#anyways… thank you so much for this anon!!!

[chow0w]

I would love to see darkstalker in your style :00 your redesigns are so neat

Never in my life did I think I would redesign Darkstalker and Hatsune Miku in the same weekend, but here we are.

@oli-bird , @natureforlife and a few anons also asked for this redesign. Sorry anons, I would tag you if I could.

In spite of how often (very often) I make fun of Darkstalker on this channel, I don't actually hold some insane grudge against him at all. I harbor a lot of resentment towards how the fandom tends to treat him, But I think Darkstalker himself is probably the best written villain in WoF. (It's either him or Queen Scarlet, but there's a few reasons I won't get into as to why I think comparing them is unfair.)

Onto the art! Redesigning Darkstalker was one of the more challenging things I've done on this blog, mostly because I already really like his canon design and I feel like there are a lot of good takes out there too. Nonetheless, I make my attempt. The red/blue contrast from his cover art is definitely what I like the most about his general design, and I wanted to try and emulate this as best as possible - especially because I often see him redesigned on a solid red or blue background (which is fine, but inconvenient because it kind of pitfalls Darkstalker into a world where he only looks good in red lighting.) Anyways, I took the red/blue pallet from his cover art and slapped it right onto his scales. Problem solved!

As for the patterns themselves, I was going for a stained-glass type of look: even though religion isn't particularly relevant in Darkstalker's story, I still think it's interesting to try and illustrate how he views himself as superior/almost 'godly' in comparison to other characters. I wanted to carry that theme onto his wings, but ended up deciding with a simpler starry pattern because the design was already super detailed. Everything else kind of speaks for itself... his ribs are more pronounced because of his time under the mountain, and he has longer claws/spikes as a result of the icewing genes. Don't ask me where those white icewing spikes went.... I think they grew legs and walked away... (Real talk, I've just always preferred blue hybrid darkstalker over white hybrid darkstalker. I think the contrast is nicer)

As always, thank you so much for reading down this far! I'm glad you made it! My inbox is as open as ever, and you can find all of my other redesigns through my pinned post which has them linked! My Discord server is right here, for anyone looking to chat/draw/enter in my art contest!

later (o´∀`o)

[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯���� PART THREE (3) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(3) LOVE ON THE BRAIN

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: hi guys sorry for the wait :,) this one’s a lil bit of a slower chapter imo but it’s still super important to the story. the next part or two might also be a lil ‘slow’ by some definition, but it’ll build onto itself do not fear. shoutout to the anon who gave me that song rec btw bc i was listening to it throughout writing this chapter 🫰 amazing taste. anyway without further ado.…. please enjoy :,) ALSO thank u sm for the support thus far!! i’m so happy yall seem to be liking it!! 🥹 if there’s any typos no there ain’t; i might come back to edit a lil later :,) [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

He comes like a flashbang into your life.

And to preface this: you get it, alright? that your mother misses your late father, she’s not doing half as well as she used to be and she technically can be considered single, open for the dating market. This is a trying time for you both. God as your witness, you’ve been slipping down the slope while she’s been putting her nose to the grindstone; there’s no shortage of struggle for you both since your dad died- but finally, it’s settling in for her.

The loneliness.

The need for something- someone- more.

And you somewhat bitterly suppose you just don’t qualify, do you?

It was an inevitable thing.

Away from the metaphorical sand you buried your head in, deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before a new man walked into her life- some actually half-decent, upstanding suitor- and flipped your world off its feet.

It wasn’t a maybe. Not a what if, either.

It was a when.

…Call it naivety on your end or just sheer stupidity, though, your sixteen-year-old brain having a lapse in judgement, but for whatever reason, you didn’t think that when would come.

You prayed against it. Childish or not, whether it can be considered a secret little attempt to sabotage your mother’s possible, budding relationships you had no proof of but suspected all the same (you recognize her perfume; not the rich cologne lingering on her blouse when she finally comes back from work)- you’d hoped she’d keep off from it, anyway.

From, you know,…

The whole ‘falling in love’ thing…

You’re not so deluded to believe it’s infidelity, her quietly seeking out another man outside of your father whole years after he’s passed (anyhow, you’re sure the legal side of it, the paperwork, doesn’t hold up the same), but that doesn’t ease the blow that is the idea of it.

Sure. He’s gone. That much is clear to you…The days pass- weeks, two years- and it’s almost like your life has reached a stopover, waiting for him to come back. I mean, sometimes, it’s almost like he was never even there.

…But at night, when darkness comes with its unbroken silence, you lie there and your heart thinks of him. Wherever you remember him, it hurts.

And yeah, maybe your mother seems growingly eager to leave your father behind… to truly make him a thing of the past even in memory- the final thing you have left of him. But you’re not so chummy with the silent suggestion of joining her there.

You don’t want that ‘when’ to come. Desperately, you don’t.

Oh, but it does.

Out of the blue like a comet from the sky, blindsiding you.

Swinging through the door, chuckling at something she’s said over her shoulder, you think, but the amusement on his face is almost too bare, too shadowed, to tell from where you sit.

You jolt in your chair.

The microwave, droning on, beeps, signaling your frozen dinner’s finally thawed out. But while it draws the attention of your drunken mother- otherwise distracted by the stranger she leads inside your little apartment- your growling stomach becomes the furthest thing from your mind in the moment.

Apparently, the stranger— tall, broad-shouldered, all suave with his sidepart and tailored leather jacket draped behind him like a cape— couldn’t care less for what’s cooking, either.

He doesn’t take his shoes off.

For that, you’re grateful, observing him with a reasonable sum of doubt as he lingers by the entry: It means he doesn’t have plans to stay long.

Which is good, because if he did, you think with a morsel of unease, your brow slowly creasing, you might’ve had to consider grabbing the broom and brushing him out.

The con is that he does wipe them off on the mat, though. Evidently, he plans to step deeper in.

His eyes, a ruby red, sharp as a hawk tracking prey, find yours from where you sit at the table, caught unawares as you scramble to hide your bare legs under your shirt, and he raises a subtle, curious brow at the observation.

“Oh,” he cocks his head, the front door- your front door- clicking behind him as he swiftly fixes his slight surprise into a cool, inscrutable mask.

“What a surprise. Your daughter, I presume?”

Distantly, in your head, a warning bell chimes.

…O-Or maybe it’s just the microwave, but—

Your mom turns it off, “Oh, honey,” in lieu of a greeting, she says, giggling as she walks over and sets her purse down on the tiny, round table you sit at.

Her work blouse is at least intact: you’ll give her that much. But her shift ended four hours ago and by the looks of it, she’s forgotten that promise to stop by the store on her way home- clearly occupied with something else- and in any case, you can’t really say the same for the stranger…

Dapper as he is— what with his perfect posture and urban get-up, the image of dashingly handsome, debonair, imposing (yet somehow just a touch weathered, too, however that may fit)- just to list a few traits off the bat— his top buttons are undone.

His hair, a natural silver all the way through, is almost imperceptibly disheveled. And maybe those things could be reasoned for or go unnoticed- to the untrained eye, they would- but you’re a little too paranoid, on alert as this asshole saunters into your house like it’s his, to miss the outlying factors.

The most damning of them all:

The wine-red smear of lipstick on his neck, only half concealed by his collar.

Your heart shudders in your chest.

And this is scary, this is nerve-wracking, yes, suddenly being force-fed the reason behind all the late nights your mother spent out, the whiffs of man on her clothes and the inexplicably giddy mood she’s been in lately- oh, it’s a million negative adjectives all packed in one- but when he strides forward, confident like you wouldn’t believe, and extends a hand for you to shake-?

You wonder if it’s fury, rising above anything else, that broils in your gut and makes accepting it an all but impossible task.

“Sylus,” he purrs as introduction.

And to be honest, that’s what this feels like in the most grandiose, pervasive of ways: the bad guy being introduced.

It’s true that you caught fragments of him: the vestigial notes of bergamot and vanilla that follow after your mother like some ghostly haunting; the odd lifts in her mood as of late; the phonecalls she gets at night that she always dismisses, but not without a thick swallow and a darting look your way before letting it ring— hell, you’ve even heard whispers within her friend circle of some dishy man dropping by her work building, nonchalant with a bouquet of flowers in tow—

Actually being face-to-face with him, literal inches apart, is freshly alarming.

Meeting him is something cinematic and new. Like a chord in the soundtrack dips; a note lowering to introduce the villain as one of the keys shake.

And perhaps comparing the scene, this man, to a movie isn’t so bad a coping mechanism, because yes, as the surround-sound kicks in and he’s all you can hear- that rich voice of velvet and bass to boot- the room going dark as you tunnel in on him before you— it feels like none of it is even real.

The kitchen blurs. The tiles on the wall smearing into one another, fuzzing together in a way that doesn’t resemble the home you know.

Bergamot, subtle but carrying a little bit of a punch, floods your system and inundates you. Vanilla lays the base for it, as sweet-smelling as nectar.

It settles in your lungs like congestion.

Truffle wrap. Marble and stone. The banister: meant to be sturdy.

It is.

He must be within the same age pool as your mom, yet when his penetrating stare briefly shifts over to her (if you didn’t know any better, amused at your reluctance to accept him)- and he grins that damned grin— he looks young again.

You’re actually almost fooled into believing he’s a gentleman.

There’s nothing… inherently wrong with him, you suppose. But none of that, him seeming apparently decent, matters- not when you’d already decided you’d stay loyal to your dad no matter what. N-Not when-

Not when something is wailing in your subconscious, parting cars in its path. Like a siren in the night shaking you awake to tell you something is terribly, terribly wrong. A wildfire. A disaster.

You quietly wonder if being in places he doesn’t belong gives him a confidence boost, or if he’s just impossibly tone deaf to the environment as it whispers in his ear, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

All the while, something- mystical in nature, almost, like an angel or devil on your shoulder (it could be either)- is whispering to you, too.

Faintly, that voice in your head, deathly-quiet, says stop. Stop this. Nip it in the bud before it—

This is overwhelming. All of it.

You’re mortified and unsure of yourself; a mite betrayed, even, as you toss a cursory glance to your mom who watches on with a look of both expectance and worry, chewing away at her bottom lip.

It’s a little humorous, the faint concern made ten times more obvious in her half drunken state, as she puts herself on standby.

You can’t help but wonder what face you’re making now. If it’s one of shock, anger, or fear. Or an ugly amalgamation of the three— that’s possible, too.

Truthfully, you’re just as hard pressed to distinguish what you’re feeling: unsure of your next reaction. If anything, you might appreciate if she chooses to step forward and help you figure out just what the hell is happening, whether that means by extraction or a gentle hand on your shoulder to help steady you as he tells you his name.

Two minutes ago, you were waiting for your frozen dinner to thaw (really just a block of something half edible, but with the milk gone, you can’t make your routine cereal), thinking you were in the clear to lounge around with panties and a baggy shirt with your mother out God knows where. Now, you’re looking dead-on at what is perhaps your worst nightmare as the kitchen, not so comfortable anymore, fizzles to nothingness around you.

From this close, he’s… Leonine, that’s a pretty good word for him. As elegant and cocksure, relaxed, as a king of nature.

He doesn’t worry about what he will eat tomorrow: his sheer presence is dominating enough to have it served on a silver platter for him. Something about him just tells you so.

But he’s… beautiful in a way, too, you’ll concede that much (and only that much). Said with the best of intents, he reminds you of some prized thing from an antique shop, lacquered and pretty but weathered all the same.

You can’t imagine all the zeroes on his price tag, but he’s definitely an expensive thing. Part of you wonders what the hell he’s doing with your mother: you don’t come from wealth, so if he has any desire to romance her, it’s not for material gain.

…An admittedly endearing revelation. But it doesn’t quite placate you.

You can see the slight scruff of his chin, the faint wrinkles settling into his angular features. The harsh fluorescence of your kitchen isn’t the most flattering of lights, but he fairs surprisingly well under it regardless.

It’s obvious he takes good care of himself. And it’s also clear to you that he knows his worth- but considering the air of snugness around him, and your flowering dislike for him, you can’t help but wonder if he overestimates it.

The guy is a complete fucking stranger. You know him about as far as you can throw him.

A few beats of silence pass on. Each more unbearable than the last as you wordlessly drink the stranger in, his brow lifting with what you can only assume to be the stirrings of a challenge as he waits for you to take his much larger hand in yours.

Your uncertain gaze- made wide at the unwanted suddenness of it all- flits down to that hand. Despite the many jewels and glittering things that adorn his long, svelte fingers, though, there’s a lack of a wedding ring.

You allow yourself to deflate just a tiny bit at the observation.

It’s good to know he doesn’t have a wife and kids waiting at home for him, you sarcastically guess, while your mom guns for him as they sit unawares.

Still. You don’t know this man. You don’t- you don’t know what he’s doing with your mother (but don’t you?).

And he’s…

Perhaps draconian, actually, is the best descriptor.

Parting your lips in a silent breath, trying and failing to provide a simple hello to the guest or your nervous mother to the side, spectating it all, you’re at a bit of a loss for words when your subconscious realizes it’s presented with the quiet comparison of an animal or a devil for the guy— and no in between.

Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s… Important.

I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.

…Breathe, you remind yourself. Yes. Just…

Just breathe.

Yet, his cologne- that citrusy spritz he wears like a coat, a smell you’re so unexplainably sensitive to for some reason, with its treacly vanilla undertones- is all you can breathe.

“Honey,” a thin, yet encouraging voice, your mom’s, calls out, and then her hand does settle on your shoulder as she sidles up to your chair hesitantly. “Say hi to him?”

You blink, lashes fluttering.

…And his stupid hand is still there, outstretched and waiting.

✦

You’ll give him credit for this:

Sylus, at the first opportunity to ditch his bratty, seething stepdaughter after his wife- his only real obligation to her- passes— doesn’t take it.

He had every chance to kick you to the curb now that your mother’s out of the picture. And to be honest, he has every reason, every right, to give you the boot. You’ve only been a complete bitch to him for the last seven years you’ve known him. Not to the point of ball-breaking, not quite, you were only a teenager after all, but it wasn’t extremely far off from that either.

Sylus, by his own volition, stays.

Moreover, he invites you into his home. And yes, you know it’s technically yours, too, but the circumstances of your filling out the rest of your youth under his roof weren’t the prettiest, and you weren’t the most… pleasant of persons to be around. Let alone live with.

Yet every stolen, curious glance he takes of you and the gentle, half smirks in passing- brushing your shoulder like it’s the most casual thing ever, like you never left- is a reminder in its own that this is your place, too. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant.

If your stepfather’s aim is to reassure you, it’s working.

Slowly but surely.

Four days into the visit, you let go of much of your resistance and let yourself simply… breathe.

The past is the past, and, capable of rational thought, you’d do well to leave it behind. Let bygones be bygones and forgive both yourself and the people around you for former hurts of former times.

It’s called maturing, you quietly decide at the door one early morning, having been all but hauled out of bed, bidding the twins adieu as they hover at the porch.

This little resolve you let bud in your heart and grow is what compels you to wrap your arms around them when they hug you, embracing them back as Kieran mopes in your ear and Luke reminds it’s only for a few days.

It’s not as much to comfort you as it is to comfort himself and his brother.

You’re well aware of this, but keep quiet on the matter; you’re too sleepy to be in the mood to tease him for it, but mentally pocket it for a later time anyway.

Occupying any sort of space with the twins guarantees that you’ll need a decent deck of comebacks on standby. You’ve been adding to yours.

This short business trip of theirs isn’t some long, drawn-out pilgrimage taken to distant lands, despite their theatrics- it’s not even obligatory- but you know very well how eager the boys are to please their father, and if working a few days at one of the subsidiary companies to better the career he gave them will make him preen, then they’ll do it. Gladly.

You wouldn’t call either of them homebodies, per se… but wherever their father is, so is their heart. It’s only natural they’d want to make him proud. You know that.

You understand why they’re going, you do…

It’s just…

Over Luke’s shoulder, your eyes meet Sylus’s only briefly, but a second is all you need to read his emotions.

Propped against the threshold with folded arms and a spark of amusement that’s only slightly obvious, he watches them sandwich you in a big hug.

If it hasn’t been made clear yet— yes, they’ll miss you.

“Oh, so dramatic,” their father comments, not with any shortage of entertainment. You think if he could, he would’ve prepared a bowl of popcorn for this- but while he’s certainly tickled by the sight, there’s something else in his stare as he divvies it between you three, gathered in a tangle of arms and suitcases, that he won’t admit aloud.

Pride, maybe…?

Satisfaction?

Or… Content. That’s the closest word.

You hope Sylus doesn’t see the slight fluster left on you by his flippant remark. Untucking your chin from one of the boys’ shoulders as you stand upright and pat their backs respectively.

“A-Alright, boys, that’s enough.”

“Say it back,” Luke chirps, “say you’ll miss us!”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I just said I did-“

“But do it louder! We’ll be gone for three whole days!”

“Yeah! Don’t you love us, sis?! Will you really just stand there unaffected as we turn our backs and go?”

If unaffected means arms crossed, shivering in freezing temperatures with the faintest of frowns on your face, some inner piece of you experiencing a quiet, unanticipated ache at their departure, then yes- by all means, you’re unaffected.

You purse your lips, snipping back with only half the bite, “If you keep pushing it, I’ll email the firm specifically and tell them to keep you dummies there for longer.”

A deep, languid chuckle answers back; like a slowed song with reverb, it hits differently.

Considering your newfound efforts to squash the beef between you both- even if it was only one-sided- you don’t ignore him out of bitterness, but the slight unease is still something you can’t quite shake, so you momentarily survey the porch below (anything but him, stood somewhere behind you), and sniff.

I mean, it’s reasonable to be a little awkward, isn’t it…? You’ve spent all your adult years clinging onto the straws of a grudge your teenage self kept for him- and back then, you were only fiercer, more vocal, in your stance taken against your new stepfamily.

So yeah, while it’s safe to say the worst of that metaphorical storm has blown over, the debris is still absolutely there: the ruined bits you have to cautiously step across and just- try to overlook.

Too low for anyone to hear, you softly sigh.

Just as you determined to make peace with him, though, you tranquilly think to yourself, you’ll too learn how to navigate the aftermath of that silently-signed treaty.

Of course, that awkward feeling in the air, not powerful enough to take precedence in your mind, but niggling all the same, is only temporary.

Two weeks.

“Geez, sis,” Kieran snickers, Luke grinning ear to ear at your other side, the duo forming a flank, “someone woke up on the wrong side of bed, huh?”

“You’ll be late, you two,” a lilting voice from behind chimes in, effectively putting an end to the antics.

You don’t bother looking behind, but the twins’ focus shifts over your head before they slump their backs and sigh, conceding.

Hmph. Theatrical as always.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it, dad! We’re going!”

Rewrapping your robe, you offer a longanimous exhale when Kieran’s lanky arm unfurls from you, the boys finally stepping away for the car. The thin cotton does little to ward off the December cold, its roots digging bone-deep within seconds of lingering on the porch, and underneath it, your tanktop and panties offer not an iota of warmth, either- but you weren’t about to wave them goodbye half-naked, so the robe does its part to cover you.

Within a few minutes, you’ll be curled up in your bed anyway, allowed to revisit the sleep you’d been so rudely pulled from.

Piling into the car, they holler to you, and with a smile you can’t quite fight off, you shake your head at them all the while.

The engine grumbles to life. The idiots they are, they give it a few gratuitous revs (to impress you? God only knows their end goal) and then the gate is opening for them as they peel off.

Dummies.

And then it’s just you and him.

You and Sylus.

You and… your stepfather.

A hand, broad and big but warm- oh so reluctant- places itself on your shoulder, circling the blade reassuringly with its thumb. To your immense surprise, you manage to keep from flinching beneath it, but just barely.

Still. If that’s not progress, you don’t know what is.

With an only somewhat visible shiver, you turn around and face him as he shifts sideways to the door, his chin trained your way as he offers a slight, deliberate smirk. Something like encouragement is used as its subtext.

His hand leaves as quickly as it came, slipping away. Its imprint of warmth slowly fades, too.

He opens the door wide, gesturing with a nonchalant little nod, “Ready to go in?” In flannel pajamas, bare foot, he doesn’t even shiver.

Vacillating, you spare one last look behind you, out to the courtyard with its sprawling, greyed lawn and erected fences, and watch the stillness. It’s a sight worthy of your admiration.

A flurry— the first of the season— begins to fall.

You breathe out. A cloud of white whisks from your lips and blends into nothingness. It’s pretty in the way that it doesn’t last for long.

And it’s freezing but it’s… strange. How this one cold winter develops this way of thawing you out.

Returning to the man in front of you, waiting patiently, you nod, dipping your head on the way past him. Bundling yourself tighter. “Yeah.”

✦

Not long after midday, you’re a fraction through one of your new books- but you decide to put it down.

It’s for a couple different reasons. One of them being that it’s not gotten good yet- the plot moving at a snail’s speed, the protagonist not interesting enough to even remember the name of- and you figure the chapter you’re closing out on now is a good breaking point. The main one, though, is that you’re awfully bored and this house, despite holding not the best of memories, has lots to offer.

When it comes to fun— exploring its labyrinthine rooms, utilizing its many services and amenities (like a personal chef, for instance, or a home theater and gym)— there’s no shortage of things to do.

It’s just with an ounce of unease that you realize those fun opportunities, however, are only half the appeal without the twins.

Annoying, troublesome, experts at exaggeration and being thorns in your side— yes, they’re all of that and then some. But if we’re listing all their shining traits right now, then for the record, ‘fun’ must be one of them.

And yeah, okay, their absence is starting to kick in just a little bit. But it’s not a big deal. I mean, what’s it matter if they’re gone for a few days? You’ll blink and it’ll be over.

They’ll be back. You’ll greet them at the door after they veer into the driveway, waiting there just as you did when waving them goodbye, and Sylus will be chuckling behind you in that rich, unruffled way he does as they herd you inside and divulge their journey.

Heaving a sigh, you toss your book aside on the dormer window and relocate to your bed.

You belly flop on it before rolling on your back to stare at the ceiling.

For only a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself be barraged by the thoughts you’d been blocking out; the unique responsibilities and aches.

You intake an unsteady, deep breath and attempt to manage them all one at a time— but they don’t stand in single-file, eager to attack you from every angle all at once.

The dress for the funeral…

Looking through your mother’s old things…

And then everything that comes afterward of that, too. Whatever that might entail.

As ambivalent as the future may seem, an abstract thing veiled behind fog and uncertainty, you ruefully suppose not wanting it to come won’t stop it from doing just that.

And then of course, there’s the whole booking your flight thing… leaving this place for, if you’re being realistic, probably the last fucking time and then—

Have you even asked Sylus who’s giving the eulogy?

“No,” you mumble before rolling on your stomach again, legs and arms splayed on the bed like a starfish.

God help you. Half of you is expecting for the twins, just as irksome as they are entertaining, to come bursting through your door at any moment and save you from the woes of having nothing to do. To be fair, sitting around and doing absolutely nothing is better than some things- like work, namely (you don’t want to imagine the stack of papers that’s building on your desk during your leave)- but as you quietly ponder the week and a half ahead, you start to worry it’ll be uneventful from start to finish.

Well, as uneventful that a trip begotten by a funeral can be, anyway.

Maybe it’s being wishful- sickeningly optimistic in a situation with no one silver lining- but you’d like to hope you can at least squeeze out some enjoyment during your stay.

As sheepish as you are to admit it, the twins were a staple in that halfbaked idea.

But now they’re gone. For three days. And God only knows why it was so simple a decision for them to make, leaving you behind when right now, realistically speaking, your little screwed up family should be huddling together now more than ever, but—

(‘Why was it simple?’ Well, why do you think…? Because you’ve been so coldly pushing them away and they finally took the hint and-)

You get up and leave your room, traipsing down the hallway. You can’t find it in you to care, right now, about who you might bump into while the house is left to two people and a whole lot of ice.

Sylus is probably in his study, anyway. Assuming he even is in the home right now, but with the long laundry list of errands and contractual deals that require his flowery, hasty signature to be secured, you doubt he spends too much of his time here on weekdays.

As you walk through the stretching halls, you trace the walls with a finger, bored.

You’re stopped in your tracks by a picture- just one of the many lavish decorations- and tilt your head up to stare at it in its entirety.

It’s a big thing; a large, elaborate wooden frame without dust.

Five portraits stare back at you. But you- squished between the cheerful twins, stood before your mother and stepfather who join in a kiss behind your head, smiling lips smushed together as he holds back her veil- don’t don the same delighted expression.

Maybe it’s immature of you, but as the lingering, subtle whisps of something citrusy waft by, you do offer a slight huff of amusement at the image. It’s just so comically awful, nailed to the wall in a frame so stupidly opulent it’s like some boast against poor people— a should-be perfect wedding photo marred by the bitterness oozing off the stepdaughter.

Alright, to be fair, you’re not outright scowling or anything, but the smile you plaster on is so clearly fake it’s hard not to laugh at it—

“She looked like you, you know.”

You must jump five feet into the air.

He adds, raising one wryly amused brow, “Somewhat.”

Startled, you turn to find him staring not at the picture he presumably references- but you.

Your brow furrows slightly, and then he does glance over to the frame as you hover your hand over your heart, clutching your invisible pearls in a moment of deja vu.

A soft sigh. Is this how you’ll be seeing him now…? Every time you happen to bump into your stepfather- evidently not the best at evading him- does it mean you’ll be caught off guard as he stands there, unbothered, before apologizing?

Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s content pretending not to notice your shudder- your fear of him. Ruby-red hues drifting off as his jaw imperceptibly tightens.

Murmuring under his breath as he surveys the illustration almost quizzically, “But wasn’t… quite you.”

Ah, right- the wedding photo. Your mother. You resemble her— That’s what he’s getting at here.

“Y-Yeah…” You mumble back. You don’t have much to offer him, but it’s better than ignoring him: the thing you recently decided you wouldn’t be doing on this trip.

Slowly, you close your mouth. You do a quick once-over of him, and then look back towards the hanging memory.

There’s a certain silence that occurs between you both, then. Simultaneous to it- is a weight dropping in your heart, slowly descending the longer you reminisce on the familiar woman’s profile.

Not only has the stepdaughter’s scornful face been immortalized, but so has your dead mother’s.

It’s in a moment of weakness, perhaps, that you reach out to trail her jaw, pondering the past as it sweeps you up in its nostalgic current.

Your mind is less focused on acting cool and indifferent in front of your stepfather and more on the parent that has been ripped away from you- now stood before you in an intricate frame along a dark wall. So maybe later you might regret showing your belly to him, but right now, you really can’t find it in you to care.

You told yourself the past is the past.

Now, all there’s left to do is commit.

“She looked… so happy,” you’re surprised to realize the voice filling your ears is your own, gravelly from disuse, barely audible. Part of you debates feeling embarrassed, but quickly erases the idea because you don’t think your stepfather would have any real intent to ridicule you, least of all right now.

Your younger self has always been fairly good at believing everyone around you is a sworn enemy, out to get you behind your back, but your stepfather is…

Family, a little voice in the back of your head supplies. And you’re puzzled at the lack of backlash it receives this time around.

You start to wonder if he’s heard, the quiet sprawling for just a touch too long, self-consciousness a breath away as something, his attention, you think, bores into the back of your head, but then he hums and you’re at ease again.

“She was so happy,” he agrees. “We both were.”

Sylus, from the corner of his eye, watches.

Some gear turns in the very back of your skull and begs to ask the question of just what he’s doing here right now; the master bedroom- now his alone, you realize with an unbidden squeeze of your heart- is on the other wing of the house. During the daytime, he’s typically downstairs, anyway.

But you suppose that’s besides the point.

Your eyes flutter down, and then your hand follows. Ghosting along the photo in one sweeping motion before you turn just halfway to face him.

You’re making headway on squashing your beef with him, oh definitely, but there’s a sort of intimacy that comes with standing front-to-front, and right now, you think that’d be overwhelming and weird for the both of you.

He’s not… used to you being exactly nice to him, anyway, or open. Or agreeable. Or- or anything, really. For your teen years, you erected a wall in between you both and actively refused to let anyone scale it— and after you moved out, you weren’t so hellbent on keeping him away, sure, not half as immature and bratty as you had been, but the distance was absolutely still there. Just quieter.

No longer screamed, but rather implied.

For a while, you’d even wondered if he’d agreed upon it. If he threw in the metaphorical towel on building a relationship with you; defeated and exasperated. But you guess he’s a multimillionaire for a reason— it requires dogged ambition- drive- to reach those heights, after all— and you’ve sometimes wondered if meeting Sylus was like an immovable object going head to head with an unstoppable force.

For your part, you’re not so used to this, either. Kind of giving into this… paternal subtext to your nonexistent connection.

It’s odd. New, as it creeps in on you, slowly dialing up the temperature. Though the way it plants its seed is too gradual to make you want to dig it out from the dirt right away.

It’s a foreign thing, yes— when your eyes meet his, an inscrutable, glittering red, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in your aching chest as you quietly realize he’s there for you, that in this tragedy, you’re not alone— but it’s not… bad, per se.

Not like you’d always imagined it’d be, anyway.

I mean, back then you didn’t even want to imagine it, but now—

Two weeks, your nagging subconscious reminds, and then you’ll be gone. Your… family (the pest-like, ever plotting twins; Sylus, even, the persistent but gentle stepfather you’d kept on hold indefinitely) will become just a speck in the distance as it grows behind you. And then….

And then you’ll be alone. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

But maybe if you had just- not been so fucking stubborn and bent on making a point to your mother, if you had just visited a little more, then maybe by some stretch of inagination you could’ve done something to-

Your soul sinks in your chest. The feeling of regret, terrible and distinct, rips you a new one as you try not to wilt in the silence. But Sylus’s eyes are warm, softening into a pass of concern as he drops his folded arms.

Business-oriented, arrogant, competitive, bound and determined. You and the world have seen each of those facets of him, but the gentler side is one that the latter doesn’t own access to.

When Sylus’s fingers twitch, his arm nearly reaching out to you as he visibly vacillates, you feel a strange flash of endearment towards him.

Your mother saw this side of him all the time, you inwardly consider. Because that’s who he reserved it most for.

Sylus assigned things to one of two categories: his family, and then everything else.

And you- you infuriating, lovely little dragon of a daughter- fell to the former.

There’s all kinds of uncertainty swirling in his eyes, but he settles for a soft clear of his throat, looking you over. The gloss in your stare, the one that hangs over your lashes and refuses to fall as if permanently suspended there, makes him open his mouth, but before he can say anything, you undercut his words.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask. Not in a demanding way: you’re just eager to distract you both from your impending waterworks.

You wonder if he knows; what’s running through his head as you stand there and fidget with the hem of your shirt, rapidly blinking to keep the tears at bay. You don’t remember giving them permission to come, but here they are, knocking.

His brow raises by the faintest tick, and then he smiles an easy, slight smile. Dipping his hands in his pockets to rest.

“The twins forgot something on their journey, it seems. They texted me to grab it for them. So,” he says, giving a loose shrug with one shoulder, looking down the hallway past you, tone as mocking yet sincere as ever, “Here I am, letting myself be treated like some poor… errand boy.”

“Oh.”

Poor is… certainly not the word you’d select for him, but…

He finishes, eyes catching yours in a second of boldness, “I’ll mail it out to the firm. They’ll receive it no later than this evening.”

You give a small nod, looking down to his chest because it offers a convenient escape to his penetrating, sharp stare, and frankly, if you’re getting emotional at some old picture on the wall- then you need the respite.

You rub your forearm, “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

“Where to?” A tiny twitch of his lip tells you he spoke too soon. His chest swells out. Your eyes jump to his.

“If you need a car, you can use any of the ones in the garage,” he remedies. You blanche. “Just point, and I’ll give you the keys-“

“Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle suddenly, shaking your head. Sylus pauses, quirking one brow as he tilts his chin by a fraction, interest and maybe even a little bit of mirth reshaping his face at your change in demeanor.

“I didn’t mean I was going out,” you quickly add, “Realistically, I probably would’ve just went downstairs and ate something... Or brought a snack out to the sunroom.”

He frowns. “The sunroom might be a bit cold, though.”

“I know. I- I just wanna see how it looks after all this time.”

To your surprise, Sylus lets out a smooth, somewhat short chuckle. At your confusion, he elaborates, “This place is still the same, Kitten,” he chides in a harmless, rather loving tone, “All that’s different is that you’re here.”

…And that this time around, your mother isn’t.

Yet Sylus, as if clueless to the glaring elephant in the room, smirks and doesn’t mention it. And truthfully, you’re grateful for that. Just- you have your questions, those little segments of his short account over the phone that you want to pick apart and scrutinize- but all of that is for later. An indefinite later... Right now is too soon.

You’re hardly keeping your feelings in check as is: you don’t need to pile further revelations of your mother’s death onto the plate. In any case, as much as a gritty, inward part of you would like to know every scrap of information possible- at the end of the day, it’d be unnecessary.

Your mother died the way she did. And all attempts or methods of probing for more context, you fear, would only do more harm than good.

“I guess it still feels the same,” you mumble out an agreement, peering down the corridor towards the stairs, his figure standing tall and unruffled to your side. “All the decorations are the same.”

“Exactly,” he hums, “and the sunroom is no different. You wouldn’t want to… catch a cold on your vacation, would you?”

Vacation is a funny word for it, but you won’t shoot him for being optimistic. You’d honestly benefit from following his example.

You snort softly, sheepishly looking down, “I won’t catch a cold. It can’t be that bad. Besides,” you lift your chin, meeting his gaze- wholly transfixed on you, a glimmering, fascinated red- “Back at my apartment, the AC and heating is usually broken, so… I’m used to arctic temperatures.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh at it. In fact, his lighthearted smirk ebbs into a thin line as he parts his mouth and furrows his brow at you. Your breath hitches slightly.

The tears that had been beading at your eyes are gone, but now a sense of uncertainty replaces them in your chest.

He unstuffs his hands from either of his pockets. “That’s nothing to brag about,” he croaks.

Your lashes flutter, ears perking under his uneven timber. You… don’t often hear that voice come from him.

He swiftly recorrects himself, saying in a lighter but just as firm tone, “You should take care of yourself. Have you… been well, by the way? How is it back at your old place?” Sylus lowly ventures, before one half of his mouth quirks up playfully.

He leans his back against the wall, localizing his attention fully to you. Not paying the smallest of glances to the large, idyllic photo you stand in front of.

“I wonder,” he starts, “What a day in the life looks like in your shoes.”

A beat of silence passes. In that time, you realize it’s not just a spoken fragment of his thoughts, but a question. You answer accordingly.

Not without a look down the hall, though, silently wishing to exit the conversation as it begins to drag on.

The sunroom, for as cold as it’s advertised, sounds better and better.

You don’t quite laugh, but by some standard it might be considered one. “Well, it’s not really anything interesting. Obviously, it’s not as glamorous as like, you guys here,” you say, “but I’m fine where I am.”

Physically, fine. Although, the level of content you hold inwardly is a bit of a different story.

You’ll keep that on its shelf. Right now, it’s better where it is: in the dark; in the quiet.

Safe with you.

Sylus simply says, “You… shouldn’t settle for less,” impossibly careful with his choice of words, albeit you don’t fully know why.

“I-I’m not,” you jump to justify. You have a growing inkling that this conversation is going nowhere, and you don’t exactly like small talk, so you aim to wrap this up.

“I work hard at my job, but-“

But what? you still don’t wanna die in a cubicle during your mundane 9-5 job? Hmph. Yeah, get in line behind literally everyone else.

Not everybody has the same luxury that Sylus does, though: he’ll die without regrets, knowing he secured riches for his next thousand generations, but you can’t really say the same. That is… assuming you branch off from the Qins and separate yourself from that golden heritage. Which-

You are. You will. These two weeks will either fly by or slug by, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be bidding the boys farewell one last time.

You’ll do the right, reasonable thing, excuse yourself from the metaphorical table that is your stepfamily (who, if you’re being honest, are probably done with you deep down but are too nice- sympathetic in this dark time- to say something), and go back home. To that shitty, cramped apartment with its broken utilities and cracks in the ceiling. To that cubicle; to all the paperwork on your desk amounting to a miniature Tower of Babel.

You’ll go back to the loneliness and uncertainty.

Yet it will just be even colder, then. Knowing that palatial house on the hills, once a backup plan of sorts- a final failsafe if your humble little life you’d been trying to make for yourself collapsed- is no longer an option.

Because the one precious thread tying you to it—

Snapped.

“I work hard at my job,” you try anew, inexplicably having trouble meeting his eyes. “I always strive for better, just- I know how to be content with what I have, you know?”

It’s not meant as a jab towards him, you swear it’s not, albeit your way of going about it could use a little bit of work. Considering you’ve been making all sorts of revolutionary improvements on this trip, though, you don’t think adjusting your tone should be too big of an issue.

At any rate- you’re not about to start this big discussion with your stepfather on career paths and how satisfied you are with yours, though, and that’s where this seems to be headed.

You gesture down the hall with a shoulder and smile if only to be polite.

“But anyway, I think I’ll-“

“You know,” Sylus starts, glancing up to you expectantly, and it’s only right then that you realize he’d been looking at the floor- or, more accurately, your legs- while mulling over something, silent. His words are measured, slow; his hues more obsidian than ruby in the dimly-lit corridor. The vibrant twinkle of scarlet is still there, but a shadow pours over his brow. His slight crow’s feet can be spotted.

He’s pushing forty one now, but it’s strange- how you look at him and don’t notice the age. He’s as virile and manly as ever. In his prime, you’d say.

Silently, you wonder in a breath if all men are like wine in the way that they age, or if your stepfather was a result of a fluke.

I mean, you’re aware that he takes good care of himself. Those boxing sessions he does on the side in the home gym certainly do their part to keep him physically afloat, and his chef only uses ingredients of the highest quality— but still…

It’s not wrong to make the comment that he’s a bit of a genetic jewel.

You remind yourself to tune back into his words, straightening your spine slightly.

Yes, you can acknowledge- in absolutely no weird way, mind you- that your stepfather is an attractive guy. There’s no science to it: he just… is. Your mother certainty knew it; all her gossiping friends, too. You’re not so taken by an old grudge to pretend Sylus’s charm isn’t universal.

“Don’t… take this the wrong way, I don’t mean to be pushy,” he drawls, the image of casual. There’s a wisp of hesitance in his eyes, though. You don’t miss it. “But if you ever want to try your hand at my company,” he leaves the suggestion open-ended, although there’s nothing you need further clarity on.

You laugh nervously, ignoring the inward part of you that perks a little at the offer.

“Ah, no, I… already have a job back at my place. And I think the commute would be a nightmare,” A commute is a bit of an understatement— if you were to hop aboard your stepfather’s panel, you’d actually have to move back out to Linkon or, perhaps more conveniently, just live out of your old bedroom already here.

But for so many reasons, working for Sylus just… isn’t a great idea.

Besides- he’s just being nice to you, anyway. The four of you are in a hard time right now.

You’ve never gotten along well with Sylus, sure, and he’s well-acquainted with your abrasive exterior, but he’s never been half as immature as your younger self in regards to sympathy, so of course he’s trying to make you feel better— you’re his veritable stepdaughter, after all. There’s not many better ways to do that than to offer you an extremely lucrative job that he knows you’ll ultimately decline— meaning he’ll take no loss.

He’s just being polite… Which makes you a smidgen more uncomfortable to acknowledge your bumpy past with him. Here he is with the twins, flying you out and making efforts to comfort you in his own roundabout way after his wife’s died- no doubt dealing with that loss as well- and you’re still trying to fully commit to ‘new beginnings’ and all.

He’s just a man at the end of the day, you realize right then, a pang of guilt fattening your heart. He fell in love with your mother; so much so that he was willing to put up with her insufferable, brat of a child for years on end.

And you were- well, for lack of a better word you were a bitch.

And yeah there’s a million justifications you can make for it, but the point of the matter right now is that you feel bad. You feel like such an intruder, a nuisance, a burden now weighing on his, Luke’s, and Kieran’s shoulders, and-

Sylus shrugs like there’s nothing on them. Glances down to rub his forefinger and thumb together. Dripping nonchalance right from the pores.

“Suit yourself.” He says smoothly, taking your rejection no different than a duck would with water off its wings. “But Sweetie,” he states, eyes clashing with yours as if to add emphasis to whatever he’ll say, “The opportunity will always be up in the air for you. Do you understand?”

Oh, the emphasis is there, alright.

You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“See you, then.”

And then he’s breezing past before you can even clumsily dismiss yourself. Tall and broad and gone.

His heady cologne remains in a subtle draft and then that, too, disappears.

R-Right, you blink, sighing out a big breath you didn’t realize you were holding all along.

The sunroom.

✦

His large hand, extended like an offering, slightly falters when he understands you don’t have a lick of desire to shake it.

Maybe you’re a bit hangry, yes, and you’ll admit that probably does no favors for your current mood as this ridiculous scene unfolds before you- but all these emotions that bud inside you now, flowering no different than weeds, entangling themselves as they expand- are very much valid and real.

You’re still positively pissed and confused and above all, hurt that she’s been going behind your back and flirting around without so much as telling you.

See, of course you had your ideas and creeping little doubts— it was hard not to what with the way her schedule was warping in front of your eyes, how she seemed just a pinch happier than usual, giddy, almost— but being faced with the truth of it all in its real, physical form is a different matter entirely.

And-

And how she could do this to you? after- after what happened with your father?

Well, you just don’t fucking know.

But she’s doing it to you right now, anxiously peering at you from your side, and she’s smiling.

A beat of silence occurs, loud and tedious.

His hand stays out, dangling like a modifier, and it’s like the sumptuous asshole knows you’ll change your mind and backtrack or something: as if that’s all he’s used to, people parting like the Red Sea and bowing for him without question.

…Audacious: you’ll admit that much. But you’ll give him no more credit than that, as kind of backhanded as it is.

Time slows. In reality, no more than two seconds must’ve passed, but as the eyes of your mother drill into your profile both in a mash of expectance and worry, and your heart lodges in your throat, it feels like you’re stuck in a time capsule.

You’ve been standing here too long. This enigmatic, admittedly dashing stranger (Sylus, your mind- seemingly having shut off in the moment to lend your senses full control- helpfully contributes) has been in your home too long and—

Mentally, you scold yourself for visibly balking. You steel yourself against him and school your expression.

This is your house.

He won’t make you feel like an outsider in it.

The silver-haired man, with the scruff on his chin and the punch of whiskey underlining his fancy-shmancy cologne, with his sharp red eyes, drops his hand back to his side and actually laughs at your blatant rejection of him.

“Very hospitable, I see. I like that,” he tosses behind his broad shoulder to your somewhat mortified mother as he, egregiously enough, goes to take his shoes off at the door, a hand in his pocket. “Your kid is as bold as you are, honey.”

Honey?

…Honey?

You grow a mite afraid in that moment, internally struggling to pinpoint just what degree of involvement this awful yet handsome guy has with your mother.

How deep into this little… fling of theirs are they, anyway?

She opens her mouth, looks at you, then closes it. Blustering out a laughing apology, she leaves your side and flutters over to him. You don’t know if you’re thankful for the reprieve, the momentary alone time to your own thoughts, or unbelievably hurt as you watch her take his jacket and hang it in the coat closet, happy to do it despite the turmoil hidden beneath all her inebriated twirling.

On the inside, your world is fracturing down the middle, drifting apart steadily like the planes of Pangaea— but this stupid awful guy just shrugs out a kink in his neck, turning back to your mother (who’s only slightly embraced on your account) to swoop down and thank her with a peck to the lips.

The rest of your weak appetite for microwaved dinner flies out the window.

And in your undies and that old beloved tee of your late father’s, you take the chance while they’re distracted to hop off the chair and fly up the steps.

For everyone’s sake, you hope the guy— Sylus, your mind so helpfully provides as you sob into your pillows— is only temporary.

♡ tags: @leftpoetrymoon @valhalla-soulstealer @gingybimby @crowsandapples @novthirty @mcdepressed290 @jadeloverxd @satansdaughter123 @blitziwitch @luminaaaz @eialovescats @noliniodeaes @dramaticalsachan @loudhologramturtle @softiepeachess @reni502 @datfangirl @lilyalone @thatsbunnysmind @lioria @floooring @babyx91 @rosie279 @calistaxoxo24 @kingheinrey @msturi2u @theplaid-wearingmoose @blueseachelle @themonotonysyndrome @crazyartist0001-blog @librarydame @deathlycrow @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @terriblesoup @floofycookie @sdlyoongi @hikaakox @melba1982 @crimsonsylus @miuangel @ravynstreasure @corvo-core ✦ ask to be added to the taglist! just make sure you have an age in your bio (17+) ✨ hopefully i got everyone down lol :,)

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Heyyy

If you are accepting request could you do a chubby! Student bucky? Who got stood up on a date or maybe his date leaves in the middle of it. So he is all sad but then the reader sees him and joins him and makes him have a good time

Pretty pretty pls? With Cherries on top🥺💗

haiiii anon!! omg okay i swear im getting caught up on my requests and starting with this and omg this was the cuteest most sweet thing and turned out to be a full oneshot when i planned a drabble leaning lenght LOLL but omgg its so cut so sweet and thank you anon for sending this to me and trusting me with your idea!! REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN (and if you want to use an emoji anons none are taken and i love those personally hehe okay okay enjoy!)

Sweet Tooth

Pairing: Chubby!College AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings/Tags: Negative self talk , rude side character , body image talk , a kiss , sweet sweet fluffff cutest little fic!

Authors Note: ive been so focused on my series that i frogto to check my inbox and im working on finsihing all the requests right now and here is the first!!! i hope you like it anon and all :33

REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN <3

The little golden bell over the door jingled softly as Bucky stepped into the local ice cream shop two blocks from campus. It was a cozy little place with pastel painted walls and scuffed wooden padded booths , the kind of spot that tried too hard to look vintage without looking effortless. 

But he liked it. The booths were roomy enough for him to sit comfortably , and the place was cheap compared to the fancy Italian ice or gelato places farther into the city. Plus , he’d heard pretty good things about their double fudge brownie sundae special on Saturday nights .

He adjusted his polo shirt—the one with the soft barely there floral print that made him feel less boring , and scanned the room looking around.

And no one met his eye. He looked down and checked his phone for the third time that evening. The screen glowed back at him the time , 7:12 p.m.

She was now twelve minutes late. That wasn’t a big deal though. Maybe she got caught up , maybe car trouble. 

He her a quick text: “Hey! I’m here at Lenny’s. Let me know when you’re close :)”

He added the smiley face so it didn’t sound needy or complaining.

Then he chose a booth in the corner , facing the window sitting down. From here , he could see the string lights twinkling and glowing above the sidewalk , kids on scooters buzzing by , a guy walking a corgi with a bowtie collar and an older couple walking hand in hand.

He tried not to look around too much. Tried not to notice when people came in and weren’t her. Tried not to keep refreshing his messages and checking his phone every few seconds..

It was now 7:28 p.m. No reply.

The server came by with a small menu and a polite smile tugging at her apron with a little ice cream logo detail on the front. “You wanna wait to order , hun?”

“Um…Yeah,” Bucky’s eyes darted agin hearing the bell but once again now her , he cleared his throat. “Just a few more minutes.” The waitress nodded with a soft smile and walked off.

But when 7:45 rolled around and the place got a little busier and more full with students and kids alike , he gave in and ordered his sundae anyway not waiting any lomger. 

He splurged and got a big one. It was stacked and topped with whipped cream , sprinkles , hot fudge and brownie chunks. Go big or go home , right?

Except he already wanted to go home. How did this happen again to him? He should have known when one of the school's most likeable and popular girls asked him out , that it wasn't real or sincere.

He stirred his sundae more than he ate it , picking at it with a sigh. The whipped cream melted into a sad white creamy swirl , and his spoon clicked against the glass. Around him , couples laughed and shared bites and spoonfuls. Friends played cards at the table near the front of the place. And he was just… this kinda chubby guy in the corner , eating a sundae alone in a shirt that felt too tight all of a sudden as he looked around.

It sucked.

He’d never been good at dating. His confidence came and went , usually depending on who was looking at him or speaking to him. Sometimes he felt cute or decent about himself. Sometimes he felt like a walking afterthought. But this? Sitting here with a cold sundae and colder silence in his inbox?

This was a whole new level of pathetic.

He was pulling out his phone to maybe fake an emergency call in front of everyone and leave when he heard a chirpy yet soft voice speak.

“You’re not gonna eat that whole thing by yourself , are you?”

He looked up—and blinked.Then blinked again.

You stood beside his booth , hands in your jacket pockets , head tilted like you already knew you’d caught him off guard. You weren’t a server. You weren’t someone he recognized from class. Just… a stranger. With this warm , easy grin like he wasn’t some sad sack , killing time.

“I mean,” you went on gesturing to the table, “unless you want to. I respect that. I'm personally a big solo sundae person myself.”

Bucky laughed—short , surprised and breathy.

You nodded toward the other side of his booth that sat empty. “Mind if I sit?”

He blinked and glanced around looking for maybe a group of people watching , maybe you were sent as a dare or something…it had to be a reason right? But he saw nothing , no eyes on him or you. 

“You wanna sit here?” He blinked again.

“Well , yeah. You look like you could use some company. Unless you were expecting someone?” You pointed your thumb over your shoulder turning about to walk away worried you crashed a date or hangout.

His eyes dropped to the half-melted sundae then back at you.

“Oh,” you said softly , sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for his response , knowing. “Well… it's her loss. That’s a solid dessert and you're a good guy.”

He opened his mouth but hesitated, brows furrowing. “You don’t even know me.”

“True. But I figure you can tell a lot about someone by what they order. And I respect a guy who isn’t afraid of hot fudge and sprinkles.”

He snorted through his nose , and his shoulders finally relaxed dropping a little. “I'm Bucky.”

“Hi , Bucky” You smiled and gave him your name right after. “I was actually just on my way back to the dorms when I saw you through the window. Looked like you could use somebody.”

“I’m not usually this—uh… sad or pathetic looking.” He chuckled ,  self-deprecating.

“Well, I am usually this bold , so we’re a good combo,” you chirped , grabbing a spoon from the little dispenser. “Mind if I help out with this sundae? We don’t want it to go to waste.”

He motioned to it with a mock flourish. “Be my guest.”

You took a generous scoop of the sundae on your spoon , making a pleased hum as the fudge and dairy hit your tongue.

“Okay , this is stupid good. They put salted carmel on the brownie. That’s next-level.”

Bucky nodded , smiling for real now kinda toothy and kinda lopsided , it was cute. “Yeah. That’s why I picked this place.”

“Good call. So , you go on a lot of ice cream dates , or was this a special occasion?”

He shrugged, smiling dropping , then shook his head. “First one in… a while.”

You didn’t press , but your eyes were kind looking at his. And that made it easier for him to admit , “It was a friend of friend type of thing. Thought she seemed cool. We messaged for a few days , set this up….But guess she changed her mind.”

“Then she’s dumb,” you cut him off without hesitation , licking the rest of the whipped cream off your spoon. “Honestly , if I saw you sitting here with her , I’d think, ‘Damn, lucky girl.’”

Bucky’s cheeks turned pink as he looked down at the sundae , embarrassed but clearly flattered. “You’re… smooth.”

“I’ve been told,” you smile into your next bite.

The booth started to feel less cramped. The fluorescent lights didn’t buzz as loudly. And Bucky , sat up a little straighter. Even made a joke about how his shirt looked like a grandma’s tablecloth , and you said that was hot , in a retro kind of way.

By the time the sundae was long gone , you were both laughing like friends who’d known each other longer than what was actually only half an hour.

You glanced out the window then right back at him. “Sun’s still out. Wanna walk off that sugar crash before it hits?”

He hesitated for a beat. But when you smiled brightly at him —like this wasn’t pity , like this was fun—he nodded agreeing. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Outside , the summer evening was warm without being unbearable or sticky. A cool breeze rolled through the trees as you crossed the street toward the small park that curved behind the edge of west campus.

Bucky fell into a rhythm of steps beside you , his hands stuffed in his jean pockets kicking a rock or stick every now and then. You noticed how he kept checking his pace to match yours. Like he didn’t want to crowd. Like he was being careful. But wanted to be by you.

“So You always approach sad-looking strangers in dessert shops on your Saturday nights?” he asked , glancing sideways. “Or just me?”

“Only the handsome ones ,” you replied easily.

He laughed , cheeks still flushing pink.

“Seriously,” you added , nudging him lightly with your elbow , “I know what that kind of night looks like. I’ve had them too. It just feels nice to not have someone sit in that alone.”

Bucky nodded. His voice was quiet when he spoke up again, “People don’t usually say yes when I ask them out. Or they do then don’t show. Sometimes I think maybe they think I’m just… a joke.”

You stopped walking abruptly at that , making him run into you slightly.

He looked over , confused all over his face.

You turned to face him , standing on the park path , under a string of old lamp posts that hadn’t lit up their amber lighting just yet. 

“Can I tell you something, Bucky?”

He nodded.

“You’re not a joke. Not even close. Anyone who can’t see that is probably still stuck thinking hotness and the perfect guy means having an eight-pack and no feelings.”

He raised an eyebrow at your words. “You saying I have feelings?”

You smirked. “Deep , manly ones. Buried beneath layers of whipped cream and sarcasm.”

He grinned , teeth showing again. “You’re not so bad at this pep talk thing.”

“I moonlight as a professional hype person” You teased , picking up your pace again “Now c’mon. Let’s keep walking before that sundae settles in my bloodstream.”

You meandered through campus for a while , passing the student center, the little koi pond with a fountain by the biology building , and the quad where kids were tossing a frisbee and throwing corn sacks in the air playing corn hole..

Bucky talked more now as you continued walking side by side —about his classes you learned he was a history major, his roommates , one of them was trying to start a kombucha business from their shared very crowded mini fridge, and his childhood dog , a pug named Winston who he swore snored like a chainsaw.

You matched his stories with your own. At some point , your hands brushed while walking. He didn’t move away. Or say anything.

And then , too soon , you were in front of your own dorm. Ending your evening together.

You turned to face him , the warm porch light casting soft shadows over his handsome face.

“Thanks for not letting me sit there alone,” he almost whispered, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“Thanks for sharing your sundae with me , and your tragic dating tale.”

He smiled , sheepish. “Least it ended better than it started.”

You nodded agreeing , stepping closer to him . “I had fun.”

“Me too.” He smiled big , sighing.

A pause. A moment. Then you leaned up –slow , testing , and kissed his soft freshly shaven cheek. Smelling the after shave and cologne that lingered.

His breath hitched at the kiss. When you pulled back he looked at you like you’d just given him the most precious thing.

You took a step back just enough to say, “Give me your phone.”

He fumbled it out of his pocket  immediately , and you punched your number in, texting yourself to save it and handed it back.

“Text me when you get home?” you asked. “So I know you didn’t fall into a sugar coma on the sidewalk.”

He grinned and nodded. “You got it , doll.”

You gave him one last wave and turned for the stairs heading up , up , up. He stood there until you were out of sight making sure you got to your floor safely.

Your dorm room was quiet and calm , lit by the soft glow of your blue desk lamp hovering over texts and workbooks  and accompanying it , the city bleeding in through the cracked window. 

You kicked off your shoes , flopped onto your bed , and checked your phone.

Nothing yet. You smiled thinking. He was probably overthinking the text.

Sure enough , just two minutes later , your screen lit up with his name.

Bucky🍦 : made it back. no sugar coma (yet) also I can’t stop smiling and it’s kinda your fault

You grinned big, thumbs flying to reply.

You: if I say “guilty,” will you forgive me?

Bucky🍦 : depends.  what’s the penalty for stealing my night and making it amazing?

You laughed out loud , rolling onto your side on bed responding.

You: shared custody of future sundaes

Bucky🍦 : ...I accept these terms

Bucky🍦: for the record , I don’t usually click with people this fast

You: same maybe it was the fudge

Bucky: 100% the fudge and your smile and the fact that you didn’t treat me like a kicked puppy

You let that sit for a second.

You: not even close you’re funny. smart. way cuter than you realize. and I’d go on a lot more walks and sundae sat nights with you

Bucky🍦 : can we call them dates next time? just, like… real ones? me & you

Your heart stuttered. Blushing hard , good thing he couldn't see the goofy look that spread onto your face.

You: yeah. we can absolutely call them dates

Bucky🍦 : cool coolcoolcool

sorry I’m being awkward, just haven’t smiled this much in forever

You: awkward is endearing

Bucky🍦 : you’re gonna make me fall for you, aren’t you

You: Maybe , if i dont end up falling first

Bucky🍦 : I’d be okay with that ;)

You smiled and curled snuggling more under your blanket , cheeks surely bright pink and warm.

 Outside , campus was settling into the quiet of the night , but inside your chest , something buzzed bright and alive , light and real. Rising.

The date he was supposed to have? A total bust. But the night? Turned out to be something better. Something growing to be very sweet. 

-end

REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[zeldalizzy]

Hello there Lizzy!

I was wondering, could you draw the Hero's Shade from Twilight Princess?

Hi anon! Thanks so much for your ask, and even more for your patience!! I wanted to explore the dichotomy between the sweetness of OOT little link, and the darkness of the Hero's Shade from TP... anyway, i hope you like it! 🩵 I had a lot of fun with the style of this one too! Life has been crazy busy with not a lot of time for art, so when I do have time, I like to do things that have creative freedom :) I will try to work on answering more requests soon!

[meanbossart]

Kind of piggybacking off of the anon who asked about DU Drow's "birth" and your answer to that: A kind of fun and terrible thing about the majority of Forgotten Realms gods is that they're essentially physically incapable of acting on or understanding anything outside of their representative portfolios. So like. For example: Bhaal, who's portfolio of Murder also generally includes -cruelty- and -suffering-, is going to be motivated permanently towards creating those things in everything he does, even against himself directly. Nobody is exempt, even the gods, and it causes a lot of conflict between them. Ao (FR's "God of God's") designed them that way to achieve what he perceives as a sense of balance. So like...there's no "reasoning" with them ever. It's not stubbornness or willful disagreement. They literally CAN'T see outside of the traits they represent. Actually, I lied: There are a FEW of them who can. A small handful of current canon gods were allowed to keep their "mortal perspective" (which ALSO causes a lot of problems!) and so can see outside of the boundaries of their portfolios and reason or loophole around that. Mystra for example is one of those, but not the one we see in BG3. Larian retconned her to a different earlier version of her because the current one is a totally different person who wouldn't have facilitated Gale's plotline. But I'm derailing myself! :I Anyway, all that to say that I absolutely LOVE the way you handle Drow's birth. We can all write whatever we want forever, it's just fiction, but it does tickle my brain in all the right places when I see an artist really embracing all the ugly, gross, foolish, and unflattering elements of the canon gods. Especially Bhaal, since he is in fact such a blindly cruel disastrous moron actually, and not some dark brooding sexy criminal mastermind. Thank you for embracing the nastiness and gifting us with DU Drow in this world, and I'm so glad he survived the conditions of his birth! XD

(This is in reference to this ask!)

YEAH, I really like the very much fallible aspect of the gods in DnD! Whether one would like to ascribe it to stubbornness or a much more cut and dry absence of perspective, I very much enjoy that pretty much all of them (regardless of alignment) have these glaring logical pitfalls. I go back and forth between interpreting it as a reflection of human failure or, again, as an obvious consequence of the narrow roles they're obligated to play, but either way it leaves you with a really fun space to play in.

It's clearly inspired by greek/roman mythos where the cosmos may as well have been a really raunchy and unbelievably violent soap-opera - and as one of many kids who was obsessed with those legends, it really tickles my brain to have that incorporated here.

Also, don't get me wrong, I love to moan and complain about how Shar makes absolutely no sense to me - but that's the thing, every single day we are exposed to people who've bought into the most inscrutable of beliefs, so I wouldn't want every god in the realms' actions to make sense or for their dogma to be an "easy sell" - that's not how people or faith works, after all!

[ciricearts]

Since ppl wanna be mean on anon like lil weenies here’s smth positive (I hope)

This is my dog Rutherford and he’s currently jamming the askbox door for anyone who has mean stuff to say. He can’t find treats on the floor but bet your bottom dollar he will eat the weird asks for you and will absolutely swallow them before you even have a chance to tell him WHAT DO YOU HAVE.

Anyway to close out my thesis I love ur jason todd and I wanna eat ur art and I think ur great and my dogs think ur p cool too. Have a good day. (It’s 2 am I’m bout to pass out)

Here’s proof Otto thinks ur cool and here’s ur official sticker of Otto Recognition ⭐️

OMG PRETTY PLEASE GIVE THEM BOTH A KISS ON THEIR FOREHEAD!!! I FEEL VERY SPECIAL HEHEHE THANK YOU SO MUCH SWEETHEART, I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY AND THAT OTTO AND RUTHERFORD ARE GREAT TOO!!!!!!!! <33333

[midnight--sadness]

about the blood money thing: i actually feel like that bit is pretty faithful to inho's character, albeit depressing (well, that ending doesn't exist anyway <3 so let's pretend this is all hypothetical)

to me it's clear that inho feels some sort of way about gihun, that at least a part of him was rooting for him – except inho at his core is a way more pragmatic man than gihun and their morals differ starkly. imo he treats gihun similarly to junho in that he doesn't really care enough about their wants as much as he prioritizes what he thinks is best for them. he doesn't respect junho's desire for closure/an explanation because he believes keeping him away is best for junho's safety, even if junho's obviously restless because of it. he knows gihun doesn't want to kill but he gives him a knife anyway, because in his mind gihun's survival is more important than gihun maintaining his integrity. he also seems to struggle with understanding how junho/gihun tick and is plain dismissive of their emotional needs as long as they get what's best for them (according to him)

i think him giving the blood money to gihun's daughter is pretty similar to that and his own way of honoring gihun's wishes – he knows gihun would have wanted his daughter to know gihun didn't abandon her, that gihun wanted the best for her and at some point struggled with living up to his own expectations of how he should be as a father (since he was ashamed of being broke and not being able to provide for her). and that pragmatism once again trumps respecting gihun's wish to keep her as far away from anything games-related as possible. gihun wanted his daughter to think of him as someone who didn't abandon her, he wanted his daughter to be well-off (unlike himself prior to his win)? inho will get that done. the nuances of that do not matter to him.

like his way of showing affection is fucked up because he is fucked up, but he's trying nonetheless and he's not above doing things his own way as long as he believes it to be for the best for the person he cares about. similar to how he didn't have gihun killed despite gihun begging for it. i don't think it was punishment as much as it was his way of showing mercy, much like i don't think him trying to prove his point to gihun was meant to be punishing – more like he saw himself in gihun and wanted gihun to become more like him because he believed it to be the best outcome as gihun would finally accept reality as it is instead of trying to fix it and suffering in process. hope this makes sense?

ANON YOUR BRAIN IS SO BIG!!!! 😩😩🙏🙏🙏🙏

THIS WAS SUCH AN AMAZING ANALYSIS ON GIHUN AND INHO ENVJOKDNFVJBIKMNR

YOU ATE THIS!!! 💖💖💖💖

thank you so much for sending me this!! it makes completely sense and it's such a nuanced, realist explanation as to why inho gave gayeong the money 🥹

seriously just 10/10, chef's kiss

[walnutcookie]

hey, its okay to take a break.

youve probably been told this too many times but still. nobody will judge you if you need however long away from tumblr. a day, a week, a month, heck i dunno a year. none of us will leave. youve called us all a community in the past, i think anyway. and communities dont leave just because what theyve formed around is inactive. were just like that. trees during winter, almost seeming to before returning to “life” once the sun shines again. were like weeds, never seeming to leave.

please, dont burn yourself out. do whatever you wanna do. just remember to rest, kay?

-someone

AUG.... thank you so so much anon genuinely this means a lot to me i really appreciate you

[cozm1xxx]

Hi!! Could you pretty please write something for the Survior!Dallas x Caretaker!reader au?? Literally any fic with Dallas being babied heals me omg

Thank you in advance 💕

⟢ ꒰ ⋮ 「 Don't let them see you like this 」 ⸝⸝

Now playing ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| Candy, Alex G

warnings ~ implications of self harm, cursing, references to events of the book, death, dally being a bit of an ass...

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ⊹ a/n ~ me too anon, tbh we kinda need less dally smut/romance and more dally angst like HELLO? He has so much potential! Anyways, I hope you like this one <33 (also this came out WAY more angsty than I intended…)

w/c ~ 1,200+

──── ° ʚ ⌞ ♰ ⌝ ɞ °  ────

Dallas Tucker Winston.

Tough. Mean. Loud. Devilish. Handsome. Mischevious. Angry. Heartless. He makes fun of little kids. He steals. He picks fights with people for fun. He breaks promises. He treats people like vermin.

And yet, here he is, clinging to a broad like she’s his sole lifeline — that “broad” being you. 

It’s a truly odd sight, the self-proclaimed “toughest greaser in Tulsa” is cuddling up to you like a child would their mother. Ironic, really.

Just two months ago, his buddies — Johnny Cade and Ponyboy Curtis — were being tracked down by the police for killing a boy. Now, Johnny’s in the hospital and in the custody of his Aunt and Ponyboy is back at school. A very, very different place than they were just a handful of weeks ago. 

That same week, Dally was shot. Well, there’s more to it than just that. He’d just witnessed someone who was his sole reason for life, Johnny Cade himself, die right before his very eyes. Or, at least, that’s what he and Pony believed.

The thought of it still breaks you.

He’d run out of the hospital in a flash and drew a gun on a cashier at some gas station, then was gunned down by police. 

Miraculously, he lived to tell the tale. 

He brags about it to his buddies at the Dingo, but you know the truth – about who he is underneath the smug, violent exterior.

The interaction going on between you two right at this very moment proves that. 

You’re lying in your bed, Dally’s arms wrapped tightly around your body, his head resting against your chest. Your hand plays with his blonde hair, his own calloused fingers tracing shapes on the bare skin of your waist. It’s peaceful, a rarity for a man like him.

He holds you as if you’ll disappear when he lets go. You look down at him, gaze as tender as your touches. Your voice is gentle as you speak. “You alright, Dal?” He tenses at the sound of your voice, before immediately relaxing. It’s clear he’s still in pain after it all. 

“M’fine, doll…”

Despite his words, you know he isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since the fire. He spends every night at your place, and even when he claims he won’t, he always ends up at your doorstep, tears pooling in his blue eyes. 

God, his eyes. They always say more than his mouth ever will. The emotions and thoughts he keeps repressed. 

“I don’t believe you.” You mumble. He does this all the time. You know he isn’t fine. It shows, in the way he doesn’t eat, how often he gets drunk, the way he comes to you crying. 

But, based on his response, he isn’t having it.

“God, doll, can’tcha jus’ lay off? I — agh — ain’t a fuckin’ baby…” He groans, rolling over. He slides out of bed, wincing due to the strain on his torn body. You sit up, watching as he flicks on his lighter and pulls out a cigarette. He always gets like this when you try getting him to open up.

Cold. Stoic. Resistant. It pisses you off.

“Why won’t you just talk to me, Dallas? That’s all I want—” As much as you hate yourself for it, you can’t help raising your voice at him. He’s being an ass.

“—for you to tell me what’s going on before you go out and get yourself shot again!”

The thought makes your stomach churn. He turns to look at you, his icy blue eyes full of anger, but also a vulnerability that hides below the surface.

“Damnit, why won’t you just shove off, man?!”

“Because I fucking love you!”

Your own words catch yourself off guard. Love him? Dallas Winston, you love him? You may be scared of the idea, but you know it’s true. You both do.

“D-Don’t—.... Don’t you fuckin’ say that shit.” His voice breaks as he speaks.

“Come on, Dallas! I get that you’re scared of gettin’ too attached, but for once in your stupid life, will you be reckless with me?!” Tears well up in your eyes. 

Dallas Winston is a reckless man – he steals, fights, yells at policemen – and yet, he refuses to be that reckless with his feelings. He refuses to believe that letting himself be loved will do him any good.

He just stares at you, for a while. Frozen. Eyes wide and cold. You know it sounds crazy, but you love him – god, you love him. He means the world to you. Despite everything, you find yourself loving him. And for him, that’s the scariest part.

He tries storming off, like he normally would. 

But before he can even reach the door, he’s doubling over; from pain or something else, you can’t tell. In moments, he’s on his knees. You immediately rush over him, heart pounding in your chest. Is he okay? Did he open one of his wounds? Did he burn himself?

It isn’t until you hear him sobbing that you pause. 

A rush of shock shoots down your spine. You walk over to his side, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Dally…?”

His arms encircle your waist faster than they ever have.

“P-Please— Please… Please don’t leave me, doll…”

He presses his face into your stomach, hands trembling as they grip your night shirt like a vice. 

Please. A word Dallas Winston doesn’t use often or lightly. It’s enough to make you wrap your arms around him, fingers carding through messy blond hair. Featherlight kisses are pressed to the top of his head, manicured nails scratching at his scalp.

His arms tighten around your waist as he sobs into your stomach. If only the rest of the world could see him like this. Not as the mean, scary greaser he pretends to be, but the lonely little boy you know he is. 

Tender words of reassurance are murmured in his ear. His sobs soon calm down, replaced with soft little sniffles. The tight grip of his hands loosens, but doesn't fall. 

You stay like that for a while.

After what feels like forever, you manage to pull away. Your soft hands cup his jaw, fingers tracing the stubble that now riddles his face. 

“I could never leave you, Dally.” You whisper. Not for the world, not for yourself, but for him. 

He stares up at you, eyes glassy with tears, 

He lets you drag him into bed. He lets you dress his wounds. He lets you put pink and sparkly bandaids over the scars on his arms and bruises on his knuckles. He lets you do it all.

Because you never looked at him like the others do — with fear or disgust or pity — only sympathy. You never made him feel weak or like he wasn’t enough.

Even now, as he’s clinging to you like a baby koala does its mother, he doesn’t feel weak. He feels safe.

───〃♰

BONUS ~

“Hey, doll… don’t tell anyone about this, alright?” “You think I’m gonna pass up the opportunity to embarrass you, Winston?” “I might’ve been shot, but I could still– AGH!” "God– Dallas! You’re gonna rip ‘em open again, jesus!”

[ 🏷️ : @r0seb100d @whitemanswh0r3 @marilyn-girly ]

[flvvffy]

𝗜 𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗬 𝗦𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗟...𝗦𝗢 𝗠𝗨𝗖𝗛...

hello everyone! first of all i'd like to say that thank you so much for almost 1k followers. all of you are so sweet and i'm happy that my work had reached a lot of people and they enjoy it that much. i like sharing you all as you're so encouraging with all the positive comments and once again thank you.

but...i've been on and off for like weeks now, because my school keeps giving us random breaks, but now i will be leaving for school...for three months. this means that i will not be able to update anything or even talk to anyone since i go to a boarding school that doesn't allow phones, so yeah. i'll be back in either september(praying that it's this) or october, and hopefully I'll have new ideas to share with y'all.

anyways, as a 1k special, i was thinking that you could leave your questions in the asks. things you want to know about it. please don't make it too personal though. i will turn on anon so please don't be weird.

i also want to start adding a taglist so let me know what you think about that. it was great spending another week here on tumblr and getting new moots.

see you when i'm back.

-flvvffy

@bluukive @bloodb3nders @sleepdeprivedfrfr

[mantequillamcwhoremick]

Hello, I'm saying right away that I'm writing through a translator and maybe it's bad (the fact that I'm Russian can't stop me from reading your masterpiece!), so I'm tormented by one question after reading the fanfiction "House Plan"! Could you give the exact height of the characters? Oh, I've built everything up in my head so many times and because of an incorrect translation, I tore my hair out at 3 a.m. because I missed a detail, so yes, this is really very important to me (I'm sure I'll have to translate everything again when there's fanfiction finished, and make yourself a book version), you are very impressive with your knowledge and really prescribed plot!!!(The sleepless nights while reading the chapters have completely paid off!)

Hey dude😭😭🧡Oh my god this is so so sweet of you what the hell!!! You don't know how happy this makes me, the fact that you put in the effort to read my fic is unreal like genuinely thank you so so much there is no greater sign of appreciation in my opinion hshdjdhs🥹🥹🥹 I hope you're having the best day possible

My love goes out to all of my readers out there who don't know that much English and still read my fanfic. You guys are the best and i love you all. Someday i might provide a spanish translation perhaps who knows😁

Before i get to your question, I was wondering what you mean by making a book version of the fic 👀👀

Anyways, about the character heights!! I'm not strict on that because I think it's nice to leave everyone to imagine their own headcanons; The only somewhat significant thing for me would be the relations the characters have to each other in height, but feel free to ignore them if they don't fit your vision. My idea would be as follows:

Kenny is among the shortest of his friend group (or even the class) in part due to poor nutrition growing up and just general genetics :) i think it fits his canon "baby of the group" aura

That being said. Butters is taller than Kenny. This one is a must to me i don't care

Kyle is also taller than Kenny

Butters and Kyle might be about the same height, I don't feel particularly strong about either of them being taller. Imagine it as you like

Cartman and Kenny are about the same height, Cartman is possibly shorter (because of their canon Post Covid heights)

I don't feel particularly strong about Stan's height either. I don't think he's that much taller than Kenny, but I do think he is still shorter than Kyle. Not by much, maybe

Chapters where I make mentions regarding character heights in Chaos Plan are chapters 4 (Kyle & Stan), chapter 13 (Butters), chapter 15 (Cartman) and I think in chapter 22 again about Kyle but I might be remembering it wrong.

Feel free to send another ask if you really want the exact height in cm/ft I'd assign them if I had to heheh

Also feel free to tell me if you wanna know about other characters too (Wendy, Tweek, Craig, Karen, etc.). I don't wanna spam this response with a bunch of extra info you didn't ask for😁😁😁

Anyways anon i hope your skin is always clear and you that you'll have wonderful dessert for every meal. My love goes out to you

[astrids2th]

HEY HEYYY so I seen your poll and I fear I need fed Vera fics so absolutely yes it’s a great idea 🙏

Come quietly. Pt 1

Lorraine Warren x Fem!Ghost!Reader

Summary: Since the strange would-be ghost hunting couple, Ed and Lorraine Warren, moved into your house, you have been doing everything in your ghostly power to try and drive them out. But nothing seems to work. The couple seem entirely unaffected by your tenacious attempts. And so, you see no other option than confronting the psychic lady in your home head on. But she immediately sees right through your anger.

Warnings: None yet!! Maybe some mommy issues hidden in between the lines some places. And mentions of death of course.

A/N: Sorry for my bad English, it isn't my first language. <33 And thank you so much for your message Anon! I really appreciate you reaching out.

word count: 2k

☆═━┈┈━═☆

~ 1978 ~

It had been exactly a month now since the intrusion on your home. A month of violated privacy, and a month of your disgruntled antics in retaliation to the squatters now apparently determined to stay settled on your property. Now, a month might not seem like a lot of time, especially not to mortals who always seem in such a rush to get everywhere and do everything before their inevitable, impending deaths. But in the context of eternity, a month was far too long. For so many years since your death, and then your resurrection in spirit form, you had always had had this house to yourself. The house you’d grown up in and the house you’d consequently also been killed in. And now these pricks thought they had the right to just settle down and claim it as their own. They’d even put a sign on the door of the study, YOUR study. ‘Ed and Lorraine Warren, Paranormal Research Centre’. In all honesty, it was almost comical. If only they knew.

However strangely so, it seemed they actually did. The woman at least, the man you weren’t so sure. It appeared he just sort of believed anything the woman said, which you supposed was a nice change since your time. But those nice changes were far and few between. Truly, look what they did with the kitchen! Absolutely atrocious!

The woman, Lorraine apparently, had sensed your presence practically as soon as she’d set foot in your house. As usual, you’d quickly gotten to knocking down stuff, messing with the lights and shouting like an angry toddler, in an attempt to scare them off like you always did whenever the habitual foolhardy teenager and their god-complex encroached on your personal space, in their hunt for a cheap high. It had of course caught the attention of the couple and the small group they’d brought along with them, as intended. But what you had not expected, was for the woman to look right at you. Not right through you like you’d gotten used to since departing from the world of the living, and by extension, also from the human line of sight. No. No, she looked right at you. Actually perceived you. Furthermore, you’d much less expected them to actually move the fuck in. Who the hell moves into a house where they’ve just been ambushed by a rather discontented ghost? No one does! At least no sane person, that’s for sure!

To be fair, these people definitely were far from sane. During the first couple days, the lad, Ed, had spent most of his hours in your old bedroom, creating some rather… Well, interesting illustrations, to put it kindly. They certainly were no Picassos, but you supposed you’d seen worse. Much worse, in fact. Though you found him the less interesting of the pair to tease and taunt, as it seemed none of your tricks actually really got to him. It was infuriating. You’d smash a mug off his desk, he’d hum and clear it up, leaving you seething in the corner of the room. You’d pick every painting off the walls of YOUR bedroom, and he’d chuckle and remark that ‘they’d look better rearranged anyways’, in turn causing you to furiously storm out the room. You had quite literally swept every single piece of paper on his desk, off of it and onto the floor. And the moron had just calmly picked it all up! ‘must’ve been the wind’, he’d mused, closed the window, and gotten straight back to work. It had sent you on a rampage, bolting down the stairs and taking every picture along the wall beside you, down alongside you, smashing their frames in the process. Dear god, these people would be the metaphorical death of you!

Now the wife however was different. Jaded from whatever work they were doing, yes, but not quite as desensitized. She had a harder time ignoring your presence, as you were sure Ed was adamantly trying to. At points, you were actually concerned she was the one pursuing you and not the other way around. Whenever you made your presence known in a room, you’d see her gaze travelling to every corner, as if trying to catch you with her eyes. And she’d sometimes even get up and look around, reaching out as if convinced she’d be able to touch you if she tried hard enough. And maybe she could, you couldn’t quite be sure with her. It was… Strange, to say the least. A tad bit unnerving.

Today it was a Sunday. The day of the Lord. And yet, in spite of all the crosses that Lorraine had littered this house with, there sure as hell was nothing holy about this dump of a house. Only you, and your ongoing effort at driving this happy-wholesome family out of your house. However, today, you started out your day with an agenda. Not just aimless chaos anymore, no, that clearly wasn’t working with these people. Instead, you’d laid out a plan. As much as you hated doing so, you were going to make contact. Clear up some things verbally, communicate your feelings like the sensible 100-or-so-year-old adult you were. And then you’d threaten their lives and hope they left. Bulletproof plan right there.

Recently, Ed had been moving things around. Renovating, "modernizing" things, changing the house from how you had known it. And you were at your absolute wits end. Nobody touched your stuff. And especially not kooky would-be ghost hunters.

You rumbled your way up the stairs, making as much noise as possible on your way, as you’d made a habit of doing since this all begun. Your footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor as you made it up to the second story of the sizeable home, where you then moved down the hall. This would be the room that the pair had now apparently claimed as their own. It made you grimace and scoff softly, before pushing open the door and slamming it hard behind you, hopefully calling attention to your attendance. Your mother’s old room. Still as it had stood, which was lucky you supposed. If that man had laid even as much as a hand on your mother’s furniture you would’ve surely sent him tumbling out one of the windows by now. Now that you thought about it, you were surprised you hadn’t done that yet. Idea noted down, you thought.

Lorraine was nowhere to be seen in the large bedroom, and you stood for a moment, wondering. It was early in the morning, but the pair had proved to be quite the morning people. Yet another thing to be annoyed about. Only psychopaths get up this early, you were sure. But Ed had gone to the gardens, you could see his silhouette through the dusty windows, working away with the overgrown gardens; which had been left entirely up to the wits of nature since your untimely death. Which was then subsequently followed by the departure of your family and refusal by locals to move in. Your doing, of course.

But your eyes then fell on the half ajar door leading to the ensuite bathroom, and you could hear the quiet hum of a faucet, before it was swiftly turned off, replaced by the sound of bare feet on tile. Well, that explained the empty chambers.

For a moment you paused, considering whether postponing your confrontation might be the right choice. You were a ghost not a pervert after all, and you didn’t choose to remain forever wandering earth just to spy on women showering. Though you quickly brushed off the idea. You had a mission for God’s sake, and you were no wimp...

And so, you quickly crossed the room and slipped into the bathroom. There you were grateful to find the apparent psychic at least half covered by a fluffy, white towel, so you were spared the awkward decision of whether to cover your eyes or not. She appeared relaxed, meaning she most likely hadn't caught sight of you yet, otherwise she'd be less calm, that was for sure. So you decided to proceed, and you let your ghostly form glide past her to inspect the room while she stood before the mirror, plucking in her earrings. When you had satisfied your own curiosity, and made up your mind, you came to a halt, standing behind her like a looming monster in a cheesy horror flick, glaring at her through the reflection of the wiped down mirror.

You had been left in mostly the same condition that you had taken your last breaths in, if a bit diluted, not entirely solid. An echo left behind from a former person, flickering and halfway ebbed out. Like rings in water, slowly disappearing. And so, you hoped that the sight of you in your bloodied up night clothes would frighten her enough to take you seriously once you spoke. Like a Bloody Mary of sorts.

The room was left in a thick silence for a beat, the only sound being that of the jingling of chandelier earrings as Lorraine struggled to place them just right. Perfect like always. It only made that all-to-familiar warmth rise up inside you, like water boiling in your lifeless veins. A sensation that you dismissed as anger. Not… Anything else. Nothing weird.

Then you spoke; “This isn’t your house.” It was a whispered statement, a soft, bristling assertion with all of your conviction behind it. Lorraine didn’t react immediately, and you found yourself momentarily put off by the calmness. Had she even heard you? Had you misjudged her entirely? Perhaps she wasn’t a psychic at all and you’d only mistakenly locked eyes that first time, it had all been a chance occurrence. Nothing more. But then for once she was the one who surprised you and not the other way around. The wrong way.

In a swift, elegant turn of movement, she tilted her head towards you, and faced you, eyes once more meeting like they had back then. You wondered how your expression looked to her. Surprised? Confused? Or angry? Preferably the last one. You didn’t get to wonder for long before she too spoke. “You're right. It's not. Bit it’s not yours either. Not anymore,” she uttered calmly, though with an ever present apprehensiveness behind the carefully crafted veneer of calm she put on.

"But there's something is keeping you here, isn't there. Why is that?" She asked with a genuine compassion, a desire to help. Her kindness made you want to both cry and gag all at once. She spoke as if you were simply another person, in any other mundane situation. Just a painfully normal, tranquil morning with birds chirping away outside the bathroom window, likely building their nests this time of the year. Just like they had likely been doing this exact day, all those years ago when it had been your mother changing in this bathroom.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m alive! You know that I’m not. I never sold this house,” you snapped at her with a sudden defensiveness, your frustration coming off you in waves that you were certain she could sense on you easily. You wore your emotions like a second skin, and really, with your current state, it was the only tangible thing you had left. And in any case, calm and adjusted people who could control their emotions while alive, likely didn’t become ghosts. People like you became ghosts. Angry people with unfinished business.

“No, I know you’re not alive. That's the problem. You shouldn't be here. So, what is it you want?” Lorraine then surprised you once more by asking matter-of-factly. And you could practically see before you how your expression must look to her, as you were left stunned into silence, eyebrows furrowed in utter bewilderment. What did you want? What did you want? In your 100 years of death... How dare she. How DARE she make you question your own motives!

“I- I do not want anything from you! I want you out of here is what I want! Nothing more!” You quickly rebutted, refusing to stand down from your initial objective. Once more you attempted to put on a brave face, glaring her down. But all you got in response was a small quirk of her lip, turning into what could only be described as an amused expression. She was entertained it seemed. Entertained by you. Infuriating...

And in your indignation, you scoffed and took what was supposed to be a threatening step towards her, your fingers itching to reach out and shake the woman violently, though you refused to lower yourself to such lows. Your mother had raised you right, in spite of the rather unfortunate end which had met you. And you would not lay your hand on another person. Only, perhaps Ed. And even with him, you were only throwing things at him so technically you weren’t exactly making direct contact. “I have every right to be here! This is my house, psychic!” You asserted once more, narrowing your eyes into angry slits as you stared her down. Another beat of silence, and Lorraine simply quirked a slim eyebrow, and placed down the makeup powdering puff she’d been dabbing her face with, to instead face you fully.

“Then show me around.”

☆═━┈┈━═☆

(A/N: This is a little taste test! <3 Tell me if I should continue this series!)

[sunnnfish]

hey we *should* talk abt tashiro and loneliness! sometimes i get reminded of that page in second anime guidebook extra where tashiro is just quietly observing around and when he says its gonna be lonely kuresawa does his glasses thing,,, and what happened to lonelines,,, we definitely should talk about it

okay i need to lock in. hello anon thank you so much for letting me unleash this unto the world. buckle up strap in Here we go.

TASHIRO GONZABUROU AND LONELINESS: AN IMPROMPTU ESSAY

first we are all going to look at this excerpt from the Sasaki and Miyano: First Years Novel:

“So you’re never coming back, President?” I said. “I ain’t President anymore.” “Not the point! I haven’t beat you yet…” I clenched my fists, a yawning, lonely feeling of loss opening within me. “Ahh. You mean the thing about getting to quit if you win? The next president’ll keep that promise. Don’t you worry.” “What?” I don’t get it. What happened to the loneliness? The new president—in other words, Hanzawa.

a bit of context just in case you're here and you don't know yet: Tashiro's chapter in the first years novel deals with his joining of the ping pong club, which he initially did as a joke kind of but couldn't leave until he beat the club president (really good at ping pong). so he's downright stuck. and he doesn't like to admit it but he dedicates a lot of his time trying to beat the president. and he never does win. and then the president graduates and hanzawa is the new president. so it's like. for a moment, all that time and dedication and well. friendship. was being taken away from him. i think the previous president was maybe one of the closest people he had. takes two to play ping pong, and all that. it's a conversation. hurts to have your partner taken away.

and then we get the second guidebook extras. where fucking this happens:

and afterwards miyano thinks about loneliness and Sasaki graduating but we're Not Going To Get Into That. sooo funny you're comparing hanzashiro and sasamiya harusono shou Sorry. this isn't about that. anyways. we see it here again. Tashiro's president is graduating again. and he feels lonely. and this time there's no one to replace it. that yawning, lonely feeling of loss. (<-just. a really insane way to describe it. insanely profound. harusono shou and hachijo kotoko Answer my calls.)

so those kind of set the stage for me being completely totally insane. even before these, i kinda always had the feeling of like. what I've mentioned in my other posts. about how hes Friends With Everyone but not close with anyone. he's quite surface level. and those he Was rather close with, the prospect of losing them makes him lonely so easily. even just graduating. not getting to see them every day. and like. when he does let that feeling slip in the guidebook extra, everyone is kinda. stunned. like that show of vulnerability isn't normal at all from him. the way it's also framed as rainy and gloomy, and especially that dim panel of him smiling but thinking "it feels like not even half of them are still around…" its ominous as hell. he's so melancholic about it. but he still puts on that smiley facade. and looks around like it's a ghost town when nobody's looking.

another facet of it is his sharp insight. he's really good about noticing things about other people. and he's a really good listener. so i think a lot of people just. end up telling him things. but he doesn't really tell other people things. which is what i mean by friends with everybody but not close with anybody. people open up to him, but he doesn't open up to them. and the only people he was getting there with go on and graduate. leaves him lonely.

so it's all kinda like. he's very surface level social. in a way that nobody thinks he's got anything else going on. hes a Fun Guy!! nothing wrong over here! not that he necessarily has anything Wrong. just the feeling of like. he could have like a dead parent and nobody would know something was amiss. thats kinda dramatic but. yknow. he doesn't really talk about his feelings. anyways.

last aspect of the loneliness i wanna touch on a bit is his relationship with his parents. we. don't get much. one mention of them in his miso soup conversation:

“Man, that makes no sense to me! For one thing, we don’t even have miso every day at my house. If I want some, I just grab a packet of the instant stuff and boil up some water—on my own. I guess sometimes my folks ask me to make some for them, too, and I grab two packets.” “Huh! Wait, isn’t it actually expensive to make two people’s worth?” “Sure is. If that goes on for a couple days, my mom is like, it would be cheaper just to make a bunch at once! She always says laziness is the root of wasting money. And I’m like, I know that! But I keep making that soup.”

we'll get more into all that again later. focusing on his folks here. we can infer here that his parents don't seem to cook that often. it falls to him to make dinner for them all sometimes. and. i dunno. something about this makes them read as kinda distant. not in a neglectful or hurtful way... just. they don't care about what he does. like. I don't think he told them or asked permission to bleach his hair. he just Did It and came home and they were like Oh! well thats cool i guess [thumbs up]. i don't think he's very close with them either. like. he doesn't know How to open up, maybe. didn't grow up with it. that may be stretching it a bit though. whatever. either way, he keeps making that soup (miso soup metaphor for love. we'll get into it later).

so it's like. he does love his friends. he just sucks at opening up about his #feelings. and nobody could tell if he was truly upset about something. and everybody wants to hang out with someone else. it's played off for jokes but kuresawa and miyano often abandon him during breaks and holidays to hang out with their #lovers. though everybody note that shirahama is probably the exception to most of this. but he's also bad at talking about feelings so they don't really Talk about it. but he Knows. and they like to #hangout. (and thats part of what makes shirashiro so good to me. shirahama can ask a "hey are you okay" in a way that no one else can. #bestfriends) anyways.

i thiiink. that's everything. thank you for coming to my ted talk. thesis: Tashiro is secretly a pretty lonely guy but god forbid he Tell Anyone. peace and love on planet Tashiro gonzaburou….

[kings-highway]

hi! im the anon that asked about kagehina playing volleyball again after they meet for the first time in awhile. i really appreciate that one shot you wrote about the calm before that moment. and i really liked the hashtags you added at the bottom. im sorry if it came off like i was saying thats all they could bond over. i always thought of volleyball as their main link. but thinking about all the other things they could do together really opened my mind? even though its SO OBVIOUS IM SO AAAUUUUUGH.. but anyway.. it was really special, thank you so much :') i like to draw and stuff, and its made me want to draw them enjoying other hobbies together, or just going out for a coffee.

Ahhhhhhh sorry sorry if it came off like I was judging your comment about them!!! When people send me specific ideas like that, I don't like to "copy" them so to speak - you had a great, beautiful idea, writing it 1:1 myself would feel like stealing, so I chose a little alternative route to go to enjoy the concept :)

I think one of the things I love most about Haikyuu is how although most of the story takes place during high school, overwhelmingly it is a story about change, and growing up, and how good new things can be and about how nobody really "peaks" in high school. That you don't have to hit your life's goal before 18. To not be afraid of changing. None of their lives end after nationals, they all get to grow up and become new people. And that's a really important lesson to internalize. And I imagine they all had a second graduation of sorts, when they retire, where they have to reckon with not being in their prime anymore... But keeping in HQ fashion, I think that just means more life to live and things to experience, and new things to fall in love with each other over.

I like to imagine Hinata and Kageyama, bonding for the first time in forever without competing, really getting to know each other, sitting in the morning sunrise and planning the hike they were going on that afternoon, just... Happy. Together, unhurried, grown up. Learning to love more than one sport.

The volleyball is sitting beside the couch, within easy reach, for whenever they need it.

[cruesuffix]

OMG I LOVED THE ALMONDS FIC???

YOUR SO GOOD AT WRITING!!!!❤️❤️

ANON!! thank you so much!!!! <3333 im SO glad you enjoyed it!!! omg ok thankful i know at least 1-2 ppl enjoyed it lmaoooo i’ll take that!! i won’t necessarily put myself down too much but i didn’t really think anyone would read that one. i was surprised ppl read my other fic too. but if even just one person liked it that’s fulfilling enough for me, so i really appreciate your kind words anon <3333

(maybe i’ll get confident enough to write more and actually post them… one day.)

[heyimkana]

kana are u just making a multiverse of jinwoo's at this point?? how many do you have???? - 💸

Literally what I listed in the last ask you sent me LMFAOOO maybe around 20???

There’s also Homewrecker!Jinwoo actually, though not in the way you think 😏

It’s about reader who’s married and has a four year old daughter, but both of them are being abused by her husband.

One night, when her daughter got sick, she took her to the hospital to make sure she was okay. Coincidentally, that was the same night Jinwoo visited the hospital to give the Elixir of Life to Jinho’s dad.

Jinwoo, reader, and her little girl stepped into the elevator together. But then, the lights flickered and suddenly everything went dark. They were trapped inside the elevator.

The little girl started crying, scared of the dark. Let's say her father (reader’s husband) used to lock her in the bathroom whenever she misbehaved. She kept sobbing, “Mama, please! I’m scared! I was good, Mama, I didn’t do anything wrong!” Reader tried to calm her down (she was close to crying herself from watching her little girl broke down like that), but her daughter wouldn’t listen. She was too scared.

Then, Jinwoo suddenly did something with his magic (maybe he created a little orb of light with his mana) and crouched down to show it to her. He smiled, so gently, and asked, “Hey, you wanna hear a funny story?”

The girl sniffled and nodded.

“I have a friend who used to be a giant ant. Really scary. Sharp claws. Big wings. Thought he was the king of the world.”

The little girl looked at him, eyes still watery, but now curious. "Giant ant..?"

“Mm-hmm. But now he wears a tiny cape and thinks he’s a stage actor.”

Then Beru appeared—floating in the air, small enough to fit in Jinwoo’s palm—and dramatically declared: “Verily, ’tis I! Destined from the womb to smite all foes, conquer dungeons, and rule o’er all creation! And yet—oh, cruel twist!—I now spend mine hours painting yon royal sister’s fingernails! What devilry is this? From dark lord to dainty manicurist—fie, what a fall!”

The little girl giggled. “He talks funny.”

Jinwoo rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s in a drama. But honestly, I think he just likes attention.”

The girl stepped closer, wide-eyed. “Is he your friend?”

“One of the best ones I’ve got.” He held out his fist. “Wanna bump?”

She did, bumping her small knuckles against his and Jinwoo smiled, gently patting her head. “And now you’re one of my best friends too.”

The girl smiled—like genuinely smiled—and reader wanted to cry because it had been months since she’d seen her little girl smile like that.