry. Which was pointless, really, because John had probably memorised every version of your sadness by now.

“I can’t do it,” you whispered.

His footsteps approached slowly.

“What happened?”

You shook your head hard. “Nothing, it’s stupid—”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”

That only made your eyes sting more. John came to stand in front of you, his expression softening instantly when he saw your face properly.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You hated how broken your voice sounded. “I just... I don’t want to go alone.”

The words came out childishly small, humiliatingly vulnerable, you stared at the floor immediately after saying them, unable to look at him, because who admitted something like that? Who got to adulthood without having anyone to call for something as important as wedding dress shopping? The shame of it sat heavy in your chest.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” you rushed out quickly. “I just thought maybe I could do it by myself but now I—” Your voice cracked. “Everyone else has someone, John.”

Silence, not a cold silence nor angry silence, just quiet. Then suddenly his hands were on your arms, warm and grounding.

“Hey.”

You finally looked up. John’s face looked almost heartbroken, which only made you feel worse.

“Don’t you dare sound ashamed of that.”

Your lip trembled. “It’s pathetic.”

“No.” His voice was firm now. Certain. “What’s pathetic is that no one’s ever shown up for you the way they should’ve.”

That hit harder than you expected. John never pitied you, never treated you like damaged glass, but sometimes he said things so plainly that they cracked straight through your defenses.

You looked away quickly before you started crying harder.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weird,” you admitted quietly. “Asking my fiancé to come wedding dress shopping because I don’t have anyone else.”

John stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly barked out the softest, most disbelieving little laugh.

“Weird?”

He stepped closer.

“Sweetheart, you really think I’d let you do something like that alone?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

John reached up and cupped your face immediately, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“There is nowhere on this earth I’m more obligated to be than beside you.”

And that did it, the tears spilled over instantly.

John sighed softly the second you broke, pulling you against him without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, securely, one hand cradling the back of your head like he could physically shield you from every lonely thing you’d ever felt.

“You’ve got me,” he murmured into your hair. “You understand? You’re not doing any of this alone anymore.”

You clutched the front of his shirt hard enough to wrinkle it.

“I don’t know why this hurts so much,” you whispered brokenly.

“I do.”

His voice was unbearably gentle.

“Everyone deserves someone in moments like this. Including you, honey”

You cried harder at that, and John just held you through it. No embarrassment. No rushing you to calm down.

Eventually, after your breathing steadied a little, he leaned back enough to look at you properly again.

“So,” he said carefully, “tell me the rules.”

You blinked wetly. “What?”

“For the dress thing.” His mouth twitched faintly. “I know I’m apparently not supposed to see it. So what’s the protocol here?”

A startled laugh escaped you despite yourself.

John looked deeply pleased by that tiny sound.

“There she is,” he murmured softly.

You wiped at your face. “You’d really come with me?”

“Darling,” he said gently, “I would sit through twelve hours of wedding dresses if it meant you weren't alone.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @earthtoshelly @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[sncrlynwtms]

fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.

“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”

if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.

[oaksgrove]

Hii I love your writing so so much!!!!

Can I please get a request on people-pleaser reader with Simon? Thank you bbggg 🫶🏼🫶🏼

Seen.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Synopsis: You’ve always been good at putting yourself second, it’s easier that way. But Simon notices the way you give without asking for anything back.

Warnings: Soft hurt/comfort, self-neglect reader, overgiving/people-pleasing, Simon Riley!!!

Simon liked that steakhouse downtown, with the heavy chairs and food that was great but not exactly your thing. You’d been there enough times that the hostess greeted you with, “The usual table?” and you always smiled and nodded, even though you secretly dreamed of sushi or a bowl of spicy noodles instead of another plate of roast and potatoes.

At home, it was the same. His favourites were yours, by default. You made shepherd’s pie, his mum’s curry recipe, roast chicken that made him hum low in approval. You never even realised how your cravings always came second. However, Simon noticed.

He noticed everything, really. He had a lieutenant eye for patterns, and you were a pattern he’d memorised long ago.

Like how you always handed him the shower first when you were both half-dead after a long day, even though your eyes were already drooping, or how you’d stay awake through his nightmares, gentle hand on his back until his breathing evened out. He saw how, when you caught a cold, you refused to slow down. Mug of tea in one hand, cleaning the kitchen with the other, insisting you were “just fine”.

And every time you smiled, he saw the fatigue, and it twisted something deep in his chest. Until one Saturday, Simon decided he’d had enough. You padded into the kitchen, hair messy, already reaching for a pan. “I’ll make your breakfast,” you said. “Do you want—”

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, brow arched. “You’re not making breakfast today.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. Sit.” He pointed at a chair like it was an order.

You frowned, half-laughing. “Simon, come on—”

“Sit.” A nod toward the chair, not raised nor harsh, just firm. “I’ve got it, love.”

You sat, mostly because arguing with Simon Riley before coffee was a battle no sane person chose.

“What are you making?”

“Breakfast.”

“That doesn’t answer—”

“Pancakes.”

You frowned. “You don’t even like pancakes.”

“Didn’t say I did.” A glance over his shoulder, brief. “You do.”

That stopped you.

“How d’you—”

“You’re my girlfriend” he muttered, like it was obvious.

You tried to hide your grin behind your mug, watching him move around the kitchen with his usual quiet precision. He plated up the pancakes, adding chocolate chips and set the plate in front of you like he was presenting a mission briefing.

“Eat,” he said.

You took a bite, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “These are actually good.”

He gave a smug little shrug. “I can follow a recipe. Shocking, I know.”

The next week, it was dinner. You’d opened your mouth to suggest steakhouse night again, but Simon cut you off before you could.

“We’re not going there tonight.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t like it.”

“I do like it!” you protested.

“You put up with it” he said flatly, He grabbed your coat, held it out. “There’s a Korean place you keep mentioning. We’re going there.”

You stared at him. “Simon—”

“Four times,” he added, like he’d been keeping count. “Then you drop it.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. He just leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, “I see you, love.”

After that, things changed a little. Simon wasn’t for grand gestures, but he started sneaking your favourites into the routine you’d built around him. When you’d try to get up to make tea, he’d already have one waiting. If you stayed up late waiting for him after a nightmare, he’d spend the next night coaxing you to bed early. He never called you out for it, never shamed you for the way you gave until you had nothing left. He just showed you what it felt like to be loved back.

One evening you came home worn down, head heavy, nose blocked, ready to drop. The house was quiet. For a second you thought he wasn’t in. But there he was he, leaning in the bathroom doorway, your towel over his shoulder.

“Bath’s running” he said.

You blinked. “For me?”

A faint huff, almost amused. “Didn’t run it for myself.”

You laughed weakly. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah” Softer this time. He stepped in, hand brushing over your hair, brief but grounding. “I did” He dipped his head, pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering just a second. “You look after everything,” he said, low. “Let me handle you, we’re a team. You don’t run yourself into the ground.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[peacozy]

studio ghibli romances be like mmm what if we didn’t kiss, but instead both spiritually matured as people because we met each other

[depsidase]

[megpie71]

As a former humanities student, I feel it is my duty to reblog this one.

[wordfather]

worst thing about a job is that you have to. keep showing up. like you have to. you gotta.

[kosmogrl]

[magicmooshka]

recently my friend's comics professor told her that it's acceptable to use gen AI for script-writing but not for art, since a machine can't generate meaningful artistic work. meanwhile, my sister's screenwriting professor said that they can use gen AI for concept art and visualization, but that it won't be able to generate a script that's any good. and at my job, it seems like each department says that AI can be useful in every field except the one that they know best.

It's only ever the jobs we're unfamiliar with that we assume can be replaced with automation. The more attuned we are with certain processes, crafts, and occupations, the more we realize that gen AI will never be able to provide a suitable replacement. The case for its existence lies on our ignorance of the work and skill required to do everything we don't.

[animatedamerican]

Hey OP? Thank you for articulating something I've been trying to get clear in my own mind for a while now.

[nthewriter]

You and Simon are married, mostly by convenience.

His team, except Captain Price, was shocked to learn that Ghost was married. He casually mentioned it once, on a ride back to England. Something about how the missus was going to fuss over his fatigues being all ripped.

Shock sustained in the helicopter. No one talked for a few minutes. First, Ghost had a wife. The emotional constipated man had a wife. The silent shadow had a woman back home. Second, Ghost had a wife who knew his life. This was against the accord they all signed to not reveal anything about their military lives and what they were doing. So, why did Ghost went against those terms?

Because you had been part of a similar unit, long ago. Except, your own Task Force had been ambushed. You and Ghost were the only survivors, taken away, tortured. They slashed your face, burnt it with acids. Ghost? They locked him ten feet under the ground with the corpses of his own friends.

When you both got away from this hell, and you were honourably discharged, Ghost had come to see you. Made you his proposal. You accepted.

Was it love? No. It was companionship. It was Ghost seeing your face, your trauma and couldn’t comprehend how you would survive alone. And he couldn’t survive without you. Two same sides of the same coin. You needed each other to live, to be alive, to feel alive hell.

So, you took care of the small cottage home you both purchased. You knew how to make his tea. He knew how to cook your favourite meal. You mended his fatigues while chastising him by reminding how the government funding was declining. He left notes around the house to make sure you drink water and take your medication. You begrudgingly agreed to take in the military dog that failed his exam. He begrudgingly have to leave you all the space in the bed.

Not a marriage of love. But one of understanding.

[station18908]

Re-reading your own fic is wild.

Okay, that's a really good sentence. Typo. Typo. Huh, did I write this? It's actually not bad. Typo. Hm, I would cut out that part now, but it kind of works. TYPO. Oh, this part is really good. That is the wrong word, wtf? I'm enjoying this more than I thought I would. ANOTHER TYPO? FFS.

[rawme-price]

Thinking about reader accidentally domesticating ghost like a stray cat.

Maybe it was your sheer and total lack of interest that drew him in first.

While others would whisper about him or track his movements through the halls like sheep watching the wolf at the edge of the pasture, you treated him like every other person. Which is to say, totally indifferent as you went about completing your job.

The occasional "pardon me, need to use the printer." Or "hey, have you seen sergeant james?" Piqued ghosts interest.

Whenever you were around ghost, you somehow managed to strip away his whole facade and make him feel like just another person. God, was that feeling addictive.

Which is how you end up with The Ghost trailing you around base. You, in your weird dedication to your job, had only asked him "do you need something, sir?" Once.

When ghost just shook his head, you continued on, now with a shadow. Completely unfazed. Indifferent, or just focused on more pressing matters than some guy hanging around you.

Of course, you're not rude. You acknowledge ghost is there.

A fact that becomes evident when he sits down three seats from you in the mess. He doesn't have a lunch, never does, and you seem to find that completely unacceptable. "Here. I don't want it." You pointedly slide half your sub towards ghost, then go right back to eating.

He stares at it. Waits for you to take it back.

When you don't, he tentatively picks it up and eats a small bite. A well of flavors explode across his tongue, meats and cheese and seasonings all resulting in him eating the rest in three big bites.

After that, there's no getting rid of ghost.

Whenever he can, he loiters in your office and shares meals with you. Occasionally, he brings his own cooking attempts not unlike a cat bringing it's owner a dead mouse. You force a few bites before pulling out your own.

No one on base seems to understand how you've done it.

Ghost, who would fight people at the drop of a hat, is now hanging around an archivist and stepping out of the way when people need to pass.

You've somehow managed to tame ghost.

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just mer!reader who grew up in a tiny tank for some Waterpark attraction, right?

You've never seen other mers before, never swam with a pod. In your old tank, your underbelly could always brush the coarse sand and your tail would never unfurl.

Then you get rescued and put into this new, scary tank with far too much space.

Your caretakers watch as you curl into an anxious ball at the ledge of the quarantine pool. You don't chirp or warble like distressed mer should, instead making weird maybe-cries that sound like a human. So scared you'll get lost in the giant empty water.

You're too socialized to humans now, and any chance of giving you to one of the foster parent mers is out of the question.

Enter price, the senior mer behaviorist. He offers to take on your case personally.

Which is how you end up swimming with price in the shallow waters, practically clinging to him like a plushie when he coaxed you to the deeper end with a "let's get yer tail unfurled, yeah? C'mon, pup, do it for me."

He's there for every one of your big achievements. Major milestones like swimming to the deep end all alone for twenty seconds, cracking your own oysters open, and not crying for your caretaker when he leaves at night.

He doubts you'll ever be independent enough for proper rehab, but price at least wants to introduce you to his boys. Maybe being around fellow mers will help your understand yourself better.

For the multiple nannies wanting mer content <33

[angelbabymikaa]

[wuuruvu]

[kindly-whisper-norbury]