#i may have the timeline a bit wonky

[travellingtribble]

I'm in my feels thinking about how fucked up the TOS crew ended like

Kirk got stuck in the nexus from ~2293 to 2371 only to die again, for good, as soon as he got out? Come on. come on man.

Bones got old. like really old. and didn't get to see Kirk again??? It's been a while since I watched the TNG episode with McCoy, I don't remember what he says, but he was like 150 years old. Did he ever even see Kirk before he got stuck in the Nexus. Did he ever see Spock? (I'd hope so, Spock disappears years later, in Picard if I'm correct?)

Spock was... around doing Spock stuff. And then Kirk died and did Spock even know? did someone tell Spock that his literal soulmate died. twice. and then Spock got stuck in another universe, a reality slightly different from his own, where everyone is younger than him and Jim is not really Jim and he has his own Spock anyway and his planet is gone and he lived the rest of his days in the Kelvin timeline, alone.

And Scotty got stuck in a transporter buffer for 75 years. That's so long. They had to tell him Kirk was gone? (although, they were together when that happened, weren't they? they were on the Enterprise-B, technically Scotty knew that Kirk was "dead" didn't he? I guess spending 75 years stuck in a buffer mode will screw up your memory though.) Did he see Spock again? Did he see Bones again before either of them died?

Basically the only ones we didn't see explicitly (or implicitly) die or disappear of the OG crew are Uhura, Chekov and Sulu. Where were they? what were they doing? did they know about Kirk? about Scotty? about Spock?

Sorry but like. that is so fucked up. why does nobody talk about this!!!

[shrugsinchinese]

Dr. Sivana and his evil children! (the family that destroys together, stays together)

Their win number one in the evil smirk competition

[heartthrobin]

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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[the-s1lly-corner]

Hii! Idk if you've ever done something similar, but what do you think about TADC x Skater! Reader? Like, Reader always have their skates on, like it's a part of their digital costume or smth. And i really mean ALWAYS. Someone spilled water on the floor? Reader slips down. They go on an adventure and a part of the floor is inclined? (Like a hill for example) There goes reader down the hill. I think it would be pretty funny lol

Btw, i really love your page, keep it up and don't overwork yourself

TADC cast x rollerskater!reader

Anon I am so so so sorry !! I dont know if I personally got jumbled up or my inbox has been wonky silly goofy or I just got thrown off because of so many people sending stuff in, but I also missed this as well as some other requests 😭😭

This one may be a little short since I've never skated <\3

Written this as more platonic leaning !

CAINE:

Probably poofs himself his own rollerskates, literally the only time you see him on the ground and it's so weird to look at. You guys both slip and fall because bubble wiped themselves across the floor or something

Obviously leads to bubble getting popped

Honestly seeing caine struggle to keep steady while using the rollerskates is... very funny.. look at his lil legs wobble (tell anyone and he will tilt the ground of the next IHA)

POMNI:

Honestly she would probably slip on the floor too if its wet or has marbles. She looks like she would comically fall over, with her legs flinging straight up into the air before plopping down

Looks at you confused as you visibly try to calculate how fast this one little slope will make you go, she probably forgets you have skater feet in the beginning

Subconsciously tries to grab and stop you when you start rolling, but because shes so small you just drag her with you

Theres that squeaky noise as shes being dragged across the floor

Yk the sound

JAX:

Throws marbles on the floor as well as other things that can make you stumble or slip... probably soaps up the floor.. thank god hes just a circus rmemeber and not like, a ringmaster... this dude would tolt the floor in so many different angles just to fuck with you... thankfully, he cant do that!

Though in another timeline... perhaps you werent so lucky...

Not much to be said here, with the bit with zooble in the pilot (the arm thing), jax is more than ready to use peoples unique digital qualities to please him or mess with them, and you being his friend only makes you slightly less likely to be messed with

RAGATHA:

Keeps a hand on your shoulder when she notices the floor is tilted, tends to walk with you while holding your shoulder still. She can only imagine what it's like to be s victim of slopes.. it would drive her nuts.. as long as shes around shes going to do her damndest to make sure you dont roll away or slip... unless jax literally throws marbles in front of you two at the very last second because who can predict that..?

In any case where theres an IHA with a DEEP slope I think she just might resort to carrying you so you dont go FLYING down

ZOOBLE:

Okay you guys might not have the same issues but they can relate to you in the jax department, with him using your qualities to his advantage. Its absolute hell.. I think it would be this shared thing that leads to you guys building a relationship in the first place

That one meme where it's two people at the bar and they overhear each other saying "I hate (x)" then they start making out

Thats you guys ranting about the bunny/j

Offered you some parts before realizing that you cant swap out your limbs like they can

"Ah, bummer"

KINGER:

Has probably asked you why you dont just take them off when you vent to him about jax putting marbles on the floor. Kind of sounds like when people say shit such as "oh you're depressed? Just cheer up!" But like, kinger says it in a genuinely.. not malicious or tone deaf way.. like I dontt think he knows, or perhaps he thinks you're like zooble with detachable limbs and you have another pair of feet hanging around somewhere

Gives a soft "oh.. " when you demonstrate that they are attatched to you

Offers to let you strap pillows to yourself to soften any blows when you fall, let's you have his softest and thickest pillows... what do you mean it throws off your balance...?

GANGLE:

You have probably accidentally rammed into her after misjudging how steep a hill on the ground was

Good news! She stopped your momentum!

Bad news, shes all tangled up in your skates (owie!) And her comedy mask is broken (oh no!)

Please be careful getting her out. We don't want her ribbons to tear or get damaged, we cant have our girl start fraying!

[writing-ca-ira]

BLACK AND WHITE

Akito Shinonome x Reader

Sometimes, when the very thing that was your escape starts feeling like a chore, you have to find new outlets to jumpstart your creativity. Akito finds his in an unconventional form of art.

Reader is gender neutral.

Contains: graffiti art, vandalism (if you don’t vibe with that), mentions of scars (can be translated as from Ena, but may not canonically make sense in terms of the timeline), brief self-depreciating thoughts, can be romantic if you squint, reader is Akito’s graffiti mentor, they both wear face masks cuz breathing in VOC fumes is dangerous as fuck.

“Nasty scars you got there.”

Akito felt his pointer press down harder on the spray can’s nozzle. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Didn’t ask,” you replied with no sort of menace, shaking up your own can to mix its components together. Then, sparing a quick glance at Akito’s handiwork, you added, “let up on the pressure. Short bursts, remember?”

A curse slipped out from under the ginger’s breath when he realized his “i” was running from too much propellant buildup. Immediately, he relieved the nozzle from further abuse of his finger, staring disapprovingly at his semi-ruined tag. “Right,” he mumbled. A rookie mistake.

As if sensing his thoughts, you let out a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry. Finding the balance between enough coverage and heavy-handiness is hard.” A short pchit from your can interluded your words. “You’ll get used to it. Just takes practice.”

He felt his furrowed brows relax a bit. Ah, that’s right… he’s still new to this. Considering that only a few weeks ago was the first time he even touched a spray can for the very first time, it was a ridiculous expectation to be a natural at this. Practice, he echoed in his brain. Just takes practice. That’s all.

And not the kind of practice that makes his voice hoarse and limbs feel like led.

Admittedly, he never thought he would be doing something like this. Sure, he always found himself admiring the graffiti in alleyways and old venues, but his father made it clear to him that this was no form of art. He recalls being a young primary schooler in the local art and supply store, his father ranting to himself about the spray cans being on full display and on sale. “Just making it easier for talentless fools to vandalize everything.”

Welp… god only knows what his old man would think about what he’s doing now.

“Saw that you updated your old tag in Vivid Street,” Akito commented, shaking up his can to start on a new letter. “I like the new style.”

You didn’t provide an immediate response, instead opting to scan over your progress as you adjusted your face mask. “Did it just last night. Not sure how I feel about the colors.”

“I think they’re fine.” The ginger finished his “r” much faster than he anticipated, pleased that there was less dripping than his previous letter. It was a bit wonky, but he found a bit of charm in the way it turned out. “A gradient was a good choice. Shows off your skill real well.”

“I’m just worried people are gonna laugh at the irony of KURO being colorful,” you chortled.

He thought about it for a moment, then let out an amused hum. Yeah, it was a bit ironic, but he found the technical aspect of the graffiti overriding that detail. Besides, it was a big improvement from the simple thin black letters that barely popped out from the wall. The color made it more than just a normal meaningless piece of vandalism; it was now art.

Now on the “o,” he offered a shrug. “I don’t think it matters that much. Still looked cool.” After grimacing at the weird overlap his circle had, he stepped back and observed the final product. It was an obviously amateur tag: the coverage was blotchy, a few of his letters dripped from over-spraying, and the block letters had inconsistent thicknesses. A friend tugged at his lips as he studied every glaring imperfection in his work.

Compared to yours…

“Hey, that looks good.”

His head snapped in your direction at breakneck speed. “Hah?”

“I said it looks good,” you repeated. You had just finished outlining your own “o,” a can of orange now being shook in your hand to assumingely begin a gradient. “Considering it’s only your third tag, and your first trying out block letters, I’m super impressed.”

All he could do was dumbly blink at you for a few seconds. You were… impressed? At his hotchpotch of a graffiti? Surely, you had to just be saying that to make him feel better. There’s no way a pro like you thought it looked anything above subpar. Hell, it barely even looked like he took it seriously, half-assing it like some punk who only wants to spray paint a train just to look like a cool kid. Nothing about his tag resembled anything close to art.

“I could definitely do better,” he huffed, looking back at his finished product with distaste.

You hummed. “Yeah. You definitely could.” Before he could even begin to wonder if that was supposed to be a snide remark or not, you continued. “But so can I. There’s a lot of stuff about my own graffiti works that I wish I could improve on.” You shook up the orange, your eyes trained on the your work. “S’why I go back and update my old tags. Like the one I did in Vivid Street. It was one of my first.”

He tried his best to remember the details of the old KURO in Vivid Street. The letters had a unique style, but were too thin to be easily readable. He had initially mistaken the “r” for a “b” for how runny it was. Looking back, he probably shouldn’t of been surprised that it was your first tag, especially compared to what you can do now. Throwing you a curious glance, he stuffed his freehand in his pocket. “Do you update all of your old tags like that?”

“Nah.” You didn’t elaborate for a couple of seconds, your can hissing as you began filling in the negative space of your letters. “Only the ones that get passed by a lot. Wanna have my art look presentable to people, y’know?”

He thought about your response. It made sense; any artist would want their most seen work to reflect their best work. Plus, there was the added bonus of making the environment feel more lively. Before the style update, the KURO in Vivid Street admittedly looked boring, and even distasteful. Just any other graffiti you would barely even spare a glance towards as you go on your merry way. After you went back to do a much-needed revamp, however, he found himself admiring every detail for a solid 10 minutes. The blue to pink was very eye-catching, white highlights boldly contrasting the black outline. Bubble letters replaced simple stick characters. He felt himself becoming inspired the more he took in every meticulous detail. It was amazing how one graffiti update could completely change the vibe of an alleyway.

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he fiddled with the nozzle of the spray can in his grip. “So, what about the tags you don’t redo?”

“I leave them like that.”

“How come?”

A fond shimmer sparked in your eyes. It held a sense of nostalgia to it; the kind that comes with reflecting on good times. “Tells my story as an artist. Might not be an exclusive interview or anything, and KURO’s sure as hell not famous outside of the local street art space but those who see my novice KURO tags get to see a journey.” You reached down to grab a can of yellow. “Besides, I like to go back and look at them, so I can see how far I’ve come.”

Huh… Akito wasn’t expecting that response. Sure, he was a fellow artist (admittedly, he was too much of a rookie graffiti artist to consider himself as such, but he was still a performing artist), but he never thought that way about his own art. The whole point of wanting to improve was, not only to one day make an event bigger than RAD WEEKEND, but to also distance himself from his old shitty skill level. He wanted nothing to do with his old singing and dancing, and just looking at recordings of his old performances made him feel sick. They only serve as a reminder to get better, or else he’ll be stuck in the same box for the rest of his life as an artist.

But… when you put it like that…

“So,” he awkwardly began, trying to dispel his thoughts about Vivid BAD SQUAD. “You ever gonna come back and update this one?”

There wasn’t an immediate answer. You seemed to engrossed in probably blending the orange and yellow to even think of one, so he patiently waited. This gave him a perfect opportunity to examine your technique, watching how you angled your extremely light sprays upwards to mingle the colors together (huh, he’ll have to keep that in mind). It was at this point that he took notice of the paint fumes, but rather than finding it disgusting like he initially did, there was an odd sense of comfort that came with it this time… of course, it probably helped that he came prepared with a face mask. During his initial chance encounter with you, you had warned him to stand a good distance away as to not breathe in the toxic VOC fumes.

The clacking noise of your spray can snapped him out of his thoughts, your eyes still staring intently at the still wet tag. You still had the “r” and the “o” to finish blending, but he knew it wouldn’t take long for you to do. Instead of continuing to work, however, you straightened your up posture, turning to fully face him. “You kidding me? Definitely am.”

… Huh—?

Your declarative delivery threw him for a loop. Were you not satisfied with the way this KURO turned out? His brows furrowed at the thought, eyes studying every detail of the tag. It looked amazing; and while he’s definitely no stranger to the concept of being your own worst critic, this felt ridiculous. Especially when it’s side by side with his own frumpier work. It reminded him too much of the growing gap between him and his fellow Vivid BAD SQUAD members, the familiar weight of self-doubt and envy pressing against his chest… ah, yeah… of course he had to be reminded of his own shortcomings every day. Such is the life of a talentless, worthless—

Your voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “After all, you gotta come back later and update your very first box-letter tag, right?”

… Oh.

Suddenly, all of those self-deprecating mantras fell upon deaf ears. His chest felt lighter than before, and he couldn’t fight the radiant warmth that filled his heart. Something about your implied promise of progress was… oddly freeing. It recognized his current novice status, but again, this was only his first time doing box letters. As long as he kept practicing, he could only get better. Along with that, your promise also held a deeper meaning; that you two would be working alongside each other for a while longer. Though he was too stubborn to say it out loud, your presence was calming, and he appreciated how he didn’t have to be hard on himself when it came to graffiti.

By pure chance, you helped him discover a new outlet.

He was grateful for the mask, because trying to keep the big smile off his face was damn near impossible. He tried to play it off cool by offering a humorous huff and shaking his head. “Sounds like a plan. If you think you can stand me for that long, anyway.”

“Well, you’re not the worst person out there,” you mused, getting to work on your last two letters. “Now pick up the black paint, will you?”

Quirking a brow, he couldn’t help but skeptically posing, “what for?”

Your answer came after a good shake to your can. “Gonna teach you how to properly outline. The white pops on a darker surface like this, but in most alleyways, white tags get a bit lost on the brick. Plus, it can look pretty bland.”

Ah, a lesson. He could definitely use those. Sure, he’s picked up a lot of good tips from you over the past few weeks, but if he ever wants to get better at this, he’s always down to learn some more. Graffiti took his life by storm, activating his creativity in ways he didn’t even imagine before, and the thought of being able to create it with his own hands gave him the same high that events did.

He looked at your KURO, and then his SHIRO.

Yeah, there may have been an obvious gap in skill, but with your guiding advice, this is one he was sure he could catch up on.

[fervency-if]

I don't normally care for angst all that much, but I just got reminded that the hanahaki disease was a trope... So, my question to you, dear Niko, is... How would the characters react if the MC had it? Just seeing the MC spluttering and coughing out petals. The characters having no idea who the person who has unrequited feelings towards the MC is (them, it's them). Until it then progresses even further, and it's too late...  Also, a bonus question. For each character, what kind of flowers would the MC splutter out (be it the character's favourite flower, favourite colour, the vibe the flower is, or basing it off Victorian flower language)?

Definition for anyone who doesn't know what it is:

The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from unrequited love, where the patient’s throat will fill up with flowers, they will then proceed to throw, and cough up the petals, (sometimes even the flowers). One of the only ways for the disease to ‘disappear’ is if, the said person returns the feeling (it can’t be resolved with friendship, it has to be genuine feelings of love). The infection can also be removed through surgery, though the feelings disappear along with the petals. If they choose nether options, or the feeling is not returned in time, then the patient’s lungs will fill up with flowers, and will eventually suffocate.

I was utterly unfamiliar with this trope, I will have to admit, so thank you for clarifying - it was definitely of help to me, at least, haha! Therefore, if my reply is a bit wonky and confused, that's why - this is the first time I ever heard of this.

The Physician's first instinct would be to find a cure in some way or the other - it can't progress like that, the meaning of it be damned. (In the happiest of worlds, they would realise that they had feelings for one another while she was searching for the cure, and that would fix it. All is well that ends well, and so on.) This main character would cough up blue petals, like bluebells, or some kind of blue salvia.

If Aubrey lost the main character to this, he would be absolutely haunted by the sight of the petals. His artwork would hereafter depict petals, petals, and petals in the foreground or background - to honour them while also wordlessly speaking about his pain seeing these petals. This main character would cough up red poppy petals.

Vesa would take care of them in every and any way she could, and do some serious soul-search at the same time, if she knew about the cause for this. If she lost the main character to this, she would have a hard time even looking at a flower again, since it would remind her of sickness and death. The main character might cough up lilacs, like the scent of her perfume, or violets, or red roses.

Narciso would be hellbent on solving it (because it would feel more like a riddle than a disease,) whatever it may take. He would do research, talk to experts, do some serious soul-searching, and so on, and so on. He wouldn't stay idle. This main character might cough up daffodils or the like, if the illness was particularly cheeky.

Roswhen would take good care of the main character, and they would also talk to the Physician about it, if this was a timeline where they had become friends; she's wise and knows about medicine, while Roswhen would feel out of their depth... They would worry constantly. This main character would cough up red rose petals.

Elan would find a way to blame himself for this, if he knew what this was all about. In one way or another, he would feel guilty and filthy. I believe this main character would cough up apple blossoms.

[looniecartooni]

tell me MORE (/np)

Oh ho ho boy- where to start? This may get a bit wonky and I might sound a bit crazy.

Okay- so... first off Fanto and Dimitri are a lot alike. They both put on a killer show and crave attention and they both technically can not tell a lie (Dimitri's tail speaks his thoughts, Fantoccio was just said to have it by Katie- I'm not entirely sure why. Could have to do with Pinocchio or how Autistic people or honest or something else). And at a glance, they kind of have some visual similarities. For instance- they both have yellow eyes and a tannish- pallet.

Perhaps it's just an odd coincidence, but it's also been said at some point that Fanto was built to be like his creator. Someone with a flair for the dramatic who can't tell a lie? Seems pretty likely.

Now there are some definite issues revolving around this. We don't know enough about Dimitri to confirm or deny this. He certainly would be old enough to be Fantoccio's dad possibly as he knew Arthur and Aristotle. But this also suggests that at some point Dimitri owned a theater, knows how to carve puppets, can bring them to life, and is possibly Autistic. However, if he was Fanto's dad and owned a theater, why would he bother pretending to be a hero? Why would he use the gem to bring one or possibly more puppets to life? Wouldn't he be exhausted and busy?

I don't think Arthur and/or Aristotle would have created him though nor would I think they'd give up on him if they accidently left him (Ari might- thinking he's dead- but even still). Billie would have been already a couple months old when Fanto got stuck in the theater. Ari and/or Arthur just leaving behind what would essentially be their child, who as far as we know has very little to know knowledge about Billie. The timelines and character on that stuff seems odd. They also don't scream "theater kid" or "parent of a theater kid" as much as Dimitri.

I also keep just seeing other random things that make me just think it's a possibility even if it's not there. For example, "Dimitri" means "Follower of Demeter". Demeter is the Greek goddess of spring time who after losing her daughter Persephone to Hades caused the seasons to get cooler and does that every six months when her daughter returns to the underworld. Am I thinking too deeply into Dimitri's name to prove my point? Probably. Does Dimitri's name imply he could be a father in mourning after his child was trapped in the magic city? Does Dimitri care enough to make a child or worry about a child if he can't reach them? I don't know! All I know is he sets buildings on fire then acts like he's a hero to save people. Why does he do that? I don't know! Is it a coincidence that his name has to do with plants and trees and Fanto is technically a tree man? I believe yes, but I could list several characters named Dimitri that have nothing to do with plants or kids.

But in my heart- I feel like it makes the most sense. The devs are telling us barely anything about Dimitri purposely (supposedly the story might unravel, but that could be a joke) and Aristotle said that the gems were being used for evil (although that could be rewritten at this point). Dimitri is said to be an antagonist- so what if he was the last person to be seen with the yellow gem?

This theory feels a bit forced, but I swear, this feeling is hard to shake off. Only true confirmation I think I'll get is if we wait for the game to come out, be shocked and upset that it's Aristotle (that'll just be mega sad no matter how the chapter ends) or some third random person. If it turns out Dimitri's the missing dad who had a kid 7 years before Arthur (possibly more- I don't know if Dossylmeyer who has only been mentioned twice is even in the game), then I will be over the moon. If you read this whole thing, here are some pancakes 🥞Thank you for listening to my theory. I was going to make a more official post, but this can do for now. You also get this random image:

I might make an official venn diagram and stuff later when and if I do get information.

[morningbloodystar]

Well if it isn't the infamous Hellsite.

Might as well introduce myself, though you humans do have severe trust issues. The number of times I need to prove my identity, honestly...

Lucifer Morningstar, The Devil, Former King of Hell (the current one is Jesus. Don't ask me how - the one thing I try not to question is the good fortune I get), whatever you wish to call me, really - and by this I mean official titles, not nicknames - most definitely not at your service. For that, visit my nightclub, the Lux.

If you wish for me to adopt you - quite a trend, I must say - do fill this up, simply so I may know the latest addition to my gremlins (affectionate).

Credit to @lady-without-name for the idea and the wonderful implementation, as goes the credit to my child @violet-yimlat for the official Morningstar Crest.

[ hi y'all im ro (admin) ,, she/they ,, and honestly ive been following along certain rp threads for such a long time I kinda wanted to take part myself so here it is + i saw lucifer sometime back and bcs of wish fulfillment don't want him to leave his family :[

minors pls pls pls interact with caution cause y'all know him, lucifer is a hoe (affectionate) and will not hesitate around mature topics

[ oh also i made an alt @maze-of-bad-bitches bcs mazikeen. and @three-surnames bcs TRIXIE BABY! and @real-and-imaginary For The Echolore. if you wanna see me rp as my own (lucifer's) child, and also my general account, it's @tujhse-raabta. i have adopted too many kids to count, but KEEP EM COMING LOVES, LET LUCIFER AND CHLOE BREAK A WORLD RECORD ]

timeline is a bit wonky, but I'll provide comprehensive lore eventually (once it exists), and feel free to ask if anything is confusing y'all! i love to interact, and probably will butt into most rb chains, tho timings are a bit sketchy (i follow indian standard, but i do get a bit busy coeldls) but pls don't hesitate to tag/ask/interact with luci,, he's sweet I promise 😭 also we encourage all the sillies in this household. THROW THE SILLIES AT ME I KNOW YOU HAVE IT IN YOU!!

also i am SORRY if I respond to your mention/rb after decades 😔😔 i promise I see it all and Will Respond im just a slow typer + executive dysfunction

either way ty love y'all so much<33 ]

[clock-onyx]

New arrival

NOTE: Lore drawings are NOT in order and may be far or close in timeline with other drawings when I post them, probably after i very very slowly reveal everything, ill make a list or somethin for each scene in order from start to finish!!!

"Good lords! What is it you're doing at such a late hour, at such troubling weather? I can barley even see you with all this rain!"

"I-I just- I was just- M-My names O-Odin I've uhm... I-I've been living in the ruins of erh.. the eye..? It- It burned down. It's t-truly a ruin by now, my apologies for knocking at your h-house I really REALLY n-need your help, anythi-"

"I-I'm sorry, the 'ruins of the eye'?"

"Y-Yes- I'm sure you've heard that name before, it's q-quite known in places such as this, isnt it?"

"Get inside. I'll get you warmed up"

"R...Really?"

"Yes. I don't need you talking in the rain like this, I'll ask about it later once you're fed some food. How long has it been since you last ate properly?"

"4, almost 5 days, I think."

"Alright, come on now. Let's get you warmed up."

Mwaahhahahahahaaaa okaaayyy lore time, I APOLOGISE FOR HOW WONKY THE DIALOUGE IS!!! I've never been an expert at dialouges between characters, esspecially longer interactions... I DID have a bigger idea on the whole dialouge but I tried to keep it short to atleast feed the people bits of information ykyk... and with visiual stuff too I hope people notice...

Neither the name of the ruin or Chester's fish man's design is 100% official, it's still a work in progress im just making my characters interact so i wouldnt get mad later that i havent drawn anything intresting LMFAO

[henrysglock]

In Short: I Was Right About The Released Script and The Filmed Monologue.

In this post here about the discrepancies in the released 4.07 script as compared to the version of One's monologue that we see on screen, I mentioned a sneaking suspicion that they might be two halves of a whole monologue.

So, I spliced the 4.07 transcript and 4.07 script together:

For clarity's sake, I color-coded it. Red-colored lines are ones that only appear in the filmed monologue. Blue-colored lines are ones that only appear in the released script. Words in parentheses indicate a swap in wording/phrasing. Words not in parentheses are additional words. Everything is left in order of appearance, i.e. none of the lines have been shifted for clarity. The texts are one-to-one merged.

As we can see, they splice together very nicely...especially in places where we were missing subjects, conclusions, topic introductions, and/or topic re-introductions in the individual texts.

For example:

In the script, the conculsion/Victor's fate is not mentioned. In the transcript, Victor is never re-introduced to El as the subject of his own arrest.

In the merged version, it becomes:

Victor is re-introduced to El, and his fate is told.

Or here:

Brenner's goals with One is introduced in the script, but the part about "fixing" comes out of nowhere, since Virginia's goal of fixing Henry is never brought up. "A doctor not interested in fixing" implies that someone had been interested in fixing him. No such case is mentioned. Meanwhile, Virginia's goal of fixing Henry is mentioned in the transcript, but Brenner's "studying" part comes out of nowhere. "He did not just want to study me" implies that being studied was mentioned previously. It was not.

In the merged version, it becomes:

Fixing? Mentioned by discussion of Virginia. Studying? Mentioned via Brenner's introduction.

And even within that section:

The transcript initially mentions why Henward wants to escape/break free, but it veers away from it with Victor's arrest...only to revisit it out of nowhere directly after. The script never introduces breaking free/why Henward wanted to escape, but it does go from Victor's knowledge (or lack thereof) directly into a clear reintroduction of his need to escape.

In the merged version, it becomes:

Reason for escaping? Given. Escaping? Clear reintroduction to the topic.

The two texts fill in each other's gaps, just as I suspected.

Now I won't say that there aren't some wonky bits, particularly in the "My naive father...for their sins" and "The more I practiced...take the next step" sections.

These exist entirely separately, and they overlay the same memory: Victor's cradle vision and Henward in the red sweater sitting in the attic.

This becomes interesting when we consider that this ^ isn't Nancy's POV. Nancy is downstairs watching Victor...

...and this view is peeking over some boxes in the attic, supposedly seeing Henward while he's enacting said vision:

It, like this scene:

Is from a bizarre outsider POV, one that's about Henward-height.

So my thoughts on that wonky-ness amount to this:

I would speculate that the two lines don't feed into each other, but may instead be meant to occur simultaneously from different people (whether that be via a time loop or via timelines...I can't say for certain).

Either way, the texts do line up as two halves of a whole.

[cvbullshit]

Been thinking about Flowey Toriel a bit, might actually make it into a mini AU thing because like-

In my mind, it isn't Toriel just taking the role of Asriel.

In my mind, she dies AFTER the kids, how I don't know yet- I could say she took her own life but I feel that would make more sense for Flowey Asgore, since he's made out to be more on the suicidal side than Toriel.

But she dies after the kids and Alphys just ends up taking a flower that was covered in her dust. Or a different item entirely but I dunno.

Toriel would definitely either choose a different name for herself, not Flowey, that or just remained nameless and let people call her whatever.

I like to imagine, if we're using the concept of Flowey being self aware, she just lets Frisk/The Player refer to her as "The Tutorial Flower", Tutorial or Flower for short lmao.

But I think she may remain ultimately nameless as a flower if her time joking with Sans behind a door told anything about how she'd introduce herself to others.

So I'll just call her Flower for now- Or Buttercup, since I could also see Toriel pointing out her specific type of flower. Imma say Buttercup because it's interesting and doesn't share a name with my CV Flower.

Buttercup would probably end up being more controlling than Flowey, I think she would still follow the "it's kill or be killed" rule but more of in the sense of "The world will kill what I love so I will kill the world".

She would probably help Frisk at first, since Frisk looks so much like Chara. She would say it's because Frisk is an innocent child who deserves to be protected but she would've already gained a wonky morality and the inability to love so she just said that to play pretend, probably to view Frisk as Chara and pretend they're back and that she can have someone to love again.

Though over time, Toriel would probably grow more frustrated with Frisk until she screws up and lets slip out how the current her actually is. When she goes to reset, she gets confused as she can't do it anymore, putting the pieces together that Frisk has that ability now, there were signs but she brushed them off and ignored them because she thought she was still in control.

The moment she realizes she doesn't have control of the timeline, all bets are off, she NEEDS the control back, she NEEDS to control her life and piece it all back together, it doesn't matter about anyone else's lives, they're all out to kill anything she loves. And she loved Asriel, she loved Chara. She loves Frisk. ...But she doesn't, she can't, and even if she did she doesn't love Frisk because they're Frisk. She would've loved Frisk because they look like who she loved.

And the moment she realizes that... You're just part of the world she'd tear apart.

[myckicade]

Back Home - Chapter One

Summary: You and Che had been so happy. Everything had almost seemed perfect. You hadn't counted on the bastard up and leaving you. Che's return is even less expected. You've carried on, rebuilt your life, and are enjoying where you're at. It's going to be a fight to see whether Che can fit back into the space he used to occupy, if that space still exists, at all.

A/N: C’mon, now, y’all… You know I couldn't pass this up, series end, or not. I wanted to get two others up first, but, as usual, this one just would not leave me alone! Contains spoilers up until... Well. This is the end of the road, so spoilers for the whole series!

P.S. SPOILERS: I’ve had to fuck about with the timeline a bit, as I have no idea whether Taza’s absence lasted five minutes, or ten years. This show is wonky, that way. 

Teaser: It’s been a long time since you’ve found yourself speechless, but here you stand, speechless, and lost, and half-scared of something that doesn’t even exist. 

* 

This can’t be real, you tell yourself, the words shaping and forming and dying in your head before they can reach your lips. Your numb, trembling lips. All of you feels like it’s trembling. The cool breeze blowing in from the open door has little to do with the shiver working its way over your skin, much as you’d like to give it the credit right now. You know your face looks like you’ve seen a ghost. It has to. Still, you can’t find it in yourself to scream, or speak, or even sputter out a single sound. It’s been a long time since you’ve found yourself speechless, but here you stand, speechless, and lost, and half-scared of something that doesn’t even exist. 

Yet, it does. It exists in the shape of six-odd feet of handsome, half-slouching, complete asshole of a man standing on your front steps. The two of you have been staring at one another for entirely too long, since the moment he showed his face, and spoke your name. It was – and still is – pathetic, how easily the sound of his voice made you weak in the knees. 

Oh, this asshole. 

“How’d you get this address?” comes flying out of your mouth so suddenly, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re actually the one who said it. You watch as Che, seemingly just as startled as you, shifts on his feet. 

“I went by your old apartment,” he admits, finally breaking eye contact to glance down at his boots. “New tenant seemed to know you? She told me where you’d moved to.” 

“Fucking Diane,” you sigh, glancing over Che’s head to take in a quick glimpse of the stars. You have a fabulous view of the night sky from here, much better than you ever could have hoped for at your apartment. He’s never seen this, you consider. Not from here. Not like he was supposed to. Che moves, barely a step to the side, bringing your attention back to him. “It’s been a year, Che.” Your tone is firm, probably a little harder than is strictly necessary, but you’ve practiced this. Sure, you may never have expected to see this rotten motherfucker ever again, but you’ve prepared yourself for the scant possibility that you’d one day get the chance to toss him back out on his ass. 

The nerve. The fucking balls this bastard has, right now. 

Che blows out a breath. “I know,” he agrees, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes are on you once more, a hesitance in them that shines against the light of the porch. You wait a beat, then two, and by five it’s clear he isn’t going to continue. 

“That’s it?” you scoff. “You know?” 

“I can leave, if you’d like?” It’s a genuine offer, you can tell. It’s not a threat. There’s no intentional manipulation in the letters. But then, there wouldn’t be. Che’s never been that type of man, certainly not to you. He’s honest, and decent, and devoted, and you need to stop before you remember every reason why you love him. 

Before you lose sight of every reason to choke him with your bare hands and start caving into every desire you still have to wrap your arms around him, and never let him go. 

Fuck. Angel is right. You’ve gotta’ get out of that book club. 

Focusing back in on the matter at-hand (so to speak), you have two options before you. This is a man you haven’t heard from in more than a year. So much has changed. You’ve changed. He surely has, as well. It’s probably a bad, bad idea to do anything other than turn him away. 

On the other hand… Well… You’ve missed him so damned much, and the idea of watching him drive away for good – again – already has your eyes welling up with tears. Fuck, you really can’t do it, can you? How fucking pathetic. You need, need, need to stick to your guns. Tell him he’s lost his chance. Tell him things are different now. Anything, anything to make sure you don’t weaken in the face of this choice. 

But… Aside from this, this one big, huge thing, he’s never done a damned thing to upset you. To hurt you. The two of you have always played it straight in your relationship, all the cards on the table, full-tilt, no stops, feel free to pass GO! and keep on driving. You’ve thought about this more than once (twice, ten times and better), wondered exactly what in the world could have been so bad, so terrible, that Che had felt the need to run, instead of facing it head-on with you. Stepping out on you has crossed your mind. A late-in-life crisis of some kind. And the ugly possibility that you’ve never really known the man you’ve been in love with. For all you know, Che wants to tell you about the secret family he’s been keeping in Modesto. Wife and kids. Husband and kids. Do you really want to know? 

Glancing up, you find Che shifting around again, two seconds from backing off the steps, and down the driveway to his bike. Whether on impulse, or by some crazy ass design, you make your decision. “Sit down,” you instruct, pointing to a patio table and two chairs set up at the corner of the porch. “I’ll be right back.” He nods, clearly surprised, all over again. You nod once, yourself, before disappearing into the kitchen. 

What are you doing? 

Reaching into the refrigerator, you retrieve two cold beers. You have the feeling you’re going to need one. 

What the fuck are you doing, (y/n)? 

You turn back from the door and pause. Would liquor be more suitable for this conversation? Might send the signal that this meeting is far more friendly than it has right to be. Giving Che false hope is something you would rather avoid, and a night of drinking liquor has never not led you two to the bedroom. 

Decisions, decisions. 

You shouldn’t be doing this, at all. No good can possibly come from it. Who’s to say the man outside is even looking for signs of hope? Two minutes ago, he was ready to ride off into the night, no questions asked. Can’t be he’s really too eager to apologize, right? He had that chance, and all you got was, I know. The fuck are you supposed to do with that? 

Groaning, you shift both beers to the bend of your left arm and retrieve a bottle of Jose Cuervo from the cupboard with your right hand. It takes some maneuvering, but you finally make your way back out to the porch, balancing the beers, the liquor, and two shot glasses in your arms. Che immediately jumps up from his seat to help you, relieving you of the bottle and glasses, and you find yourself thanking him, as always. 

“Thanks, babe.” 

“Welcome, doll.” 

Neither of you seem to know what to say for a hot second, staring at one another from across the table like two deer caught in cross traffic. You can feel your face growing warm, thankful for the dim glow of the Christmas lights you’ve left strung on the porch since early last November. They’re clear, warm and cool shades of white, with the ability to twinkle, and flash, and induce seizures on the right settings. Angel keeps telling you to take them down. (”It’s July, for fuck’s sake!”). Che has yet to comment on them, but you know he has already formed an opinion, which likely mirrors Angel’s, but with kinder, more considerate wording. 

Clearing your throat, you take the seat closest to the door, where Che has chosen to box himself into a corner. He can hop the railing if he needs to make a clean getaway, but strategically speaking, it’s not the smartest move he’s ever made. Still, you pass him a beer, before setting up the shot glasses. Che reaches for the tequila and pours you each a shot. Smooth. Simple. Familiar. Something clenches in your chest. 

“So,” Che begins, lifting up his glass. He looks your way, expectantly, until you do the same. He gives you an awkward half-smile, before you both down your shots. Fuck. It’s good stuff, but that first one tends to hit you where you live. “How have you been?” 

Really? That’s his starter? 

And, wow, it seems like you aren’t going to like any of his attempts tonight, huh? 

Cracking open the can in front of you, you shrug. “Busy, I guess?” Another shrug quickly follows the first. “Had a lot on my plate, for a while. Opening the new store. Buying the house.” 

Che thumbs at the lip of his can, not yet opening it. “I heard about that. Finally went ahead with it, huh?” 

“I did,” you reply, around a sip of Labatt. “Brick and mortar, this time. No more working out of the apartment or driving around town making deliveries.” You look over and find a warm smile waiting for you. 

“I’m proud of you,” Che murmurs, all sincerity and happiness. It’s your stomach’s turn to get all fluttery. “That’s awesome.” 

Darting your attention elsewhere, you quickly down another mouthful of beer. It’s too familiar. You’ve said far too much. “How about you?” you ask, upon swallowing. You’re not looking his way. You can’t. This is already going all wrong. “Been up to anything fun?” Silence reigns for a moment. It’s unsettling, but you manage to bring yourself to look up again. Che is staring at you, all traces of his smile gone. In its place, an expression you cannot name. It’s almost sad, but not quite. A touch guilty, but not completely. You don’t like it, this look he’s sending your way, panic seizing you enough to blurt out, “I see you’ve cut your hair, again.” 

“Don’t do that,” Che replies, almost immediately. His tone catches you by surprise, so low and serious you feel another shiver building at the base of your spine. 

“Don’t do what?” 

Che blinks, just once. “Don’t try to act like everything’s okay,” he continues. “We both know it isn’t.” That shiver climbs a little higher. True and fair though that is, it’s the only way you’re going to get through this. Cool indifference, at its finest. “While I appreciate not being greeted with a toaster upside the head, I don’t appreciate the passive attitude.” 

Damn. Talk about caught. 

“Got rid of the toaster,” you mumble after a moment, brushing imaginary debris from your pant leg. “I’m up to an air fryer now.” A laugh breaks free from Che’s mouth, and you fight the smile creeping across your lips in response. You’ve missed that sound so damned much. 

You’ve missed him so damned much. The way he talks, low and smooth like the finest honey. The way he looks at you, heart in his eyes, like you mean the world to him, ten times over. You never expected to lay eyes on him again, let alone to have the chance to spill out everything you’ve spent endless hours grumbling about to yourself. Practicing in your head. The ugly words you’ve wanted to throw at him, and the calm manner in which you’ve wanted to deliver them. Now is that chance, and... 

And the words won’t jump off your tongue. 

“You’re allowed to be pissed,” Che continues, unknowingly encouraging you toward letting him have it with both barrels. “Hell, I’d be shocked if you weren’t.” 

You sigh, deep and heavy. “I didn’t know what to be, for a while,” you admit, fiddling with the various rings on your fingers. Your right thumb brushes over the circle of silver on your left index finger. A medium sized band, with citrine stones embedded in the surface, and engraved, Love, Che. Even after everything, you haven’t found it in yourself to take it off. Tuck it away somewhere. Toss is out. You should have. You’d still have every right to do it, too. You just... 

Can’t. 

The silence must be getting to him, because Che is suddenly asking, “How are the kids?” Oh, boy. Now, here is where you’d really enjoy giving the man what for. Your poor babies. You could keep your calm for what you have been through, yourself, but your babies? You’ve been silent too long, again, it seems, from Che’s worried call of “(Y/n)? Are they okay?” 

“Flint looked for you, every damned day.” There. Now it’s out in the open. You catch Che’s flinch from the corner of your eye, a smug sense of satisfaction coming over you at the sight. “It was a fight to get him to eat for about a week, he was so upset.” Flint, your old boy, had become Che’s little buddy over your time together. They’d go for rides in the truck together. Have naps on the couch like the two grandpas you’d joked they were. Walk together. Eat together, as far as Che sharing food from his plate. While your dogs are hardly Che’s responsibility, watching Flint suffer through that pain still sits with you like an open wound. Even now, the tears are gathering at your eyes. 

“I never meant to-” 

“Max destroyed some of your clothes,” you interrupt, not wanting to hear his bullshit until you’re done. If your feelings don’t come out now, they never will. “Two pair of pants, some socks, and your brown boots.” You pause, clearing your throat. “Wasn’t a full day after you’d gone. I think she knew.” 

Che grimaces. “Girl always liked to tear my shit apart.” He sighs. “Not that I blame her.” 

“I don’t, either.” You shrug. “I had enough respect for you not to go batshit on the stuff you left behind, and I packed everything away after I caught Max in the act, but the temptation existed.” Reaching out, you pour another shot of tequila for Che, and one for yourself, which you promptly swallow. He doesn’t touch his. “You left just about everything, too, I know you realize.” 

“Kinda’ hard to cram my life in a backpack and saddlebags.” He leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, hands folded together in front of his face. He’s quiet for a moment, before bowing his head. “You know... I don’t wanna’ sit here and make excuses, and I’m not going to. I know what I did, and it was a dick move, and telling you ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t gonna’ cut it.” 

Finally, you fully look at the man beside you. It’s the first time he’s said those words tonight, even if they were only uttered to make a point. He’s right. No apology is going to cut it, not now. Words are just fucking words, something you’ve had to come to grips with over the last year. Actions are what matter, isn’t that what you two have always agreed on? He took off. Up and left you holding the bag on so much emotional shit, you’re still digging out from the avalanche. 

But... He’s here now. That’s action, too. How much does that count for? 

Shaking your head, a bit, you try to focus back in. Too many questions, too many possibilities, and too much familiarity are invading your mind. There is something far more pressing to begin with, prompting you to turn your body in your chair, so that you can give Che your full attention. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” 

Che looks at you for a moment, relief in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs, before nudging the tequila bottle closer to you. “You’re gonna’ want more of that while I do.” 

Masterlist | Request | Tag List

[ghostofwriting]

pookie i know I've been so behind on reading I hate sm😭😭 my current obessions have just been consuming me so much lately! but i trust you with whatever you do with the story! im sure im gonna love it no matter what you end up doing😭 and dont worry about the timeline! like a different person said (i dont remeber who sorry pookie) so many shows have plotholes and timeline issues! maybe to prevent ppl asking about it you could be a warning on the masterlist that the timeline may be a bit wonky so if its not for them they shouldnt read it idkidk just an idea!!

i love you (me? parasocial? no way!) and your work soso much!! 🫶🫶

Hi! Of course; that’s a good idea! Thank you. You know how much I appreciate and value you ❤️

[doodles5555]

Mary's Song (Oh my my my)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Steve Rogers x Adopted Sister!Reader

Summary: This fic will follow the lyrics of the song “Mary’s Song” by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 880

Warnings: None! Just some sweetness and fluff :)

A/N: Hello everyone! I’ve been a lurker for a long time, but I finally got some inspiration to write a fic while listening to this song.

Here is some probably necessary information before starting: In this fic, you, Steve, and Bucky are children. In the next parts, you will grow older. Timelines and some details may be a bit wonky. I hope you enjoy!

p.s this is not a lyric fic, but instead, a fic that was inspired by the song

Chapter 1:

As you look up at the bright sky from the porch swing of your family's home, you spot both Steve and Bucky out of the corner of your eye. They are playing out in the street with a baseball, unaware of your now watchful gaze. You follow the ball with your eyes, tracking each throw and catch. The movements mesmerize you, a small, content smile spreading across your face.

Sliding off the swing and stepping off of the porch, you nearly trip down the stairs trying to reach your brother's side. You gently tug at his shirt to try and gain his distracted attention. His eyes never move away from the ball as it comes back his way. You huff, a little more dramatically than necessary, before walking the distance between Steve and Bucky to start diverting Bucky’s focus to you.

“Bucky!” You draw out the y, “Can I join? Steve won’t even stop to look at me!” Your lisp makes the sentence take a second longer to fully be spoken, but Bucky thinks it makes your words that much more special and unique. Having his concentration fully broken, Bucky looks down at your wide, wishful eyes before removing the glove from his hand to put on yours. It’s multiple sizes too big, but you don’t care, you now can play with the boys. Your grin grows, showing one of the missing teeth in the front of your smile. 

“Come here, let me show you how to throw a real curveball.”

—--

Your mothers and fathers had been conversing on the sofa as the children continued to play ball, watching each interaction with awe at the care and patience Bucky took when it came to you. Steve was his best friend, but you were special to him in your own right, and everyone knew it. You were clueless about his small affections, but your mother also knew you had a soft spot for him.

Suddenly you dropped the ball that was now in your hand at your side to stick your tongue out and taunt both your brother and his best friend. Steve jumped towards you slightly, causing you to run down the street, away from your assailant. Giggles are pouring from your mouth. You turn around to see both Steve and Bucky chasing after you. All of you had the brightest smiles, and your parents couldn’t be happier with your cheery demeanors.

Bucky’s mother turned away from the window to rejoin the conversation after a few minutes. Your father had been mumbling about something regarding Steve’s and your future, how you may shape up in the forever-changing world. The economy was starting to boom, but tensions were growing in other world powers. Who knew what world you would end up growing into.

“It would be nice if Y/N and Steve always had Bucky to look out for them. I know he already feels responsible for their safety while at school. Steve is always getting into fistfights trying to protect Y/N. He never ends up winning though. He relies on Bucky to bail him out every single time,” your father sighs. Bucky’s mother shook her head. Everyone in the room knew that Bucky would go to the ends of the universe to keep you and Steve safe.

“I’m sure as the years grow on, they will be as thick as thieves, or maybe even more?” The wishful tone in your mother’s voice was hard to ignore. She was only saying what everyone else was hoping. 

With how close you and Bucky were, your parents have been speculating and yearning for you to end up together. Maybe not now, as you are both only children, but it’s imminent that you will end up together.

Heads turn back towards the window to watch the bond between you and Bucky continue to bloom into a wonderful and unbreakable connection.

—--

As the sun fell in the sky, you, Steve, and Bucky were bathed in the dimming light. You couldn’t stop staring at Bucky’s eyes. The stars made the vibrant blue even more vivid. The only thought in your head was that he was beautiful.

You had never pondered that you may have had a crush on Bucky, or even been slightly interested in him, but it was slowly becoming more apparent in your mind. Your thoughts often drifted to him during the day, and he tended to be the last thought in your young mind at night. Each sentiment never drifted to the lane of lovey-dovey, but his name was a constant notion bouncing around your brain. You don’t know how you didn’t realize this sooner, but perhaps it is because you didn’t know it was possible to feel this strongly about a person, let alone about Bucky. 

You know he makes you feel safe. That you feel comfortable around him, more than most people in your life. That his presence makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. That if you are having a bad day, he will be the one to put a smile back on your face. He might be your favorite person, even toping Steve. That alone is enough for you to realize that you are certainly falling in love, if you aren’t already, with Bucky.

Oh my my my…

—--

A/N: Thanks for reading! I am a very busy college student, so it may take a while for me to get to writing and posting part 2, but I will do my best for it to come out sooner rather than later. Have a great rest of your day/night!

[caestusvulpes]

part flexible summary:

alrighty! sorry for the mild wait on this post! I got a few people wanting some backstory beyond what I have in my carrd ( of which I'll link this post in there for any future readers out there ) and had max and river encourage me to make it.

this is a post that summarizes the plot, events, and mechanics of a long-running plot ( spanning since early 2017 ) of our JJBA roleplay server. It began on tumblr, has been on discord for years, and I thought it would make a good addition to bring over here again due to the plot elements actually making interacting with characters from different parts ten times easier, as seen with kay and nora's parts 7 & 8 muses ( if you're reading this you two hi hello ily ). I don't have to make like 10 different verses or variations of verses and good chance hikari'll reference tumblr-based events in the discord. Might share some funny snippits of the discord server here as well <33

That being said, let me lead you on this fucked up and bizarre journey that spans 6 years in the most succint way I can possibly put it.

First off, read this. This PDF was put together by Max, and actually summarizes most things in the chat along with a few side jokes. Duplicate muses are explained as timelines folding into a main 'anchor' timeline ( the one of the original Stand user Conner MacCrimmon written by Moody ), with distinct enough variations on one person becoming seperate entities, and those that don't variate much just fold into their 'main' incarnation with a few new memories and experiences. There are three 'over heaven' muses in chat as a sort of 'pantheon', being Aster ( a version of Star Platinum seperated from a Jotaro ), 'Johtaro' ( a version of Jotaro ), and Cohnner ( a version of Conner who's the driving force behind timelines getting folded in-- originally loathed and tolerated, now with people being chill with him )

This also has the symptom of characters from other universes getting mixed the fuck in, which gives us the excuse to play muses from other franchises that are adapted to the world of JJBA completely. Shadow the Hedgehog? Who's that? Don't you mean Foundation Agent Shadow who's totally human and for his neutral special wields a gun? A few other characters I'll be mentioning in threads are Hoshi ( Foundation Archivist ) and Astrid ( Sees Everything ), written by Sci who y'all know already because they're amazing, Ollie and the aformentioned Shadow, written by the same mun of Aster who I linked above, Conner and Moody's other awesome muses, Avdol, Risotto Nero, and a few delightful OCs from the mind of Jules, as well as characters written by Athena, Kris, Rijolt, Kheti, Rani, Chickie, Viala, and Sun! Way too many to list here the cast is Very Colorful. But if you hear Hikari talk about another character in an internal monologue or something, good chance she's thinking about her buddies at work.

Now you may be asking me: clover, how in the goddamn does time travel work into all this?

Well, you may have read that bit at the end of the slide presentation about 'appearing anywhere' if you think about a place hard enough for ease of travel. This fluidity in spacetime has some caveats. Let me explain.

When first starting out in 2017 and lining all of our characters up, Hikari was actually the eldest character among the starting group of 5 muses. Cut to now and while she's aged normally ( at 24 now! ), Kakyoin is in his 40s, Astrid is in her late 20s, and iirc Yukako slipped in time as well. But to answer this, we need to talk about parallel universes.

kidding. kind of.

sometimes cohnner's weaving gets a little wonky and threads of time slip from the tapestry. This causes characters to slip out of time until its weaved back in. For these characters, life continues somewhat normally-- the Foundation may still be there, although people like Hoshi and Hikari and Astrid aren't, and until the fold mends, they're stuck in that timeline, aging normally. The holding record for character with the longest dip in time is both Tenmei Kakyoin and Aster at a whopping 12 fucking years.

To the main timeline, they were only gone for about a day. There was no real way to get back until the stars just happened to align, and the man jumped from late twenties to his forties in the span of 28 hours.

Existentially terrifying, right?

Well, with timeline explanations out of the way, I'm obviously not going to godmod and Hikari assume or know your muses, nor know the history if she happens to be stuck in a part that's in the past ( bt as in her non-bt verse, phantom blood, sdc, or golden wind ). She doesn't read those files anyway, and if she did I probably would go with her not knowing jack and/or shit. In the server its a different story, but I'm not gonna give Hikari multiversal knowledge.

There's also some mechanically different stuff, such as fusion as mentioned in the slide. Here's a slide in a similar style I made like a year and a half ago. Fusion is canon as per both DIU ( Stray Cat and Killer Queen ) and Jojolion ( something something oranges and lemons something something wall eyes something something josuk8 ), so naturally we all built something off of it and this was born after a bunch of workshopping. I'm so normal about fusions i'm so so incredibly normal. Extra body parts applies and there's some tongue in cheek references to su and dragon ball, but inherently its its own thing. Yes there's a ton of fusions with Hikari as a component in the list section shut up.

Currently, Hikari might be investigating strange events that coincide with Stand phenomena. She uses her side gig as a groundskeeper to hover around Morioh and gather info by ear. In other situations, she might slip into parts 7 or 8 due to them being entirely different universes due to being naturally around spacetime irregularities. Y'know, funstuff.

As always, I want to stress that if you do not want to work with this canon, you're absolutely free to tell me. We can do something entirely seperate from this. This is mostly background shenanigans that explains some of Hikari's thoughts and actions, and won't really come into play unless its plotted out, and due to the ease of working Hikari into threads using this as a basis, that's why its my part flexible verse. These aren't hard rules!

Thank you for reading!! If you want more clarification on anything stated here, pleaaaaaase send me an ask-- box is always open <33

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

Random anime/manga recommendations (good oldies!) I have for y'all just bc I love them and hope you would too! also I just want to talk about them bc I love and miss them all!!!

In the list:

Hikaru no Go

Shaman King

Loveless

Yami no Matsuei

Yu Yu Hakusho

Hikaru no Go:

it's about the board game Go but I promise it's so much more heavy than that and the character interaction/development is top tierrrr. also one of the only series that made me bawl like a dumb baby. also!!! you get to watch the characters GROW UP!!! from tiny baby faces to grown teenagers!!! and the fun of it is that while you watch/read, you don't even notice it happening!!! you just look back and go holy shit they were literal BABIES!!!

85 episodes and one OVA, but the OVA only covers half of the final arc, which is manga only. very faithful to the manga otherwise though.

Shaman King:

uhhh okay hear me out you gotta like, read the manga first or watch the 2001 anime first, then do the other one. then you can read the spinoffs. then you can read the sequel if you feel like it but it's more second gen esque and has been off and on for many years, long story, and it's also cut into two different names, long story, but it's flowers and the super star.

once you've read the manga and watched the 2001 anime, the 2021 anime is the remake of the 2001 anime bc the 2001 anime was concluded bc the manga was on hiatus and had caught up to the source material, so they did an anime only ending while sprinkling in bits and pieces of canon into that. the remake was insanely rushed though and cut a lot of content (including a majority of my favorite characters' content which was already low!!!) and super cut corners so imo it's really not a replacement for the manga, hence why I suggest the manga first.

some ppl have said watching the 2001 anime after the manga kinda made the anime feel less great overall bc of the anime only direction it had to take (if it hadn't, it would've ended up like naruto with filler and if y'all were there for that ride, uhhh... never again lmao), so it may be a better experience to watch it first then read the manga.

the anime is aaaaalmost completely faithful (some changes and alterations, but mainly ones that were meant to develop the main characters more and quicker) up until around episode 25, and then it starts getting... timeline-wonky but does follow canon. it just follows the events somewhat incorrectly, put in anime only aspects and swapped things around. after that point, when the characters reach the Patch Village, it's all basically anime only from there with the very final arc sprinkling in some manga only stuff.

anime ending is pretty standard shounen unfortunately, but the manga's ending was a breath of fresh air where it actually follows its themes and story beats right to the end.

that said, the original series is completed. the sequel is... ongoing... sometimes... when it's not blocked by a wall of hiatus bc of the magazine it gets into going under like every single magazine it goes into... but if you don't care for the sequel (understandable tho since it's very different!) that's not a problem. there are tons of spinoffs/side stories though that are both completed and ongoing. there are... a... lot... so basically SK universe is like forever ongoing, but the main series is completed.

** fun fact: hikaru no go and shaman king ran together in shonen jump!

Loveless:

okay so I promise this one is good, but it does feature trigger topics and overall more mature topics.

general premise is hella cringe, cat ppl with cat ears and a tail until they have sex. generally a shounen-ai but there are also het and wlw relationships. older dude claims to be in love with younger dude but it's actually fake and he was just told to say that, so that part goes from cringe to like, actually having backstory.

pretty much a psychological series with side romance (bc as much as it markets itself as romance, there's no "real" romance between the two main characters and the only confirmed pairs are not them). tackles a manipulative, emotionally abusive person who is yandere toward his younger brother, hence tackling more mature and potentially triggering topics. rape is also talked about/implied, though we don't actually see it in explicit detail.

series is complex though and some enemy characters become friendly with the main characters, some just neutral, and some become very close to them. the relationships and dynamics are all amazing though and I love how the more mature topics are handled (tastefully, in other words. it doesn't make light of them and gives depth to the characters) and how the main villain is handled. some more morally gray leaning villainish without being a villain characters are there too.

unfortunate parts of this is that the anime is only like 12 or 13 episodes and was never brought back. worse part is that volume 13 started and the manga went on indefinite hiatus a very, very, very long time ago and has not been touched since and probably never will be again. still an amazing series, but pretty much in permanent limbo unless the author magically decides to take it up again.

Yami no Matsuei:

uhhh listen it's another shounen-ai BUT it's not just romance. i don't really read purely romance series and always need substance and story/plot.

uhhh listen this one's kinda difficult to explain but basically it's a group of dudes who are detective-like ppl who are all actually dead and they get partners assigned who are also dead. villain is batshit nuts.

story can be pretty heavy on the romance/one-sided romance and stuff, but that didn't deter me.

also, talking bird buddies.

as above, the unfortunate parts are one season of about 13 episodes and not picked back up, and the manga is on indefinite hiatus and probably will not continue.

Yu Yu Hakusho:

uhhh you all probably at least know the premise of this one but im gonna come out and say it!!! ...watch the jp dub. promise. i know ppl say the dub was good but. i don't. rly feel that way??? despite growing up with the dub??? and also the sub sounds better to me???

anyway watch this series (or read it!)! :D

** fun fact again!: this series also ran with hng and sk in shonen jump!