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heartthrobin · 10 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

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Fuck it, we ball, I hope that disrespectful anon gets hemorrhoids and they can't get them removed until next year, AND that their insurance doesn't cover it. I'm here thinking about your Omega idea where omegas normally do the pursuing, but with a slight twist; the boys being the omegas. An alpha who is for sure down bad for the boys, but thinks "ah, theyre out of my league, I should be aiming lower, manage my expectations". Only 141 is just as down bad for them, and they're doing everything just short of screaming "PICK UP ON THE HINTS, COME INTO OUR HOUSE AND BEDS AND LIVES AND STAY FOREVER PLEASE"

Johnny is about to say fuck decorum and just show up in reader's house wearing nothing but a ribbon and a tag that says 'free to a good home' (your home is the good one, please keep him, there is no receipt so you can't return him).

Price has the brain cell normally in terms of trying to gently coax you into getting you to say you're into them, he has a 15 step plan that may or may not involve using his various contacts to get you spending more time in close proximity to them. Also he for some reason is always baking, he always comes over asking you for sugar? (He'll take any kind of 'sugar' you're willing to offer, he loves making a variety of cream pies)

Gaz is always gently inviting them to attend 'friend' things, things that could be a date but that he can excuse as 'well we're coworkers/friends/neighbors, we should get along :)'. It's just a coincidence that various other people seem to bail except for any of the other boys, now why don't you sit beside him so you guys can share popcorn at the movies (you both always seem to be reaching for it at the same time, if your fingers touched anymore you might as well be holding hands)

Simon is chasing off any omegas he thinks are a threat to them getting reader, that is THEIR alpha, paws OFF (rip to anyone reader was halfheartedly going on dates with, this man is gonna become those people's sleep paralysis demon)

Hope you enjoy!! :3 💕💕 i lovedddd writing this sm omg

See, the thing is, you’d always thought of yourself as a decent Alpha. Not overbearing, not egotistical, not a demanding freak- just capable and steady. But you weren’t extraordinary. Not the kind of Alpha Omegas like them would look at twice. And so, while you worked alongside the men of Task Force 141 you convinced yourself to be content with just admiring them from a distance.

You couldn’t help it. They were perfect, as far as you were concerned. Perfect, and fully out of your league.

Surely, Omegas like them would want someone better. Someone stronger. You’d told yourself that so many times it was practically your mantra, the only way you’d be able to stop yourself from pursuing them. They deserved someone more charismatic, more confident- an Alpha who could match their brilliance. Not someone like you, fumbling through conversations with them, struggling to keep your feelings in check.

But they’d already decided. They didn’t need a flashy Alpha or someone who tried too hard. What they wanted was you. The only problem? You didn’t seem to realize it, no matter how obvious they made it.

John took the lead, naturally. He knew you were cautious and perhaps a little insecure when it came to relationships (it was fucking visible in you, silly Alpha. He scoffs each time you draw back, frustrated), so he made it his mission to draw you in- slowly and subtly. His plan was meticulous: get you comfortable, build trust, and create opportunities for you to spend more time with them so you’d see that they only want you.

Maybe then you’d break out of that stupid shell you’ve put yourself in.

He’d started baking regularly, a habit you hadn’t even known he had. At least once a week, he’d show up at your place with a tin of cookies, a loaf of fresh bread, or a perfectly golden pie. “Thought I’d share,” he’d say casually, though the slight smirk tugging at his lips told a different story. He peers at you, letting his scent coil just a bit more. “I hope you don’t mind the amount of cream. I happen to like cream pies a lot.”

The way to an Alpha’s heart is through their stomach, and all that.

If he wasn’t offering you baked goods, he was asking for your help to make said baked goods. “Ran out of sugar again,” he’d sigh, handing you an empty container. “Mind sparing a bit?”

It was ridiculous, downright unbelievable how often he supposedly ran out of baking supplies. But his visits became a highlight of your week, and the lingering looks he gave you left your heart pounding long after he was gone.

The one time he’d handfed you, watching you lick the syrup from his fingers with half-lidded eyes, still lives in your mind rent-free.

Kyle took a softer, more personal approach. He wasn’t above using the pretense of friendship to spend time with you, often inviting you to casual dates- grabbing coffee, going to the movies, or just walking through town and shopping. Every invitation was framed innocently, but there was always a little extra effort behind it. He’d pick a movie he knew you’d like, suggest places he knew you’d find interesting, and ensure that others you unfortunately knew joined just enough to make it seem less like a date.

Somehow, though, those other people always mysteriously canceled. It was never anything dramatic- just a sudden cold, a scheduling conflict, or a “something came up, sorry.” Eventually, it would be just you and a very smug Kyle, sitting close enough that your knees brushed or reaching for popcorn at the same time. Once, right as the bowl emptied and you both reached for it, Kyle simply thought fuck it and held your hand.

On one occasion, you both shared a bowl of spaghetti and ended up with the scene from the Lady and the Tramp.

It was so painfully obvious to everyone.

Except you.

“It’s not a coincidence,” Kyle muttered to Johnny one evening after you left, both of them sitting in the spot you were in, bathing in the leftover warmth and scent. “How can they not notice?”

Speaking of Johnny; he’s barely keeping himself together. Subtlety in missions are a must sometimes, but he doesn’t want to that with you anymore. He was just so, so, so frustrated with your obliviousness. What more does he need to do to show you that he- that they- want you?

He’s been dropping so many hints; half-jokes about Omegas waiting begging to be swept off their feet, suggestive winks when you compliment him in that lovely, adoring tone of yours. Once, while watching a romantic tv show, he’d sighed loudly and very pointedly said: “If only someone would claim me.”

“If ye don’t figure it out soon,” he growled at the others one night, pacing back and forth like a wild beast and probably on his way to leave a dent in the carpet, “I’m showin’ up at their doorstep with nothin’ but a red bow, like some bloody Christmas prezzie, I swear to god.”

John sighs, rolling his eyes. “You do that, and I’m leaving you on their porch.”

“That’s exactly what I’m askin’ for!”

Simon took the quietest but most direct approach. Just not exactly direct towards you. While the others worked to get closer to you, Simon focused on eliminating what he saw as obstacles: other Omegas who thought you were free for the taking. It didn’t matter if they were serious or just someone you’d gone on a casual date with- Simon saw them all as threats.

He didn’t have to say much to scare them off. A single cold glare from across the room, sharp bursts of his scent, or a low, menacing comment was usually enough to send them packing. He didn’t care if it was excessive.

You were his Alpha. You were their Alpha, and no one else had a right to you.

But even Simon softened when it came to you. He couldn’t put all his thoughts, all his feelings into words, so he did them with his actions. Quiet protectiveness, gentle, careful touches. Moments of fleeting vulnerabilities shared between you and him.

He was always there for you. Even if you didn’t know you need him with you.

Still, despite all their efforts, you remained convinced that they weren’t interested.

In the end, to no one’s surprise, it’s Johnny who snaps. Johnny, so close to his heat, so absolutely done with your obliviousness and the Omegas that aren’t them talking with you when you should be only focused on them.

He doesn’t care; leaves the carefully made nest with your stolen shirts and none of the others stop him when he just. Drags your surprised self to the nest.

“Johnny! You-“

“I want you.” He hisses, bares his teeth all sharp and desperate. “We want you. And damn it, we will have you.”

And well, who are you to even say no when this is all you have wanted?

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always-just-red · 9 months ago

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Hii! I've seen some Pregnancy scenario with LaD's men, but I have this HC-- personally for Sylus. That when fem!reader got pregnant, he didn't really understand how the Pregnancy hormones work, until he experienced one and he got confused how he should act or react because it's feels like he's walking on landime, one wrong move/word, she'd throwing tantrum or being sulky at him

I've heard from my Friend who got pregnant before, when she craving something and her Husband showing any form that he can't fulfill what she's craves, she felt her heart broken, and she'd sulk and acted as if he just cheated on her. The problem is, she always craved something that didn't even exist at that moment😂, she's craving certain type of Mango while it's not even that Mango season, so nobody selling it. He literally being desperate to negotiate with her cravings

So... Can I request a scenario smiliar like that? It doesn't have to be mango, or any foods. Just... how Pregnancy hormones or Cravings could make Sylus got frustated lol

Aaaaa anon this is adorable, thank you! We love making Sylus suffer in cute and harmless ways. He's always asking for trouble, so let's give him some! 😌💅

Something Sweet

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus knows how to get what he wants. Getting what you want might be a little more tricky...

Genre: fluff!

Warnings/Additional tags: female!reader, IMPLIED pregnant!reader (pregnancy not actually mentioned or described- just hormones being hormones ✌), established relationship, canon pet names, a lil bit of roleplay because Sylus refuses to leave his Mystic Adventure era

| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Sy, d’you know what I’m craving right now?”

“Always, sweetie.” Sylus doesn’t look up from his book. “Not now, though. I’m tired.”

Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in your living room curtains, casting pale yellow shapes over the floor. A shard of it has been inching over the sofa towards Sylus, the sharp edge now grazing the side of his face. He shifts, ever so slightly, away from its touch. His eyes are open but heavy.

“No,” you scold, leaning forwards to swat at him with your book. “That’s not what I meant, you narcissist.”

He chuckles with his usual low timbre— his gaze still not lifting— and the sound is deeper for how close he is to sleep. He wants to give in to it, you can tell. When he turns a page, the movement is languid, soft. You’re losing him.

“Sy,” you say again, then with more of a whine: “Sylus.”

His eyes flutter closed as he draws in a deep breath. His hand raises, his fingers stretching to pull his reading glasses from his face. They’re set down on the arm of the chair beside him, along with the book, and he turns to you with a smile. “What are you craving, sweetie?”

You rest your book on your stomach. Your legs are stretched out over Sylus’s lap, and his hand finds one of your feet, massaging an ache from it as you begin your speech. “Do you remember that café we used to go to? The one we found when it started raining in the park that day? We didn’t think it was open, but then the owner knocked on the window and said we could—”

“Yeah?” His hand moves to your other foot.

“Well, they make these—”

“Macarons.”

“You remember?”

His smile widens like he remembers vividly. “Kitten, how could I forget? I’m still jealous of that sweet little treat. You’ve never made that face for me, and believe me—” he wiggles one of your toes— “I’ve tried.”

That had been one of the only times you’d truly caught him off-guard, back when your feelings for one another were unnamed and uncharted. The rain had been drumming against the café window, and you’d heaved Sylus’s damp coat from your shoulders— giggled at the raised eyebrow and the sarcastic ‘…thanks’ he’d given in turn. One hot drink later, you were lifting a pastel pink macaron to your lips, taking a delicate bite and failing to stifle a tiny, almost euphoric moan.

You remember realising yourself: blushing profusely and expecting some remark, some ridicule, but none ever came. Sylus’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed upon your still parted mouth.

After a few of the longest seconds of your life, he’d dragged the plate with the rest of the macarons away from you and muttered something about how you had better not do that again.

“They’re still the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted,” you tease now, just as you’d wrestled him for that plate back then, set on eating every last macaron.

He makes a hmph as he idly runs a finger over the part of your foot he knows is ticklish. His expression is distinctly grumpy, but it falters as you laugh and try to writhe away from him.

You’re quickly out of breath. “Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

He glances up at you and you smile sweetly, head tilting. “Please?”

His coat on a rainy day. The entire plate of macarons in the end; he’s never been very good at denying you anything. For the first time since you’d stirred him from his book, however, he appears genuinely regretful. “You’re forgetting something, sweetie,” he murmurs gently. “Why did we stop going to that café, hmm?”

You shrug.

“It closed, kitten,” he sighs. “Months ago.”

“What?”

Not only did you already know that— you actually visited the café on its final day. The owner was telling you stories: he was moving somewhere warmer, closer to family, and he needed all the funds he could get. Sylus had snuck an obscene amount of money into the man’s tip jar whilst you acted as a distraction. You both had fond memories of that place; it was nice to make one more.

It's all coming back to you and you’re struck by a wave of nostalgia. You want to go back there. You can’t go back there. It doesn’t exist anymore, and you’ll never taste sweetness like that again.

Your mouth has gone dry.

“Sweetie?” Sylus prompts, because he notices you’re far away. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” your voice wobbles, “I just really wanted… I mean, I really needed one of those—”

“… Macarons?” he finishes for you.

You burst into tears, and one day, you’ll tally this as another time you took the man by surprise. His face drops instantly— lost, for a moment— before he slides your legs from his lap, allowing him to lean closer. “No, no, no,” he coos, “don’t cry, kitten, please. I didn’t mean to… well, I didn’t realise…”

He doesn’t know what to say, and he always knows what to say. He set you off with a single word and now he’s stuttering like sentences are all possible landmines. He tries his luck again, putting a foot forward: “Listen to me. I’ll go to the store. Would that be alright? Or perhaps there’s another café that could—”

You explode: sobbing even more viscerally. Your whole body shakes with it.

Sylus has frozen. He watches on helplessly as you cry, blabbering about the macarons you can’t have and the café you can’t return to. Across the room, even Mephisto has hunched down on his perch, though he issues a few, spirited squawks, maybe in solidarity with your breakdown, or maybe in protest of it.

It’s like a catalyst. You cry more: burying your face in your hands because what the hell is wrong with you? It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal, so why do you feel sick? And then there’s Sylus— your Sylus, devoted and adoring— and here you are, punishing him for something beyond his control.

You look up from your hands, desperate to apologise, but he’s gone. More shards of sunlight paint his empty seat and catch all that’s left of him: a few crow feathers, glistening like onyx. Mephisto is gone too, and the room is quiet, save for you snivelling and feeling sorry for yourself.

“Sylus?” you call out into the empty morning.

It isn’t his fault, not really. You wouldn’t want to be around you, either.

…

Something brushes over your cheek, and your tired eyes open.

The sun has ebbed back behind the curtains and the ceiling light has taken its place, casting artificial highlights over everything in reach: the coffee table, the closed-up flowers at its centre and a mug of tea that’s gone cold. Sylus is in front of you too, backlit and soft like a daydream, and he—

He left you.

“Sy?” you whisper warily, because the context is coming back to you slowly, piece by piece.

“Hey,” he coaxes, voice as honeyed as whatever’s turned the air sweet.

You blink, rubbing sleep from your eyes and relishing the warmth of his hand on your face. Then you slap his shoulder. “Hey, really? That’s all you’ve got— hey?”

He’s kneeling for you— on the floor, beside the couch— so you can meet his eyes. He settles his chin thoughtfully on the edge of the seat, his nose almost touching yours. “What would you prefer, sweetie?” His lips are close to yours too. “Good evening, my beloved? Greetings, my queen?”

“How about sorry?” you snap, because he isn’t cute and he isn’t charming.

He pouts. “Why sorry?”

“Because you left, Sylus!” You sit up straighter, and your phone tumbles out of your lap. Its screen is still lit-up from a few hours ago, showcasing a very one-sided conversation and a rant you never actually sent, because it’s still in the text box.

You vaguely recall writing it, so you try to snatch the phone from Sylus’s hand as he plucks it from the floor. He’s more alert than you. More co-ordinated. He keeps it out of your grasp as he reads the unsent message, an eyebrow raising.

It was a lot of things— colourful, creative— not entirely tasteful. “My, my, your highness,” he tuts, “so this is the treatment your valiant knight receives for undertaking your quest?”

“You’re not valiant,” you rebuke, and you manage to wrestle your phone from him. “You’re—”

“A heartless prick,” he finishes casually, quoting your message with a chuckle. He takes your free hand and kisses the back of it, refusing to let you pull away. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“You can have your heart back.”

“Nope. You’re stuck with it, sweetie. With me, too. Now—” he sits back on his knees— “would you please ask me about my quest?”

The analogy is lost on you. You sit fully up, looking down at him. “What quest, oh valiant knight?”

His lips form a smirk; he just loves when you play along. “Close your eyes.”

You do— whether you’re queen or not. You hear him shifting aside, and then there’s a snap of his fingers. The air changes, warping like thick, liquid smoke, and you know he’s using his Evol. “Open,” he commands.

And there on the coffee table, freshly teleported, is a plate of macarons the colour of cherry blossoms. As if anticipating the comparison, Sylus pulls a handful of pink petals from his pocket and blows them up into the air so they can spiral down on the scene. He watches them. Then you. “Ta-da,” he proclaims, his tone dry but full of humour.

You’re prone to hyperbole nowadays, but this is without a doubt the best thing you have ever seen.

“Sylus,” you gasp in disbelief, “how did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says; the story isn’t for today, and he’s very, very tired. A few weeks from now he’ll tell you about how he tracked down the contact information of the owner of the old café. How he spent an hour on the phone bargaining for a certain macaron recipe, and several more hours in the kitchen, trying to get them perfect. “Now, they might not be exactly the same, sweetie. But I did try to—”

You surge forwards, capturing his lips in a kiss. It’s so impulsive— so reckless— that you almost tumble down from the couch, but he catches you, steadies you, and your hand is gripping the soft of his hair as he kisses you back. Slowly, his mouth not leaving yours, he lifts you back into your seat.

“Easy, sweetie.” His voice is low as he pulls away, and though he turns his face from you, you can make out the blush on his cheeks. He settles back into his kneeling position on the floor. “I have one more surprise for you. Do try to control yourself.”

He retrieves a small, complete flower from his pocket, albeit one a little dreary from its journey. Sylus smiles triumphantly as he holds it out to you, and he was right; you do want to throw yourself at him. Instead, you take the flower and lean forwards, tucking it behind his ear before he can protest. He’d tilted closer to help you, and he sits back with an exasperated tsk when you’re done.

“It suits you,” you grin.

He yawns. “Everything does.”

You don’t want to get into trouble, so you shimmy to the very edge of your seat and carefully— showing tremendous restraint— reach out to take his face in your hands. “You’re amazing, Sy. Thank you for doing all of this for me, but…”

“But…?”

“I missed you. I like macarons, yeah,” you smile, “but I’d much rather have you.”

This time, he can’t hide his face and the way it goes pink, like the blossom behind his ear. His cheeks are warm beneath your palms. “You couldn’t have said that before I spent the whole day—”

His voice is strangled as you keel towards him— slow and deliberate— to thread your arms around him and pull him into a hug. He tenses for a moment, then wraps his arms around you too: holding you tightly, keeping you from falling any further. You can feel his hand stroking your back and he hums as you give him a gentle squeeze.

“Such a lovely moment, kitten,” he muses, your head on his shoulder. “I do hope it’s sincere, and not— say— an excuse for someone to get her paws on the macarons behind me.”

There’s another moment of quiet.

“Don’t be silly, Sy,” you retort, but your mouth is full, your cheeks are stuffed, and not a single word of it is intelligible.

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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rafeshit · 4 months ago

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celebrity!drew x assistant!reader

warnings — none other than tensionn and kissin

summary — you surprise him at one his premieres that he begged you to come to

youve been Drew's assistant for months, tasked with managing his chaotic schedule and taming the problems in his daily life. It's a wonder you haven't lost your mind yet, given the constant demands and last-minute changes that come with catering to a celebrity. But somehow, you've learned to navigate Drew's world with ease, all while maintaining a sense of calm that eludes him. It's almost comical, really, you're the epitome of organization and precision, whereas Drew is a walking disaster, always running late and anxiety driven about the next big thing.

despite your different approaches to life, you've developed an unlikely friendship with Drew over the past few months. You've grown accustomed to his anxious energy, and he's learned to appreciate your no-nonsense attitude. As the days have turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, you've begun to realize that your feelings for Drew go beyond friendship. You've tried to brush it off as a silly crush, but the truth is, you're hooked. You can't help but admire the way his eyes wrinkle at the corners when he smiles or how he stutters when he speaks to you. The problem, of course, is that Drew is a notorious playboy, always on the prowl for the next girl to pounce on. You're not naive enough to think you stand a chance.

today is the day of the premier for Onslaught, Drew's latest movie. He's been a nervous wreck all morning, pacing back and forth in front of the mirror as he preps for the red carpet. When he turns to you and says, "I don't understand why you're not coming with me," you know you have to draw a line. You can't keep enabling his dependency on you, no matter how much you care for him. So you say the one word that will likely send him into a wreck "No!" Drew's scoffs, and he storms out of the room without a word.

you have to admit that your relationship is a little inappropriate. drew latches onto you like a child does to a mother and he uses you as an anchor in everything he does because you do things so well. So you have to draw the line somewhere.

fast-forward to the premier, where Drew is currently sweating bullets during an interview. His anxiety is at an all time high, his eyes darting towards the crowd as he forces a smile onto his face. And then, suddenly, a hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He looks up, his gaze locking onto yours as you stand at the edge of the crowd, smiling brightly back at him. The camera flashes, capturing the moment, and for an instant, everyone’s eyes were on you. But It's just you and Drew, locked in this moment feeling as though you were the only two in the room.

As the interviews wrap up, you make your way over to Drew, he turns to you, asking, "You showed up. Why'd you show up?"

You take a deep breath, preparing for the aftermath of your earlier argument. "I'm really sorry, I just—" But Drew cuts you off, "Why?" He says practically demanding an answer.

"You know why," you say, winking at him.

He chuckles, shaking his head, and you both enter into the building engulfed in a room full of his colleagues. He hands you a glass of sparkling champagne. "Well, I suppose you're here now. Let's make the most of it."

As you sip your drink, taking in the atmosphere, Drew fills you in on the reactions to his movie surrounding Onslaught. His hand finds its way to your back, moving up and down in a gentle, possessive gesture that raises more than a few eyebrows among his co-stars.

Just then, a handsome stranger approaches you,"You look stunning in that black dress, miss." he says, his smile wide and his eyes inviting. "May I have the pleasure of your name?"

You feel Drew's hand squeeze your back ever so slightly before it slips off, only to graze your butt in a gentle way. The stranger's eyes flicker to Drew, who was disinterested in the stranger advances from the start, "Sorry, she's unavailable," Drew says, ushering him away.

You turn to him, with a confused on your face. "Unavailable?" you repeat.

Drew offers a downward smile and shrugs. "Yeah. And you're fired."

You're taken aback, "What? Why?" This job has been your lively hood and the biggest break you could ever imagine, it would be catastrophic for you to lose it. You start to wonder where you messed up and if it was even fixable, because his words were certain and clear.

He smirks. "Because I can't date my assistant without it being a problem." Your eyebrows shoot up, and before you can process his words, Drew leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. His hands pull your waist closer to him, deepening the embrace. You both earn side eyes from everyone in the room but you two were far from caring.

Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him in closer and finally He breaks the kiss, still holding your waist as he whispers in your ear, “this dress is coming off tonight.”

#drew starkey x reader #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey #drew fluff #drew x assistant #celebrity #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe cameron #rafe fluff #rafeshit #rafe imagine #drew starkey fluff

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loves4ge · 10 months ago

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tattoo artist!au, cw: partial nudity, mdni

choso can feel his heart stutter in his chest, bumping against his ribcage. god, who just walked in? the pen he's using to draw in his tablet clatters to the ground, though he can't be bothered to pick it up because he is too busy staring at you.

oh, you, with your lovely little dress hitching near the middle of your thigh. strappy sandals and painted nails, you have him hooked. the parlor is dimly lit and smells of ink and paper and alcohol. the kind that's used for cleaning wounds and not the one that you get drunk on with your friends on friday nights. he doesn't even hear your words and you have to repeat them.

"sorry, what did you say?" he sounds out of breath despite not doing any physical exertion. and you grin, that smile would put the sun to shame.

"that's alright. i wanted to get a tattoo but i wasn't sure if you accepted walk-ins?" you trail off towards the end in an inquiring tone. you know that they don't. it's their pinned post on social media.

he does not accept walk-ins. "sure we do, what do you have in mind?"

your eyes brighten, grinning even wider, and choso thinks he might just die and go to heaven right now. he can't stop glancing at you when you show him the designs on your phone.

"where do you want it done?" he asks at the end, opening a blank page on his tablet to finalize a design. you can't help but observe him, leaning over the counter, hair in two twin ponytails and eyeliner done to perfection.

"i was thinking my hip? like if i wore a bikini, i want the tattoo to be partially obscured by the bikini bottoms." choso thinks he may as well have short-circuited with the speed his brain is malfunctioning. you notice his delayed response and almost cooed. he's shy.

this isn't the first time a client has asked for a tattoo in a risqué position, and he's never batted an eye at nudity either. but he's entirely unsure of himself when you strip down to your panties (you ended up taking off the short dress, though you did wear a cami underneath it), and he's thinking maybe he does have a problem with nudity after all (most people call this problem an erection, but choso's not that crude).

"you're gonna have to pull it aside, or i can cut it off." he doesn't specify which part, and now your eyes widen.

swallowing thickly, you ask, "what do you mean?" you know what he means, but you sort of hope he meant something else.

"the side of your underwear, we can just cut a slit—oh," he understands what his previous sentence sounded like when he sees your face contort into disbelief and then promptly dissolve into relief.

he doesn't look at you directly, "sorry, i don't know why i said that. it's, oh god, sorry to make you uncomfort—" he's cut off by your words of understanding.

"it's my fault really. i swear i'm not uncomfortable. really, choso." oh, the money he'd pay to hear his name leave your lips again.

"…if you say so. i'll use the scissors now, if that's okay?" you nod, smiling to encourage him. god knows he needs no encouragement to cut off your panties. there's silence in the parlor except for the sound of fabric being cut. he hands you a small towel to cover whatever you need to, but you just place it to the side. you know what you're doing. choso isn't sure if you're an angel or the devil.

he makes sure his ponytails aren't loose and puts on some nitrile gloves, black like his hair. you're wondering if you should break the silence, make some small talk, put the boy out of his misery, or just let the tension simmer.

"i really like the face tattoo thing you've got going on." he snaps up to look at you, then immediately reddens. his fingers hover above the black stripe across his face.

"yeah?"

"mhm." you lift your hand, thumbing his cheek where the tattoo ends. he's still the entire time.

you'd be the death of him.

with careful hands, he sanitizes the part of your hip where the tattoo would go on. he may have taken a little bit longer than usual, his fingertips pressing into your skin with the thin layer of an alcohol wipe acting as a barrier. your skin is soft, and he wants to grip your hips more actively. without the façade of a tattooist doing his job.

you're not feeling calm anymore, and in a sudden fit of unadvised decision-making, you grab choso's wrist (this choice was not peer-reviewed by your groupchat, but at the moment you find it in yourself that you don't really care). he startles but doesn't say anything.

"i'm nervous," you murmur. he instantly softens, melts, and reaches out to grab your shoulder in a sort of platonic 'i'm there for you' way. you're not planning to be platonic.

"that's alright lovely, everybody gets nervous before tattoos. it's more common than you think. would you like water?" his voice is soothing, and the way his lips move. you know what you need. you know what would calm you down.

"i know another way we can get rid of my nerves."

"mm, how so?"

"kiss me."

he almost chokes. he looks at your dead serious expression.

he is so fucked.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

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Why I don’t like AI art

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL on Apr 2, and in BLOOMINGTON at MORGENSTERN BOOKS on Apr 4. More tour dates here.

A law professor friend tells me that LLMs have completely transformed the way she relates to grad students and post-docs – for the worse. And no, it's not that they're cheating on their homework or using LLMs to write briefs full of hallucinated cases.

The thing that LLMs have changed in my friend's law school is letters of reference. Historically, students would only ask a prof for a letter of reference if they knew the prof really rated them. Writing a good reference is a ton of work, and that's rather the point: the mere fact that a law prof was willing to write one for you represents a signal about how highly they value you. It's a form of proof of work.

But then came the chatbots and with them, the knowledge that a reference letter could be generated by feeding three bullet points to a chatbot and having it generate five paragraphs of florid nonsense based on those three short sentences. Suddenly, profs were expected to write letters for many, many students – not just the top performers.

Of course, this was also happening at other universities, meaning that when my friend's school opened up for postdocs, they were inundated with letters of reference from profs elsewhere. Naturally, they handled this flood by feeding each letter back into an LLM and asking it to boil it down to three bullet points. No one thinks that these are identical to the three bullet points that were used to generate the letters, but it's close enough, right?

Obviously, this is terrible. At this point, letters of reference might as well consist solely of three bullet-points on letterhead. After all, the entire communicative intent in a chatbot-generated letter is just those three bullets. Everything else is padding, and all it does is dilute the communicative intent of the work. No matter how grammatically correct or even stylistically interesting the AI generated sentences are, they have less communicative freight than the three original bullet points. After all, the AI doesn't know anything about the grad student, so anything it adds to those three bullet points are, by definition, irrelevant to the question of whether they're well suited for a postdoc.

Which brings me to art. As a working artist in his third decade of professional life, I've concluded that the point of art is to take a big, numinous, irreducible feeling that fills the artist's mind, and attempt to infuse that feeling into some artistic vessel – a book, a painting, a song, a dance, a sculpture, etc – in the hopes that this work will cause a loose facsimile of that numinous, irreducible feeling to manifest in someone else's mind.

Art, in other words, is an act of communication – and there you have the problem with AI art. As a writer, when I write a novel, I make tens – if not hundreds – of thousands of tiny decisions that are in service to this business of causing my big, irreducible, numinous feeling to materialize in your mind. Most of those decisions aren't even conscious, but they are definitely decisions, and I don't make them solely on the basis of probabilistic autocomplete. One of my novels may be good and it may be bad, but one thing is definitely is is rich in communicative intent. Every one of those microdecisions is an expression of artistic intent.

Now, I'm not much of a visual artist. I can't draw, though I really enjoy creating collages, which you can see here:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/albums/72177720316719208

I can tell you that every time I move a layer, change the color balance, or use the lasso tool to nip a few pixels out of a 19th century editorial cartoon that I'm matting into a modern backdrop, I'm making a communicative decision. The goal isn't "perfection" or "photorealism." I'm not trying to spin around really quick in order to get a look at the stuff behind me in Plato's cave. I am making communicative choices.

What's more: working with that lasso tool on a 10,000 pixel-wide Library of Congress scan of a painting from the cover of Puck magazine or a 15,000 pixel wide scan of Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights means that I'm touching the smallest individual contours of each brushstroke. This is quite a meditative experience – but it's also quite a communicative one. Tracing the smallest irregularities in a brushstroke definitely materializes a theory of mind for me, in which I can feel the artist reaching out across time to convey something to me via the tiny microdecisions I'm going over with my cursor.

Herein lies the problem with AI art. Just like with a law school letter of reference generated from three bullet points, the prompt given to an AI to produce creative writing or an image is the sum total of the communicative intent infused into the work. The prompter has a big, numinous, irreducible feeling and they want to infuse it into a work in order to materialize versions of that feeling in your mind and mine. When they deliver a single line's worth of description into the prompt box, then – by definition – that's the only part that carries any communicative freight. The AI has taken one sentence's worth of actual communication intended to convey the big, numinous, irreducible feeling and diluted it amongst a thousand brushtrokes or 10,000 words. I think this is what we mean when we say AI art is soul-less and sterile. Like the five paragraphs of nonsense generated from three bullet points from a law prof, the AI is padding out the part that makes this art – the microdecisions intended to convey the big, numinous, irreducible feeling – with a bunch of stuff that has no communicative intent and therefore can't be art.

If my thesis is right, then the more you work with the AI, the more art-like its output becomes. If the AI generates 50 variations from your prompt and you choose one, that's one more microdecision infused into the work. If you re-prompt and re-re-prompt the AI to generate refinements, then each of those prompts is a new payload of microdecisions that the AI can spread out across all the words of pixels, increasing the amount of communicative intent in each one.

Finally: not all art is verbose. Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain" – a urinal signed "R. Mutt" – has very few communicative choices. Duchamp chose the urinal, chose the paint, painted the signature, came up with a title (probably some other choices went into it, too). It's a significant work of art. I know because when I look at it I feel a big, numinous irreducible feeling that Duchamp infused in the work so that I could experience a facsimile of Duchamp's artistic impulse.

There are individual sentences, brushstrokes, single dance-steps that initiate the upload of the creator's numinous, irreducible feeling directly into my brain. It's possible that a single very good prompt could produce text or an image that had artistic meaning. But it's not likely, in just the same way that scribbling three words on a sheet of paper or painting a single brushstroke will produce a meaningful work of art. Most art is somewhat verbose (but not all of it).

So there you have it: the reason I don't like AI art. It's not that AI artists lack for the big, numinous irreducible feelings. I firmly believe we all have those. The problem is that an AI prompt has very little communicative intent and nearly all (but not every) good piece of art has more communicative intent than fits into an AI prompt.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/25/communicative-intent/#diluted

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #art #uncanniness #eerieness #communicative intent #gen ai #generative ai #image generators #artificial intelligence #generative artificial intelligence #gen artificial intelligence #l

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corkinavoid · 27 days ago

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Hey i just reread the whole ring of rage and was wondering if you had more of it? I loved it

Hey! It's been a while since I've written that series, and, unfortunately, I didn't (and don't plan to) write any more of it.

However, here's some snippets and vague thoughts that you might like!

It takes a bit of adjusting, but eventually, all the Bats learn that the best way to deal with any kind of magical bullshit is calling Danny. Or, well, calling Tim so he calls Danny. The latter is fine with it the first few times, but after one very eventful week, when they've managed to summon him nearly twenty times in a row, he ends up introducing them to Sam. She doesn't like it, but she teaches Bats a few ways to use magic anyway. However, Tim is the exception here — Danny will never ever say no to his summons, and helping Tim can't be annoying no matter how many times he calls or how small the problem is.

One time, Alfred brings up the fact that Tim and Danny are not married legally. Not in the mortal realm, at least. To which Tim says that they are, he's actually filed all the documents about a month after they've started going out on dates. That starts a whole new level of chaos because, one, why didn't he ever mention it, two, everyone wanted a party and a wedding reception, and is it too late for that now? It later turns out that they accidentally got married in an alternate timeline, not in this one. To be fair, neither of them even realized that until Barbara wasn't able to find the records of their marriage anywhere.

Out of all the Bats, Danny's favorite — aside from Tim, who is obviously the number one — is Duke. He loves how the boy is probably the most unhinged out of all of them, and yet no one has a clue. Which is why Duke also gets a free pass to summon him whenever he needs to. His least favorite is, surprisingly, Jason, and it's mostly because Danny holds a grudge against him for attempting to murder Tim in the past. But also because Jason is liminal enough to notice and avoid the harmless (by Danny's standard) pranks that he sets up to keep the Bats on their toes.

Steph gives Danny a whole collection of manga on his birthday. Later, Tim tracks her down and starts a fight, during which he doesn't say a single word, and his face is so red he looks like a tomato, and Steph won't stop laughing. Tim doesn't talk to her for a month. Since then, every time Steph summons Danny, he comes in a form of half-man, half-octopus (think Ursula from My Little Mermaid), and they both break out in giggles spontaneously from time to time. Tim absolutely hates it.

None of them bother to explain shit about the whole ordeal to Constantine, and it's definitely on purpose. It eventually leads to the memorable day when John ends up watching Batman draw a summoning circle and successfully call on the High King of Infinite Realms with no trouble. Despite everything, the only reaction they get is Constantine sighing and muttering, "So, he didn't file for divorce, then."

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dc x dp #tim drake #batman #batfam #dead tired #tim x danny #ring of rage #cork ask

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bewitched-hours · 4 days ago

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Forsaken | 007n7 x MamaBear!Reader

Okay, this honestly makes me a little nervous to write because this is definitely gonna be ooc and probably at least half-inaccurate but of well, I'm for fun. This is based on an earlier post I made and I hope you all enjoy.

The Reader will be given She/They pronouns for this and you get two different scenarios for it! One pre-Forsaken and one during the events of Forsaken (´꒳`)♡

Now enjoy your dilf- /j

Pre-Forsaken:

You would've never thought you'd end up in this position...

At first it was just a happy coincidence that one of the parents at the daycare you work at was put onto you to deal with. Not because he was difficult to handle or anything but because his kid was a bit of a problem.

You honestly felt bad. C00lkidd seemed like he genuinely meant well and you always tried to be patient with him and dissuade him from causing trouble and for the most part, it seemed to work.

Sure, he was still being a child and causing a ruckus but at least with you around he started to tone it down a bit, which seemed to surprise 7n7.

He'd ask you how you got c00lkidd to settle at all and you could only answer with the fact you'd make deals with the kid.

Some candy of his choice the next day if he behaves, sometimes even bringing in a whole pizza for him if it meant he'd stop going too rough on the other children.

Not like you couldn't afford it. You were new to being a daycare worker after leaving a stressful office job but had enough money saved up so you wouldn't have to worry for at least the first few months. You originally wanted to use those savings to move but then the prices of apartments and houses rose and you decided to just stick to your plan of at least switching jobs for your own sanity.

You and 07 actually got along pretty well, you even exchanged numbers at one point to talk more privately.

But before you knew it, you two were out on dates and enjoying how awkward you both were. And in that same pace, you were suddenly a mom to C00lkidd and moved in with them both.

Now you take C00lkidd with you to daycare and still keeping up your deals but instead of buying him things, you moved on to promising him special dinners. You almost can't believe your sudden luck in life and are absolutely smitten with your husband and child.

But it seemed you became a bit of an outsider among your co-workers from it.

"Do you think she actually loves him?" You'd hear them mutter.

"Maybe his dad is secretly rich or something..." You tried to remain calm.

"Who could love such a thing anyhow?"

You snapped. You could tolerate it if they were only talking about you but talking about your husband or son like that was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Sweetie, I'll be right back but remember your promise, okay?" You told C00lkidd and he happily nodded before going back to his drawings as you forcefully grabbed the co-workers of yours that thought they could talk shit about your family.

"Listen hear you stupid bitches..." You hissed at them. But you wanted to keep quiet so none of the children hear what you were about to say.

"I can take your bullshit about me because I already don't like you and could easily switch jobs with my own savings but talk about my husband or kid like that again and I'll make sure you'll never be hired at another daycare or school ever again. Got it?" You were honestly surprised by your own fury at this point but too focused on getting your point across as the co-workers silently nodded at you with pale faces.

Hopefully you could hide your anger from C00lkidd and 7n7 until it's properly gone. Until the flame inside you was put out.

It seemed to work for most of the day but C00lkidd didn't pay you too much attention anyways as he was trying to befriend the other children and make awesome drawings for you and 7 to put on the fridge when you get home.

But your husband was more perceptive...

Almost the moment he saw you that evening, he could tell something was bothering you but he waited until you were home to ask you in the privacy of your shared bedroom.

Of course, you told him all about your co-workers but left out how you felt like an outsider. Because you knew he'd feel guilty.

Surprisingly, he's glad to know that you love this life so much that you protect it even from the people you work with.

But your son obviously has to ruin the moment because he forgot to show 7n7 his drawings and when the day was over, you found yourself thanking whatever higher power there could be that you decided to switch your job when you did.

Because now you have the most perfect family you could've asked for...

Forsaken:

Let's say you and 07 had been dating before Forsaken happened.

You've been feeling pretty low lately. C00lkidd was gone and so was his dad... The same one you had a date with just last week.

Even worse, he isn't answering your texts or even receiving them. At first you feared he might've lost interest but when C00lkidd stopped showing up at your daycare you knew something was wrong.

It didn't take long for you to go insane with worry, trying to ignore your co-workers making up rumours about you again and trying to stop you from wanting to find them.

"Let the police just do it, why do you care so much about a kid and a guy you met less than a couple months ago?" Was what finally made you snap.

But instead of words, your sleep-deprived mind thought they deserved a little more. Something truly painful.

You didn't kill them- luckily...

In fact, you blacked out before you could even charge at them with one of those small arts and crafts scissors from one of the classrooms. You still don't remember why you initially took them...

When you woke up, you were not only surrounded by strangers, but everything was so eery.

You were quick to understand their explanations and what you had to do when a 'round' starts. You were quickly proven to be a 'Support' class as one of your abilities allowed you to "Channel your anger for improved speed" and another allowed you to heal others by pulling out candy out of thin air...

At that point you were sure you were dreaming but one of the survivors made sure to pinch you hard enough that you knew it was real.

But then you were suddenly pulled aside by Elliot, who you at least somewhat recognized from the pizza place you went to to get C00lkidd pizza in your early days of taking care of him.

"Listen, you should be aware of the guy in a blue shirt and burger hat." He muttered to you and something piqued your interest. A Burger Hat? Didn't 7n7 wear one of those? Maybe a coincidence?

"His name's 007n7-" Definitely not a coincidence and you felt your heart flutter upon learning he was here. You stopped Elliot mid-sentence as you had already tuned out his negativity and asked where you'd find him.

Elliot was shocked but didn't pry and simply brought you to his cabin.

"If he isn't in there then I have no clue." You could hear disappointment in his voice. You honestly wanted to punch him a little for it but oh well.

"And when you're looking for your own cabin, just pay attention to the doors, yours should already have your name on it but don't ask me how!" He yelled at you from a distance, still going back to the other survivors as you quickly but silently made your way up the porch and knocked on the door.

You could hear him groaning inside but you couldn't care less. You were just happy to see him again despite your ever-so-calm face.

And when he opened the door, you nearly jumped him with joy over the fact he was alive and well... At least until you notice he had some injuries. From those 'Rounds' no doubt...

But he was both surprised and happy to see you too! He was even more surprised when you told him how much effort you put into finding him and C00lkidd, although he began to sound off when you mentioned CK. You could immediately tell something was wrong and feared for the worst... That the poor kid wasn't here and maybe even...

No, he assured you CK was alive and you sighed in relief at those news. However, you'd soon grow horrified again when 7 began to explain that the kid was turned into a monster and placed with the killers.

You spent the rest of the time that you had talking and crying together, finding out more about each other than you'd have ever known. It was nice in a way. You obviously both had been locking up some emotions and ended up spooning on his bed with him listening intently to your heartbeat as you thought about what you'll do now.

One thing was for sure... You're not leaving without your future husband or child... If there even is a way out...

Thanks to @brain4stew for the idea of doing both ideas in one post ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

And sorry for any wild inaccuracies I might've put in, I was honestly just looking to write fluff with possible hurt/comfort elements and wasn't sure how to add them in so I just wrote with the Forsaken OST playing in my ears lol (^▽^)👍

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #007n7 x reader #c00lkidd is just a kid man #c00lkidd forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken roblox #c00lkidd & Reader PLATONICALLY #You're family now

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six-eyed-samurai · 9 months ago

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Silly reasons the Tokyo Rev Boys have dialed you for based off…actual reasons…people have called me for…

🌸Takemitchy calls you for conversation, which suddenly turns to school and "WAIT DON'T WE HAVE A TEST TOMORROW?". Obviously the both of you panic and whip out your books, meaning to study together via phone call but also simultaneously realize you've forgotten the topic...and which class it was for. The rest of the call is just sitting in panicked silence, punctuated with the occasional "We're so screwed."

🌸It’s canon Izana plays guitar! Do you ever think he writes his own songs as well? Maybe, and that's why he calls you in the middle of the night to tell you about it, wanna hear it, oh am I bothering you, it's fine you don't have to listen now (and you'll say “I SAID I'D LISTEN TO IT AND I WILL KUROKAWA NOW SING.”), any suggestions for improvements? And then somehow it spirals into the both of you doing your utmost best to be off key, off tune and completely ruin the song with as many voice cracks as possible.

🌸Chifuyu, bless his heart, calls you out of the blue with no prior warning, at an inconvenient time and scares you enough for a heart attack, but he doesn't realize it, too intent on forcing you to watch the latest anime trailer for the both of your favourite manga with him after you say you can't load the video. He’s downright scandalized, and in his defense he did text you about what he was going to do - only you hadn’t understood he meant call as in call now. I mean, at least the both of you got a kick out of it as he shares his screen, so win-win?

🌸I think Inupi would call you for no particular reason other than to be in your company. You both don't say much but somehow the call spirals to a three hour dial. Whenever one of you gets up you'll flip the camera to show the other where you’re going or what you’re doing. Inupi likes to think it’s like the both of you are having lunch together, doing that jigsaw puzzle together, doing the dishes together…it’s alright if you spend two thirds of the time in silence, your company is enough for him.

🌸Koko calls you for a venting session! He rants about the idiots he’s encountered, his worries, the gang, money problems, boasts on how much he’s made today, stuff he’s bought you, anything really. He knows he could’ve just texted you about it but it’s a lot more personal for him if you pick up and reply back talking, but occasionally he does feel bad he keeps calling you - although you assure him you love it! You do, really, because in turn you get to vent about whatever’s on your mind and Koko always has the best reactions (damn if that girl hasn’t been an absolute bxxch, nooo, she did what now?). He’s like a gal pal and a boyfriend combined.

🌸You’re the one to call Baji, actually, because it’s the only way to get him to study with you if you’re not free to go to his place. You put up with his complaining and force him to answer a bunch of quizzes. The study session goes great for the first half….then somehow you both get sidetracked when Baji says he’s bored and leaves to make yakisoba. You make him take the phone with him and it could’ve been romantic, both of you making noodles from your ends of the line! But no, Baji ends up getting distracted flirting with you and overcooks it into a mushy mess that has you gagging and hanging up on him.

🌸Ran and you call for normal-people reasons like chatting or studying, but more often than not Ran’s childish nature has him more interested in playing with the phone call’s filters (if let’s say you’re using apps like Instagram) and making you pose with him before screenshotting - by the way, you’re the one doing that, because Ran has TERRIBLE timing when it comes to taking photos. If there’s those filters that let you draw on your screen self, oh man does Ran love doodling moustaches, beards, cat ears, the whole gig. If you don’t call him handsome he gets pouty and threatens to hang up or leak that ugly screenshot of you when the phone froze from lag.

🌸With no apology to your ears, Sanzu will call you at 3 a.m. in the morning to either a) make the most terrifying/fart noises known to mankind or b) bombard you with meaningless philosophical questions that made you get out of bed and actually Google them. Of course he doesn’t do this all the time, mostly when he’s high as a kite. Yet you KNOW for a fact he’s sober that night when he suddenly dialed your number and when you picked up, dead silent until the most unholiest rendition of your favorite song is being sung (read: screamed) out. You yelp and hang up, but not before you hear him cackling.

🌸He’s the sort to honestly forget to call you but when he does Mikey makes the call drag on for hours because he has his ways of making you not hang up, but the times he DOES remember to call you is after you tell him no, you can’t eat twenty five dorayaki in one go, I’m not paying for that. He’ll be feeling petty and when he gets his hands on dorayaki he calls you for no other reason than to chew it as loudly as possible next to the microphone so you get the Mikey Premium Dessert ASMR. If you hang up he’s sending voice recordings.

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mochinomnoms · 11 months ago

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i understand the simping for the fashion dilf believe me i do

but i come offering other non simping thoughts for now

i can imagine yuu just casually braking into other dorms to sleep when it rains bc their dorm is still…extremely broken (because the BIRD MAN WONT FIX IT)

so their friends (and possibly lovers depending upon your preference) just wake up the next morning to see yuu on on couch in their common area with grim sleeping on them

-🐝

I love this alot but especially if it's a case that no one can figure out how the hell you're getting into their dorms. Even though they're easily accessible through the mirrors, the dorms are probably locked from the outside for safety reasons.

At my dorms and for most of the buildings, they were open during the day and at night they would only be accessible though student id/key cards. I think the students at NRC maybe could use their wands as their key cards, but you don't have a wand, just Grim with his stone. And people forget that Grim, even though he's just a lil ceacher....is still technically a student that can get into buildings lol.

Heartslabyul is the main victim of your sudden appearances, which makes Riddle a bit conflicted, as he understands Ramshackle is desolate, and the roof might cave in on you while sleeping... But there are RULES, and you're not supposed to leave your dorm after a certain time, AND you need permission from your housewarden to sleep in another dorm. But technically you're your own housewarden...and you did come into his dorm right before the deadline (Idia can pull up the timestamped camera footage to prove it if you ask). Ace and Cater get a kick out of seeing you in the lounge and may or may not have the urge to draw silly things on your face in marker. Trey and Deuce feel a bit bad since you are using the couch pillows to cover yourself, so they start leaving throw blankets for you to use. Riddle will get over it, eventually, and will start involving you in the dorm's morning routine and chores if you're there often enough.

The next most common is Scarabia, mostly because their lounge is super luxurious and Kalim doesn't care that you sneak in. In fact, he starts anticipating it (he can be perceptive if he really pays attention) and will sit in the lounge waiting for your arrival for an impromptu sleep over! It only becomes a problem when Jamil wakes up and goes to get Kalim up for the day only to realize that he's gone and oh god where is Kalim did he get kidnapped oh shit Jamil is gonna get murdered by Kalim and his own—WHY ARE YOU SLEEPING IN THE LOUNGE—PREFECT????? You promptly get banned for a few weeks before the cycle continues again.

For the next dorms, it's a tie between Savanaclaw and Diasomnia. Mostly because they're not as comfortable, like yeah Savanaclaw has a pool in the lounge and Diasomnia is a cool gothic castle but...they're not comfy to sleep in. Scarabia gets hot, but at least the lounge is comfy, Savanaclaw doesn't have loads of cushions, pillows, and blankets. Leona doesn't care much though, and he had you over once before, so as long as you don't disrupt his sleep again, do what you want. And Diasomina, while you'd be welcomed with open arms by Malleus, is kinda creepy...especially in the lounge....and you've woken up with Malleus or Lilia hovering over you, unblinking, staring until you wake up. They just want to greet you good morning! It's...sweet...but unnerving. But if you can't go to Heartslabyul, and you've been banned by Jamil from Scarabia for a while, then it's a toss of a coin between those two.

Your last options, in order, are Octavinelle, Pomefiore, and Ignihyde. Octavinelle, well they have a very lovely lounge with lovely ambience and quite comfortable couches! But, last time you got found by one of the students, you got reported to Azul who promptly made you work in exchange for sleeping in the dorm without reserving a room. Yeah, you forgot that Azul has rooms available to rent out, you can't get around that by sleeping in the lounge, work off your debt! It becomes a game almost, to see if they can find you before you sneak out of the dorm. You've been unsuccessful, as Jade and Floyd has an uncanny ability to find you no matter where you are. Once, as a joke and in retaliation, you managed to sneak into Azul's office and sleep on his couches. You'd planned to wake up and sit in his chair so that you could turn around with Grim in your lap like a James Bond villain (Grim asked what a James Bond was), but you ended up passing out for a solid 10 hours from how comfortable you were. You woke up to your head in Jade's lap, petting you like a cat, and legs over Floyd's lap, as Azul worked on paperwork. When you woke up, very confused and groggy, he asked how you would like to split your ten owed hours of shifts.

Pomefiore, while lovely, is not your favorite choice. Mostly because you don't want to deal with Vil. He's actually the most concerned out of everyone that you've resorted to sleeping in lounges, it's not good for your health. And as we all know, he is very concerned with his dorm members maintaining a good health and general wellness. So the moment he hears that you are sleeping around in the lounges, he waits, even puts Rook on watch for you. The moment you pass out in his lounge? He's snatching you and nearly motherhenning you. He's pushing you to sleep in one of the dorms, most likely Epel's room, since you're familiar with each other. And now, you've also been tied in with the same routine and rules as Epel. You appreciate the concern, but you don't know how to tell Vil that you kinda like the fun of running around between dorms and freaking people out. He probably wouldn't be amused, so you manage to escape his grasp and stay at Ramshackle for a while to let him cool down (he's a bit offended that you wanted to escape, so now he's biding his time and waiting for you to eventually crawl back when the other dorms are occupied.)

Ignihyde is last because, quite frankly, that bish look cold! And uncomfortable! And a lot creepier than Diasomnia!!! And also, Idia and Ortho have that dorm covered in camera and security measures, so you're not getting in. Sorry I don't make the rules, Idia just really doesn't want to deal with you in the lounge, especially when he runs out for midnight munchies and has to hold back his scream when he sees a random person in his dorm and oh no it's just you. Prefect, what the fuck?

#mochi asks #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #idk how else to tag this so reader it is

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knight-a3 · 3 months ago

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Rosie, the Cannibal Overlord

Heavenbound AU

Hazbin Masterpost

More notes under the cut

--Background--

Life: There's not a lot of canon to go off of here, yet. So I'll keep my theorizing to a minimum. First, I think she's a sinner, not hellborn. She died in the 1910s, probably somewhere in the range of 40-60 years old. I'm keeping my options open.

There's two ways this could go: Either she was a cannibal because she was a freak, or she was in a bad situation and resorted to cannibalism but died anyway. And hell cursed her with cannibalistic cravings that she just embraced. I don't care which.

Afterlife: Rosie is not a particularly powerful overlord by herself, but she still dangerous. She's tuned into the rumor mill and hears about almost everything that's going on, looking for opportunities to make deals. She carries a friendly demeanor, but is not to be trusted. She will help people with their problems, for a price(like Ursula from the Little Mermaid). If they can't pay right now, she'll accept temporary ownership of a soul until their debts are paid. But the debt might just take an eternity to pay off while she dangles freedom just out of reach.

Her most loyal souls are the cannibals. She's the leader of Cannibal Town, and the cannibals willingly sold their souls to her and she treats them with more respect than most of her other souls. If you mess with any of the cannibals, you incur the wrath of them all.

While she is not strictly powerful, it is a bad idea to underestimate her. Between her deceptively unassuming demeanor, her knack for collecting gossip, her loyal cannibals, and her powerful alliances(Alastor in particular), she can be a very dangerous enemy.

--Design Notes--

Dress: Her canon outfit was definitely giving Edwardian vibes. So it made sense when I heard that she was inspired by "Hello Dolly". The Edwardian period spans approximately from the 1890s-1910s, right between Victorian and Roaring 20s. Based on her S-curve silhouette, Rosie's fashion seems most in line with the mid-Edwardian trends. Early in the era, volume carried over from the Victorians, but slimmed down by the end, then led into the 20s.

But I was having trouble understanding the construction of her outfit, so I just wanted to make sense of it. There's nothing egregiously wrong with her canon outfit, I basically just wanted to tweak it a little to suit my preferences a little better.

Hat: Hats got very elaborate. Apparently it was popular to have a stuffed bird as decoration. Which I think Rosie would like, but I don't want to draw that. While the skull in canon also suits her, I really wanted to incorporate roses, because of her name. But skulls and roses both would be too much. I played with the idea of using other flowers, like poppies(which represent death and remembrance, and are used as a symbol to honor the fallen of WWI and veterans. I thought it could be fitting because WWI was at the tail end of this time period). But I ended up not really liking it as much.

Black roses symbolize death, which is obvious enough. The greyish ones were mostly just to contrast the black.

Hair: Seems the Edwardians were obsessed with the pompadour. Rosie most likely does not have short hair, but long hair in an updo.

Full Demon: I wanted Rosie to have a full demon form. We don't have a canon one, so I took the liberty of doing it myself, and creatively called it "Spooky Rosie". I wanted it to be skeletal in appearance, and have long nails. I ended up taking inspiration from the Beldam/Other Mother from Coraline. As well as wendigos.

Wendigo: A wendigo is a spirit from Algonquian-speaking Native American/First Nation Tribes. It possesses and/or transforms people, giving them an insatiable craving for human flesh. The myths are particularly common in northern areas, where there can be intense winters. They are often used as a cautionary tale warning about greed, selfishness, and descent into savagery.

The original myths didn't really include an antlered creature. I think that might be a more modern pop-culture addition. They are supposed to look more like freaky emaciated people. The game Until Dawn has a pretty good depiction.

Which, coincidentally, resembles the cannibals in hazbin(more so than Alastor. So I don't think he's a wendigo). I doubt that was intentional, but I just think the coincidence is interesting. I can take inspiration from the appearance, but I won't be explicitly calling anyone a wendigo. I just figured it was worth addressing here.

Should wendigo be censored? Some of the myths state that saying its name attracts it and incurs its wrath. But this superstition is present but ignored with other mythological creatures such as fae folk or even Bloody Mary, and I find it odd to treat Native American folklore differently. I don't think people who do not believe in it should have to abide by the superstition, particularly if the consequence would only bring wrath upon the person who incurred it. If I type out the name online, then I don't see why others should be offended that I put myself in danger. I haven't seen any substantial sources to suggest it's inherently offensive. I only hear that from people on the internet who have no cultural connection to the belief and heard from other people on the internet.

I also don't see the value of a cautionary tale that can't be spoken about.

I live in an area where Skinwalkers are the historically relevant superstition, and it's really not that big a deal to anyone. Pop culture exaggerates the significance of these things.

(April 25, 2025- added a bit about the cultural stigma of saying the word wendigo)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel redesign #hellaverse #rosie #rosie the cannibal #hazbin rosie #human rosie #heavenbound au #fanart #a3 art #digital art #character sheet

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ynnova · 7 months ago

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( FLIGHTS NOT FEELINGS. ) yunho x ninth member!f!reader ✶ pre-poly!ateez

──── yunho notices how you always wear the same pair of shoes.

2018 ୨୧ word count : 3.9k ୨୧ warnings : language, talks of money problems, attachment issues (i think), jokes that come off meaner than intended, insecurities ୨୧ mdni

yunho noticed it a few months ago. how you always came in wearing the same white converse. he noticed them when he met you for the first time two years ago. although, two years ago they were a little cleaner than they are now. of course yunho didn't see anything wrong with that, he's glad you get the use out of them.

but he can't help but wonder why you always wear them. surely, you had other shoes, right?

yunho heard the smack before he even registered the sight of you now on the floor. your fall echoed throughout the practice room as you laid on your front for a moment longer than he would have liked.

and then it all came crashing down after that, wooyoung's high-pitched laugh echoing in the room right after. yunho turns to see you in the process of sitting up, you rub your wrist a little and he's worried you might have hurt yourself. wooyoung's laugh however distracts him before the sight of one of your shoes catches his attention.

the sole was basically coming off the shoe, like your shoe had a mouth now and he assumes that your shoe coming apart was the reason for you falling.

"haha, what's up with your shoe!" wooyoung points out, his voice and finger drawing everyone's attention to the poor beat-up shoe.

"i thought our top trainee could afford nicer shoes," wooyoung says and yunho isn't sure if wooyoung means it teasingly or not.

"why do you still have those shoes anyway?" mingi is the one to speak up this time.

"it looks like a mouth," san says with a laugh, watching as you stand up and the poor shoe not helping you in any way. "it even slaps open like a mouth too!"

the members laugh at san's observation, well everyone but you was laughing. instead, you opted to not look at them and yunho immediately felt a sense of guilt the longer he looked at you.

"throw those shoes away, y/n," seonghwa says, eyes focusing in on the poor state of them, "just use another pair, it's not worth getting hurt. you wear them all the time even when we aren't practicing," he adds the last part dismissively.

"but..." you begin to say and yunho has never heard your voice so soft before, "these... these are the only shoes i have. i don't have any others," you say, eyes avoiding everyone, instead looking at the floor.

yunho feels like he was witnessing a side of you he didn't think any of them should see. he had never seen you so vulnerable. you've always been so happy, sometimes a little shy, but you were also always so sure of yourself, especially when practicing. but now? now yunho could see a blanket of insecurities laying over you. your eyes began to get glassy the longer everyone looked at you.

yunho felt a heat rise over his face and ears as he watched you lean down and began to untie your shoe. you ripped the shoe off without saying anything before turning on your heels, grabbing your bag and rushing out of the practice room.

you held your shoe close to you as you left, yunho watching you limp due to only having one show on. when the practice door closed behind you it was like he was splashed with cold water.

someone clearing their throat is what brought yunho back down to reality. turning he sees hongjoong getting everyone's attention. "okay, let's get back to practicing."

"but what about noona?" jongho asks, looking from the leader of the group to where you had left.

"i'm sure she'll join us when she's ready," he says, his tone tells them that he doesn't want to discuss it anymore.

and so they don't. they had a debut to get ready for.

when they were given a twenty-minute break and yunho noticed you hadn't come back yet, he immediately excused himself. he walked down the hallway looking for you, asking the staff if they've seen you.

"i seen her in one of the conference rooms," one staff member said and he thanked them before he made his way to go look for you.

when yunho finally found you he felt another wave of guilt wash over him. you were trying hard not to let your cries come out too loudly, tears running down your face as you sat in one of the chairs; broken shoe in hand.

he watched you wipe your tears away with the sleeve of your shirt as you wrapped some duct tape around your shoe to put it back together. and then your eyes looked up to meet his.

and yunho didn't know what to say and you couldn't handle looking at him for too long. embarrassment taking over your whole body.

"y/n–"

"please don't," you say, stopping him from saying anything. yunho watches as you put your shoe back on, lacing it up before standing and making your way past him and out of the conference room.

when yunho returned to the practice room, he spotted you talking with jongho and going over the choreo with him. he felt his stomach twist in envy with you ignoring him, but he guesses that was expected. he looked over to hongjoong who was across the room to see the older male looking at you, his eyes lingering on your duct taped show before looking away.

"okay, let's do it one more time before calling it a day," hongjoong says and everyone gets in place.

yunho felt his stomach twist when he remembered the image of you fixing your shoe, tears running down your face as you hid away from him and the others.

he doesn't blame you, he would hid from them too. your voice sounded innocent and like you had no choice in what shoes you had. maybe because you didn't, he thinks and his stomach twists even more. he feels terrible, how could he not consider that maybe those really were the only shoes you had.

"what's wrong yunho?" his mother's voice snaps him out of his guilty thoughts. looking up to meet her curious eyes.

"i was... just thinking about y/n," yunho confesses, looking from her to his food.

"oh? well i figured she would be on your mind," she says and yunho looks back up at her confused by her words before it quickly dawns on him.

"n-not like that!" he says, feeling his ear getting red. "s-something happened at practice today and i feel bad for not doing anything."

"oh, yunho, i'm sure you can talk with her when you all get back about it. she's understanding, you know that," his mother says but he wants to disagree. you may be understanding at times, but you were also stubborn at times.

"i don't know, i think i really messed up," he says, looking down at his hands, feeling his heart sink to his stomach as the image of you crying came back to him. haunting him almost. "one of her shoes had come apart while we were practicing and we all laughed at her because she fell. i didn't realize those were the only shoes she had. i had never seen her so embarrassed before and we just laughed at her."

"oh, yunho..." he could tell his mother was disappointed in him by just her tone alone.

"i don't know what to do. i want to make it up to her, but how?" he says because he does, he can't stand the idea of you both being on not good terms.

"well..." his mother began and he finally chose this moment to look at her, "i think you should apologize and do something to make it up to her. how? i don't know, you know her better than i do, yunho."

his mother was right, of course, he needed to apologize and make it up to you, but again, how?

suddenly, an idea came to his mind. "i think i know something," he said before getting up and going to his room.

yunho made quick steps as he walked down the street. backpack slung over his shoulders as he walked with a purpose. he had been practicing what he was going to say to you, over and over again the entire morning (and most of last night).

he took the familiar street down to the boarding house he remembers always walking you back to before you officially moved into the dorm. he knew that you would be here during the group's small break before they all leave to la in order to train for a month. that's why he needed to talk with you know and not later.

yunho feels his pace slow down when he notices a familiar figure standing in front of the boarding house.

the landlady had a strict 'no males' rule to where they weren't even allowed to step on the property. yunho always made sure to abide by that rule, not wanting you to get in trouble. so he assumes that seonghwa is also following that rule.

"hyung..." yunho calls out, earning the older male's attention. "what are you doing here?"

"i came to talk to y/n," he says and that's when yunho notices the box in seonghwa's arms. a converse shoe box to be exact. similar to the one in his backpack. "why are you here?"

"i came to talk to y/n, too," yunho answers, echoing seonghwa's words and he watches as seonghwa nods in response.

"i figured that's why you boys were here," another voice spoke, an older woman's voice to be exact. both boys turn to see your former landlady standing in front of them with a warm smile on her face.

"yes, ma'am, is she here by chance?" seonghwa asked, bowing in greetings to the older woman.

"i believe her and the other girls went out not too long ago," she says and yunho feels his shoulders sink at the news. who knows when you'll be back then, yunho didn't want to wait. he couldn't wait.

"why don't you boys come in for some tea and to chat," the landlady said as she turns around and begins to make her way to her part of the house that was separate from the main boarding house.

"are you sure? we don't want to impose, we can come back later," seonghwa says.

"nonsense, you both traveled such a way, might as well allow you boys to come and wait," she says, a smile pulling on her lips that reminded yunho heavily of a grandmother. yunho assumes that why you still visit even though you don't live her anymore, the granny landlady acting as a grandmother-figure to you since you're so far away from your actual family.

the realization that you can't see your family like him and the others can make him feel even worse. yunho follows behind seonghwa into the granny's apartment in order to wait for you.

"so how has our y/nnie been doing?" granny asked as she set the tea down in front of the three of them.

"she's been doing great, she's a natural at everything," seonghwa says with a small smile. "i'm a little jealous at how natural everything comes to her, honestly." yunho is surprised by his hyung's confession. he never would have guessed that's how seonghwa felt about you. "i admire her a lot for not giving up doing this for so long and being away from her family for just as long," he adds.

"well, y/n isn't so far from her family anymore," granny says, making both boys look at her with curiosity. "she has you all to call her family and home now. she talks about you boys all the time when she comes to visit."

yunho felt his heart skip a beat at that knowledge. to know that you held them so closely to you meant the world to him, and here they were bringing you done because of a pair of shoes. his eyes flicker over to seonghwa who has a guilty and sad look in his eyes. he must feel guilty too.

"i'm glad we can be that for her," yunho says with a smile, trying to bring the mood up before it could go down. "i care about y/n a lot, she's a very precious friend to me."

"a precious friend?" granny says with a smile before taking a sip of her tea. "what about you seonghwa? is y/nnie a precious friend to you as well?" yunho wonders what seonghwa will say, he knows that granny is hinting at something else, so he wonders what seonghwa will say.

yunho can tell he's thinking about his answer. he doesn't want to answer it wrongly because even if seonghwa did by chance see you as a precious friend, he still has a girlfriend. a girlfriend he had been dating for almost two years now.

"she is very precious to me, i want to look after her like i do with the other members."

granny lets out a small chuckle, "interesting." he wonders if granny knows something they don't.

"yunho? seonghwa-oppa? what are you guys doing here?" your voice is the first thing he hears after the door to your landlady's apartment opens. both him and seonghwa turn to see you standing by the door, eyes wide in surprise at seeing two of your members here.

yunho's eyes drift down to your feet and he notices you are still wearing your same converse.

yunho was about to say something with seonghwa beat him to it, standing up as well. "we wanted to talk to you."

"o-okay," you say, eyes flickering from seonghwa to himself. granny clears her throat catching your three's attention as she stands up from her seat.

"i'll let the three of you talk then," she says before leaving the room as you come in down in one of the chairs.

yunho notes how your eyes no longer hold any sadness, but he can tell that you're a little hesitant around them. its easier to meet their eyes, but you won't linger for too long.

"y/n," seonghwa starts as he sits back in his spot, "i'm sorry for what i said yesterday, it was uncalled for and didn't need to be said on top of everything else. i'm sorry," he finishes, bowing his head and both you and yunho look at him in surprise.

"i'm sorry too!" yunho says suddenly before you could, "i should have stopped the others or something, i should have spoken to you instead of freezing like i did. i'm sorry for being a coward," he says.

"i-it's o–

"don't say it's okay because it's not," seonghwa cuts you off and yunho has never seen him this serious. "we assumed something about you when it wasn't true and even i... even i told you to throw those shoes away when i shouldn't have."

"i'm sorry for getting emotional about those shoes," you start and seonghwa opens his mouth but yunho stops him. you don't often open up to them, usually keeping things about your feelings and life to yourself. he doesn't want seonghwa to accidentally stop you from laying your emotions out to them. yunho wants to understand you better.

"i've had those shoes since coming to korea. my aunt sent them over as a gift before i left. my parents... don't really have a lot of money to spend on material things like shoes, so i usually only get one pair every once in a while. my dad will wear the same shoes until they are falling apart. i guess i've also grown attached to them. they've been with me since i came to korea and i guess i'm afraid of throwing them away because they were there for me right before i became a trainee. there's a small part of me left in these shoes, and i'm just not ready to part with them yet. this isn't the first time they've fallen apart on me, three months ago the sole on the other one came loose and i had to superglue it back on."

yunho doesn't know how to take in the information you just told him and seonghwa. he had no idea and he can't help but feel frustrated that you probably didn't think you could tell them. he clenches his fist tightly, knuckles turning white as a tear escape out his eye.

"yunho... what's wrong?" you ask, voice full of concern and eyes also wide in concern as you look at him.

"i just... i feel terrible because i had no idea. you have such a fond attachment to those shoes and me and the others made fun of you for it," he says, more tears running down his cheeks and he goes to wipe them away. you get up from your spot and make your way next to yunho, using your handkerchief you always kept out in order to wipe his tears away.

yunho notes how cute the frog-patterned handkerchief is compared to how oppositely you're dressed. if your anime graphic tee that's a size too big along with your worn out jeans is anything to go by, but yunho finds you cute.

wait...

did he just say he finds you cute?

yunho guesses he did, he won't deny it. these past two years he's grown close to you and he knows that there's still things he doesn't know about you yet. things he hasn't been able to love yet. okay, maybe love is a strong word for an eighteen-year-old boy to use. but it all still stands, there's things you haven't told him, told the others yet and he wants to know those things.

yunho hesitates for a moment before he softly takes your hand, "y/n, please don't hide how you feel from us. how you feel is important and you shouldn't hide away from us," he told you, opting to look at your connected hands rather than your face.

"i'll try," you tell him and yunho thinks that's more than enough.

"good, thank you," he says before letting your hand go. he thinks if he held it any longer, his palms were gonna start sweating and he didn't want you to feel that.

"there's another reason why i came by, y/n," seonghwa says, gaining both of yours and yunho's attention. yunho almost forgot the eldest was here with you both. "i know you have a close attachment to those shoes, but... i don't know, i wanted to give you these so you had another pair for when we go to america," seonghwa says picking the show box up and holding it between the two of you.

"oppa! w-what?" you say as seonghwa hands the box over before gesturing for you to open it. yunho notices how your hands shake as you open the box to reveal a new set of white converse.

"i don't want to replace your old ones," seonghwa says softly, "but maybe you can make new memories with these. with us."

"oppa," you say, tears running down your face and yunho wants to comfort you but seonghwa beats him to it. pulling into a tight hug as he runs a hand up and down your back to comfort you. "thank you," yunho hears you say and seonghwa smiles before he's pulling away.

"of course, no need to thank me," seonghwa says, wiping your tears away and yunho feels something in him burn as he watches you and seonghwa. his one hand holding your handkerchief while he other reached for his bag. it's crazy how some people think alike, yunho thinks.

"i got some news for you y/n," yunho starts, earning your attention and you watch as he picks his bag up and unzips it revealing his own converse shoe box. he takes it out of his bag before sitting it in his lap for you to open. "hyung took all the good words before i could say them, but just know that i agree with him. i want to make new memories with you and the others, whether you have new shoes or not."

"thank you, yunho. you both didn't have to do this for me, i would have been fine with what i had."

"we know," seonghwa says, "but you also deserve to have some shoes that won't trip you while you're dancing. can't be in a millennium dance video otherwise," he teases and yunho feels a weight off his shoulders when he hears you laugh.

"he's right! hey, maybe you can even decorate one of the pairs!" yunho suggested, knowing that you would probably enjoy doing something fun with one of the pairs. "no use having two of the same color if you aren't gonna spice one of them up, no?"

"i guess it would be..." you said with a smile and yunho felt proud to make you smile.

"well, i can't wait to see what you do with them then," seonghwa says, smiling at you. "we should probably be heading out, don't want to overstay our welcome," he adds before standing up.

"are you sure? i don't think granny will mind, do you want to stay for dinner?" you ask as yunho also stands up, bag in hand.

"we're sure, enjoy time with your friends and we'll see you in a few days, okay?" seonghwa says and you nod your head.

"why don't you walk us out?" yunho suggests and you nod, the three of you going over to the door and outside.

"thank you guys again for dropping by," you say as you are all outside. "i appreciate it... a lot."

"of course, y/n, enjoy your break. tell your noonas we said hello," seonghwa says and you nod your head.

"tell your families i said hello as well," both males nod before they bid you one last goodbye before they're walking down the street.

"i'm glad we got to talk to her," yunho says once him and seonghwa were far enough from the house.

"i do too, funny how we both got her shoes, huh?"

"yeah..." yunho says as he puts his hands in his pockets. he raises his eyebrow when he feels something in one of his pockets, weird. wait, what is this? he thinks as he pulls the unknown item from his pocket to see its your frog handkerchief.

crap, did he put it in his pocket without thinking. "hold on, hyung, i have to go give this back to y/n," yunho says before turning on his heels and jogging back down the street. thankfully you hadn't made it back into the house yet. "y/n!"

"yunho? what's wrong?"

"i-i forgot to give his back," he says, holding the cloth out for you.

"oh! thanks, you could've waited though instead of coming back," you say and yunho feels a swarm of butterflies when your fingers touch his hand.

"i know, but... i just wanted to give it back now, i guess," he says with a shy smile, feeling his ears begin to heat up a little.

"well, thank you, yunho," you tell him again and he nods before you both say goodbye and he's jogging off to where he left seonghwa who was still waiting for him.

when they began walking again, yunho heard seonghwa let out a laugh, "what?" he asked looking to the older male.

"nothing, was just thinking is all," seonghwa said. "don't worry about it though."

"whatever you say, hyung."

note: the plot came to me last night and i also just rewatched ateez as kq fellaz so the inspo was there! haha, thanks for reading, let me know what you think!

#✶ 𓂃 ⋆* 𝓎𝓃. ୨୧ writing.#ateez 9th member #poly ateez x reader #ateez x reader #ateez added member #ateez addition #ateez female addition #ateez extra member #idol!reader #ateez imagines #ateez blurbs

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