#ollie o’meara

[virgoscringe]

olliewicks!!

last one of the h*vemindaversary! olliewicks maximizing their joint slay <33

#g’s scribbles #omgcp #check please #omgcheckplease #omgcp fanart #check please fanart #olliewicks #wicks #ollie #ollie o’meara #pacer wicks #gay and successful immediately after graduating. good for them!

[luminarai]

holster years later at a smh reunion, talking to a happily married ollie&wicks: ok but was I wrong?? exactly.

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #check please #my art #olliewicks #Ollie o’meara #pacer wicks #my sketches #holster #ransom #adam birkholtz #justin oluransi #ollie and wicks #ollie and wicky #wicks: you know we were together even back then #holster: i said what i said and i stand by it #q

[zimmerdouche]

“did they seriously not know we got married?”

“i told you, babe, foxtrot is the only one who reads the newsletter.”

_X_

my contribution to the olliewicks renaissance!

#lynn’s art #omgcp #omg check please #check please #olliewicks #ollie o’meara #pacer wicks #omgcp fanart #your honor they’re in love!

[montrealmadison]

olliewicks and 37 !!

abby, it’s only appropriate that i write these two for the very first time for you. ❤️

37. olliewicks + Anything You Want (Not That) by Belleruche for @zimms

Forgive the doe eyed relentless attention If it's on, I'm on, and there's no more use in pretending Close to the chase, it's clear you've had fun playing Some liberties, well you've surely been taking

Halfway through December, with the night becoming morning and the tub juice lighting him on fire, Oliver O’Meara thinks he’s having a pretty good freshman year.

Or—frog year. Right. New team, new lingo; he knows how this goes. The guys here call him Ollie, same as they have everywhere else. The ice at Faber is bigger, better kept, but his skates dig into it just the same. He goes to class (most of the time), hits up the kegsters, tries his best to get in with the upperclassmen, successfully makes one entire friend.

He’s a simple guy. Doesn’t expect much. 

So the fact that something is starting to feel different is rubbing him the wrong way.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

The Haus is high off the win—literally, Ollie thinks, watching smoke drift past him out the open front door. They destroyed BC tonight, four-nothing, and Jack only shouted at them twice, which at this point honestly passes for kindness where he's concerned. Shitty has been incandescent with joy since they hit the showers. He’s dragged every member of the team into at least two keg stands with his own set of complicated strip rules and is now down to nothing but one sock and a giant smile, which was the final warning that prompted Ollie to move to the porch. The parties here are way better than in high school, he has to admit, but only in small doses.

Salt crunches beneath him when he sits down on the steps. It’s cold out. Not as bad as it is at home this time of year, but not warm enough to justify him sitting outside in shorts and a hoodie, sweat chilling quickly in his hair and his breath smoking out in long billows. He half-expects someone to come outside and yell at him to put a coat on, but no one does. To fill the silence, he takes another sip of tub juice, lets it torch his throat all the way down.

Maybe everybody feels like this freshman year: unmoored, self-conscious, either too loud or too quiet. It’s not bad, it’s just—different. Not having his brothers around. Playing hockey that really means something. Making friends on purpose, not just because they’re the only ones available. Going to parties where people sort of know you, where they call your name; where your teammates smile and smell like cinnamon and weed and have nice asses and ex-boyfriends; where that’s okay, it’s all okay.

Maybe, if he’s feeling like this on a night when he’s supposed to be happy, he shouldn’t be drinking alone. He’s about to pound the rest of his cup and risk going back in for a refill when someone knees him in the back.

“Ow,” Ollie says, which is a great first thing to say when you’re potentially going to have to kick someone’s ass. “Bro, what the fuck.”

He turns around, ready to defend himself, but it’s only Wicky, carrying two Keystones with the tabs already popped.

“‘Sup,” he says, grinning like he didn’t just commit an act of warfare, and hands one over. The can’s cold, as are Wicky’s fingers when they touch. “You’re thinking loud. Want a buddy?”

“Yeah,” Ollie agrees, more out of surprise than anything else. He takes a sip and finds that even watery beer is a welcome change from warm Everclear and foot stank. He tosses the rest of the tub juice into the bushes in a wide arc, sends his cup tumbling after it. “Thanks.”

Wicky sinks down beside him, close enough to throw off heat but not enough to touch. He’s in sweats and a beanie, dirty old Vans, that half a smile he always wears. Ollie’s not used to feeling like it’s directed at him and kind of waits to feel uncomfortable about it, but he never does. Beyond their little sliver of porch, it’s starting to snow.

“Good fucking game,” Wicky says after a long minute, throwing a shoulder in Ollie’s direction. His inflection is familiar, round and Midwestern, and reminds Ollie so much of home that it almost softens the blow. “Tired of cellying your assist?”

“Tired of Holster kicking my ass at pong,” he retorts. Wicky laughs and dodges the elbow Ollie aims his way. “Didn’t see you rushing to my defense, man, I had to play with Hardy and he’s about as useful as—”

“Nah, nah, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” It’s sincere. “I got you next time, sorry. Got distracted.”

“What could be more important than riding to my rescue?”

“Key lime pie?”

“Ah.”

Ollie elbows him one more time, just for good measure and because Wicky claims not to have saved him any, before they drink their beers and watch the street turn white and he goes back to thinking.

Maybe it’s Wicky who’s different. Not in the way that Bitty is different, like nothing this team has ever seen, like the kind of person who merits special coaching with Jack by day and stands on the arm of the sticky green couch to deliver an impassioned performance of some Kesha song by night. No, the thing about Wicky is that he’s… bright. He puts his head down in practice and works the same as Ollie does, doesn’t ask many questions or draw attention to himself. They go to the dining hall and practice and the library together; mundane shit. Somehow, Ollie can’t stop noticing him anyway.

“You good, dude?”

Wicky’s voice is low, but Ollie’s so tuned into him in his head that it sounds loud. He turns, tipsy and slow, and finds Wicky still wearing that smile.

Oh, shit, Ollie thinks, hoping the cold and the beer serve as cover for the flush that immediately crawls up his cheeks. Oh, fuck.

Because here is the goddamn thing.

Oliver O’Meara is having a pretty good freshman year, but that’s all he ever expected it to be. Go to school, play hockey, have a little fun. Look, he gets that maybe there’s something in the water here that lets Shitty hug the Jack Zimmermann on the daily without getting both his arms ripped off, or facilitates the freaky mind-meld between Ransom and Holster, or enables Bitty to get on the ice with them at all. But Ollie’s never felt like a main character, not even in his own story. Everyone else probably has better reasons for coming to Samwell, life-changing ones. Ollie feels a little like he just ended up here because of some force of nature greater than him, like the broad strokes of his life have been sketched out and the details have all been left for him to make up.

Wicky is the only person who’s ever made him wonder how it would feel if, maybe, he could be different here, too.

“Ollie,” Wicky says, now sounding distinctly amused. “Earth to O’Meara. You wanna get out of here, brah? Not having fun?”

He’s pretty sure that get out of here isn’t intended that way, not yet, but it could—oh, God, it could. 

“No, I’m good,” Ollie says, feeling everything and nothing like himself. He stands, feels his knees ache with the effort of the day, knows he isn’t done quite yet. He sticks out a hand. “One more song and then late night?”

Wicky’s at his feet now, trusting eyes and curling hair, a face Ollie’s only just started to get to know but somehow thinks he won’t ever forget. He takes Ollie’s hand and pulls himself to his feet, but he doesn’t let go right away. Ollie kind of loves that. “One more, huh? Only if you’re gonna dance.”

“Deal.”

“‘Swawesome,” says Wicky. It sounds like a promise.

(Inside, on the dance floor, when that same hand wraps warm around the back of Ollie's neck like a question and an answer all at once, it feels like one, too.)

The next weekend, they win again. Ollie’s on the ice when Ransom wrists in the last goal and everyone shouts, and when they all pile in for the celly, Ollie finds Wicky’s bright blue eyes (oh, shit) and winks, and Wicky reaches up with one gloved hand and catches it like a kiss.

Alright, Ollie thinks. Game on.

#ollie o'meara #pacer wicks #olliewicks #omgcp #omg check please #omgcheckplease #my writing #efickegster 2024 #abby tag #abby thank you for this request it was super super fun ❤️ #I love writing them who knew!!

[melbournenewsvine]

Trade deadline end of the day

In the final episode of Our Trade Period, Michael Gleeson, Jake Niall, and Peter Ryan break up the frantic finale until deadline day. It took a circuit breaker and a three-way deal to get Olly Henry to Geelong, but she crossed the line. How does Collingwood feel about the trade? The teams don’t win the trade period, but it’s worrying for the NFL that Geelong did exceptionally well, and the Jack Bowes deal happened as it did. Will the rules on salary dumping be considered? Another thing that has emerged as a talking point this year is how many Year 1 and Year 2 players decide where they go and enforce deals. Will it lead to a change from the AFL in terms of contract term to the top picks? Hawthorn made two amazing moves when they traded Tom Mitchell and Jaeger O’Meara on the same day. They didn’t have a stellar sale, but they are ditching players who invested so much previously, and moving into a new era under Sam Mitchell. Were we conditioned to move Mitchell in part this season already, given the way the Hawks have used it? In addition, Melbourne’s replacement strategy, whether the Bulldogs gave up a lot of midfield talent, why Esava Ratugolea did not reach Port Adelaide and much more. Keep up to date with the best AFL coverage in the country. Subscribe to Real Footy Newsletter. Source link Originally published at Melbourne News Vine

#Melbourne News Vine

[sunshinecoastqldnews]

AFL commerce interval reside updates: Josh Dunkley Ollie Henry Jaeger OMeara hoping for deadline day strikes

Offers for Josh Dunkley, Ollie Henry, Jaeger O’Meara and others are nonetheless to be accomplished as we head into the ultimate hours of the AFL’s commerce interval. Observe the most recent information and evaluation reside. Reside updates 3m in the pastWed 12 Oct 2022 at 2:51am By Dean Bilton When can we anticipate some motion? (Getty Photographs) We can’t be seeing something made official till 3:00pm AEDT. The AFL has put an embargo on trades being put by means of at the moment, so all the things will should be performed within the 4.5 hours from then till 7:30pm. It is a bit of little bit of confected pleasure, however we do not have an excessive amount of longer to attend. We’ll have to attend and see if something leaks out earlier than that point although. 15m in the pastWed 12 Oct 2022 at 2:39am By Dean Bilton Which trades are we looking for at the moment? (Getty Photographs) It is a stable checklist, and I am nonetheless satisfied there are some I am lacking off it. You too can anticipate to see a number of sneaky choose swaps flying round this arvo – though golf equipment can have one other window to commerce draft picks in a number of weeks, plus they are often exchanged on draft night time. Josh Dunkley from the Bulldogs to Brisbane Ollie Henry from Collingwood to Geelong Tom Mitchell from Hawthorn to Collingwood Rory Lobb from Fremantle to the Bulldogs Lloyd Meek from Fremantle to Hawthorn Esava Ratugolea from Geelong to Port Adelaide Aaron Francis from Essendon to Sydney Sam Weideman from Melbourne to Essendon Brayden Fiorini from Gold Coast to Collingwood Jaeger O’Meara from Hawthorn to GWS/Fremantle 31m in the pastWed 12 Oct 2022 at 2:22am By Dean Bilton The commerce deadline is sort of right here (Getty Photographs) Good day once more, and welcome to deadline day for the AFL’s commerce interval. The clock is ticking as we strategy 7:30pm AEDT and the official conclusion of the buying and selling window, with quite a few golf equipment in frantic negotiations round some key gamers. What is going to go down this afternoon? Who will get their dream transfer and who shall be left heartbroken? Maintain this weblog helpful for the length to search out out. Originally published at Sunshine Coast QLD News

#Sunshine Coast QLD News

[karin848]

Making icon edits between working on a commission! These boys are a lil gift for @zimms

(Anyone is welcome to use as long as you credit me please!

Credit for diagonal backgrounds

Credit for muted rainbow background

#omgcp #omgcp edits #Ollie & Wicky #Ollie O’Meara #Pacer Wicks #omgcp icons #my edit

[elliebittle-zimms]

wait some of y’all know which is ollie and which is wicks?

#ollie o’meara #pacer wicks

[jzg-tofu]

The fact that Ollie and Wicks got married before Jack and Bitty is too funny to me

#ollie and wicks #ollie o’meara #pacer wicks #wicks omgcp #wicky #ollie #ollie omgcp #zimbits #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #omgcp #omgcheckplease #check please #check please! #checkpleaselastslice

[fryguy]

thinking about the fact that ngozi’s screenplay “hardy” has two characters with some familiar names 👀

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #STRAIGHT UP OLLIE O’MEARA #abby this is for u #also the screenplay holy shit #i need more #cw alcohol

[zimms]

do you know that reddit post that's like "i'm in quarantine with my roommate (we're both dudes) and we've been cuddling together a lot. am i gay?" because at least to me it has big olliewicks vibes

hey dude! i’m sorry this is so late, but hopefully you’ll like it! 

Ollie groggily awakens to the feeling of two strong arms wrapped around his stomach, holding him close and grounding him. He lets out a sigh of contentment before squeezing his eyes shut and burrowing his head slightly further into the tangle of bodies, pursuing the warm heat of the other person. The body beneath him shifts slightly, emitting a slight groan and disturbing Ollie’s brief peace. That’s when he realises three things.

They’re in the middle of a pandemic.

His only human contact in the past two months, other than cashiers at their local grocery store, has been Wicky.

The person beneath him is definitely Wicky. Ollie can feel it in every plane, every angle, every curve of the body he’s laying on top of. It’s in the way that Wicky’s breathing slightly stutters after every inhale. He knows it’s Wicky because every inch of Wicky’s body is unique and Ollie’s memorised all of them. So yeah, definitely Wicky.

Ollie takes a moment to just breathe and catalogue the situation. He cracks an eye open and he immediately heaves a sigh of relief; they’re both wearing clothes, which means that they didn’t do anything that either of them might regret. Well, or at least, nothing that Ollie might regret; he can’t speak for whether or not Wicky might regret even cuddling him, let alone anything else. 

He cranes his neck slightly to catch sight of the TV, where the Netflix Are you still watching? screen stares back at him. Oh yeah, they’d been watching Tiger King together on the couch before they’d fallen asleep on top of each other. 

Ollie braces his hands on either side of Wicky and slowly rolls off of his best friend, careful not to land on the squeaky couch spring and wake him up. He slides slowly to the floor and places his head in his hands. 

Fuck. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and groans as quietly as he can into his palms. He’s been doing so well at tamping down his crush on Wicky up until now, but something inside of Ollie has ignited after spending the night in such close proximity to him. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to pretend when Wicky wakes up that he didn’t savour every moment that his skin was pressed against Wicky’s, that he doesn’t know exactly what Wicky looks like when he’s sound asleep, that he hasn’t memorised the way their chests rose and fell against each other in perfect synchrony.

Ollie shakes his head before pushing himself to his feet and padding into the kitchen to get breakfast. That’s enough thinking for today.

----

Ollie shifts his weight from side to side as he leans outside of George’s office and listens to the sound of chairs scraping behind the door. Thank fuck, they’re almost done; he’s been leaning against this wall for twenty goddamn minutes and his feet are aching. He straightens up as the door swings open and he plasters a grin on his face; no matter how annoying a long wait is, scowling probably isn’t the best first impression when you’re meeting your new employer. 

However, Ollie’s grin disintegrates when he sees the guy that comes out of the office and instead his mouth drops open. 

Holy fuck. 

Ollie unashamedly stares at the guy as he ambles down the corridor. God, every inch of him is pure perfection. From cheekbones that could cut glass, to wide brown eyes that seem to reflect and emit light until the whole corridor illuminates with this guy’s presence. From the lopsided grin that plays across his face, to the biceps that are way too big for the sleeves of his Falcs t-shirt. Ollie lets his eye’s slide to the guy’s ass; yeah, that’s definitely a hockey player. 

He’s stunning.

And, the little voice in the back of Ollie’s mind pipes up, a teammate.

Ollie slumps down the wall again and groans. He’s so fucked. 

----

Ollie had hoped that he’d be able to avoid all thoughts of his crush on Wicky for a while, well, preferably forever. He’s always been so careful to never let their cellies on the ice go too far, never letting Wicky kiss him on the helmet like he does every other player, never letting their hugs last for too long, never actively seeking out physical affection from him other than quick bro hugs and a slap on the back. 

The universe has other plans for him apparently.

That one night of couch cuddling seems to have opened the floodgates, because all of a sudden Ollie’s inundated by a tidal wave of physical affection from Wicky and it’s just becoming too difficult. Too difficult to ignore the onslaught of butterflies in his stomach when their hands brush slightly when they’re reaching for the salt at the dinner table. Too difficult not to stare at him when they’re watching a movie next to each other on the couch and he shifts over slightly so that their legs are touching. Too difficult to even begin to process and cope with the fact that Wicky has started coming into Ollie’s room to fucking cuddle with him. It’s too difficult because Ollie is finally allowing himself to hope and he doesn’t even fucking know if Pacer, Wicky, Pace, is anything other than straight. 

It’s just too goddamn difficult to be around his best friend. 

Ollie smiles down at where Pacer has tucked himself underneath his right arm, eyes softly shut and a peaceful smile playing across his face, and he feels his heart breaking. If he wants to preserve their friendship beyond this quarantine in any way shape or form, he needs to stop indulging himself like this. What if Pacer’s angry because Ollie’s taken advantage of him because Ollie’s using this- this thing between them to selfishly fulfill his own wants? What if Pacer’s only comfortable doing this because he thinks Ollie’s straight? What if-

Ollie squeezes his eyes shut and curls his hand into the sleeve of Pacer’s shirt, forcing that line of thought to come screeching to a halt before it becomes a trainwreck. He needs to stop thinking like that; Pacer’s not gonna abandon him after three years of friendship and being lineys because of some no homo, bro bullshit. Or at least, Ollie hopes he wouldn’t. Pacer’s not that kind of person. 

(Aww, fuck. He also needs to stop referring to him as Pacer in his head. He needs to distance himself from Wicky somehow, and he’s definitely not going to pull away from him physically, especially as they’re each the other’s only source of human contact for the next month or nine, so emotional distancing will have to do.)

He heaves a sigh and lets himself slump against the headboard, careful to make sure that Wicky’s head doesn’t fall too quickly from where it’s leant against Ollie’s shoulder. Wicky stirs at the sudden movement  and his eyes slowly open, a sleepy beam playing across his face and chestnut eyes staring intently at Ollie like he’s the moon gazing upon the sun. 

Ollie muffles a groan. He just doesn’t know what to think anymore. 

----

The second that Ollie and Pacer Wicks step onto the ice together for the first time it feels electric. They complement each other in every way; Pacer skates slightly faster than Ollie does, whilst Ollie has a slightly more accurate pass that finds Pacer every single time. It’s like they were made for each other. 

It’s fantastic.

(It’s torturous.)

Ollie finds himself spending even more time with Wicky than he originally planned for, and things just keep going from good to great. 

(They go from bad to worse)

They have the same taste in films to the extent that they now have a monthly The Princess Bride rewatch. They’re both cat people and it’s slipped into their pre-game routine to go for a walk together, looking for the neighbourhood cats and calling pspspspsp to them in the hopes that they’ll come running and grant them good luck before the game. They’ve won every game that they’ve stroked a cat before, so Ollie isn’t really inclined to let go of the superstition, and, judging by the way Wicky grins at the little fuzzballs, Wicky is equally reluctant to stop their pre-game walks. The best thing they have in common is that both of their leases are up at the end of this month; who’s Ollie to pass up the opportunity to live with the guy that’s rapidly becoming the most important person in his life?

(Ollie’s an absolute fool. Living with Wicky is going to kill him very slowly and definitely isn’t the way to rid himself of a crush that’s quickly morphing into something even more serious. 

Ollie is, once again, fucked.)

----

Ollie tries to pull away slowly rather than withdrawing all physical affection at once. It’s painful, but if it keeps Wicky from hating him, Ollie will gladly do it. Heck, if it was to protect Wicky, Ollie would do anything. 

He starts slowly. He shifts over a bit on the couch, leaving a deliberate gap between them on the couch, so that no wandering limbs can reach out for each other. He makes sure to hold out the condiments at dinner, so that there’s no way for either of them to find an excuse for their fingers to touch, no matter how much Ollie hungers for it. He starts spending more time in his room, doing his online college courses there, rather than in the living room like he usually does. He goes to bed earlier, hoping, wishing, praying that Wicks doesn’t try to join him for a cuddle. 

(Ollie ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that’s screaming to feel the press of Wicky’s warm body against his again. He ignores the wounded glances that he receives from Wicky every time he avoids eye contact. He ignores the aching pangs inside of his chest that appear whenever he spends too long gazing at Ollie.)

----

Moving in together is the best idea and the worst idea that Ollie’s ever gone along with.

Pros: He gets to spend every day with Wicky.

Cons: Spending every day with Wicky might actually kill him soon. RIP Oliver O’Meara. Cause of Death: Walking into the kitchen and seeing Wicky topless and sleep rumpled, muscles rippling as he reaches for the coffee. 

Pros: He knows Wicky almost as well as he knows himself.

Cons: He now knows that Wicky is hung up on someone after one particularly drunken ramble.

(Fuck.)

----

It’s a week after the first cuddling incident that Wicky pulls open the door to Ollie’s room and marches in, eyebrows lowered and eyebags darker than ever. Ollie immediately slams the lid of his laptop shut, straightening up from where he’s slumped against the headboard of his bed. He frowns. “What’s up, Wicky?”

Wicky freezes on the other side of the room. “What’s up?” he says, voice cracking and strangled. Yikes, this must be worse than Ollie thought it was. “You’re asking me what’s up?” He drops onto the bed, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. “You’re the one that’s disappeared recently.” He pushes the heels of hands into his eyes. “We used to do everything together and now whenever I look for you, you’re in here.” He tears his hands away from his face, to gesture frantically around the room. Wicky appears to be manic; his hair’s all ruffled and there’s this slightly crazed look in his eyes. “What did I do, Ol?”

Ollie scrambles out of bed to come and sit next to Wicky. He stretches out a hand to comfort Wicky, but withdraws it as he fumbles for what to do or say. “You didn’t do anything, Pace,” he says softly, resisting the urge to reach out and swipe away the tears that are trickling intermittently down his cheeks. “It’s me that’s the problem.”

Wicky raises an eyebrow at him, stare stern in spite of the crying. “Really? So you’re completely fine with me cuddling you? And definitely didn’t start shutting down any of my attempts to spend time with you?” Ollie flinches and Wicky scoffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I-” Ollie trails off, eyes wandering until his gaze meets Wicky’s. The look in Wicky’s eyes isn’t scornful, no matter how much it deserves to be, instead his eyes are calm and fathomless like the earth after a long-anticipated rain. “I didn’t want to hurt you, though I clearly failed in that respect. I’m just so worried that you’re going to think less of me, especially once I tell you that-” Ollie clamps his mouth shut, as words he’s barely even thought to himself start to tumble out into the open.

“Tell me that..?” If Ollie didn’t know any better, he’d think that there was a trace of hope in Wicky’s voice. “C’mon, Ol, I’m not gonna leave you, no matter what you say.”

Ollie rubs his hand across his eyelids before stuttering out, “I’m in love with you.” Shit, that is not what he meant to say. “Fuck, I mean, I like you. Romantically.” He hides his face in his hands. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I figured going cold turkey for a couple of days might do me some good.” He pulls his hands from his face suddenly and lets them drop to his knees. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I like you? That I might be, fuck it, I am in love with you?”

The silence in the room answers that question for him and Ollie feels a tear roll down his face and a gutteral sob tear its way from his throat. 

“Fuck, Ol,” Pacer says, scrubbing a weary hand across his face, and that’s when Ollie knows that it’s all over, that he’s going to be rejected by the most important person in his life. “That’s definitely not what I was expecting, but it’s not unwelcome by any means.”

It’s not?

Ollie suppresses a sniffle as he voices this sentiment aloud. 

Pacer laughs, honest to God, laughs. “It’s actually very welcome, considering the fact that I’ve been pining for you since long before you got traded to Providence.”

He’s what-?

“I-” Ollie stumbles over the words, cheeks heating, “but you’re straight? And you’re hung up on someone?”

Pacer swipes a thumb across Ollie’s cheek, tracing the trail of his blush. “Ol, when did I ever say I was straight?” he asks, his gaze intently focused on Ollie. “Anyway, it’s always been you.” He leans in closer, breathing out one final word before sealing their lips together. “Always.”

#purple-is-great #my writing #ollie and wicks #olliewicks #omgcp

[luminarai]

@zimms’ wonderful drabble made me remember just how much I love these two. what can I say, I’m a sucker for some underdeveloped background bros in love

#my art #omgcp #cecil continues her lurch down the memory lane that is check please #check please #omgcheckplease #olliewicks #Ollie o’meara #pacer wicks #Ollie and wicks #ngozi u can’t just create two characters that are so bouba/kiki effect and then try to give them the non-matching name #also I was looking up ref pics from the comic and the image with them and bitty at graduation… ollie why are your eyebrows two pencil lines #did ngozi forget what her own background characters look like? probably. #do I also like to imagine Ollie deciding to neaten his eyebrows and accidentally plucking off 2/3 by overcorrecting the shape? YES #and on the nIGHT BEFORE GRADUATION #(I went to school with a girl who did this it happens ok

[backwardscapsmh]

for the i wish prompts, mayhaps some freshman year olliewicks please?

sjfjejridnfskdk YES oh my god i love this idea! i hope u like it!

Samwell. Samwell. He’s actually here. At Samwell. The “Gay Ivy.” He’s actually here, at Samwell, the “Gay Ivy,” to play hockey. He made it! He, Oliver O’Meara, has finally made it to college.  And now that he’s here, standing in his freshman year dorm, his parents already on their way back home, he’s nervous. He hasn’t met his roommate yet, who is also an athlete apparently. And he has yet to start unpacking for real, so he’s sitting on the ugly carpet of a college dorm questioning if he made the right choice.

What if he doesn’t connect with the team? What if his teachers are worse than the ones he had in high school? What if he ends up flunking his first test? What if he gets lonely? What if? What if? What if?

He’s broken out of his spiraling anxieties by the sound of the dorm door opening. Expecting his roommate, he takes a deep breath in an attempt to prevent a panic attack and looks up towards the door. 

Wow.  His roommate is quite possibly the most attractive man he has even seen in his life. Good god, how is Ollie supposed to live with him? He’s supposed to sleep less than 6 feet away from this absolute Adonis and his little gay heart is supposed to beat at a normal speed. Okay, clearly college is going to be a struggle.  Hot Roommate, as Ollie has dubbed him in his head, has fluffy brown hair, not unlike his own, and is wearing a baseball cap backwards. Ollie did not think he had a thing the frat bro aesthetic before today, but there’s a time for everything. Hot Roommate has angular features (his jawline....good lord) and slight eye bags and he still looks hot. Goddamn.

Realizing that he’s probably spent a good amount of time ogling his new roommate, Ollie’s face flushes as he reaches out a hand for Hot Roommate to shake. 

“I’m Ollie. I guess I’m your roommate. I play hockey.” He silently pats himself on the back for not stuttering or making a fool out of himself as their hands drop back to their sides. “I’m Pacer but my old hockey teammates called me Wicky. That’s, uhm, my last name. Wicks, not Wicky. Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I play hockey too.” Hot Roommate replies, looking a little sheepish. God, he looks cute with flushed cheeks. Ollie is done for.  “All good bro. I’m a little nervous too. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” Ollie says, trying to keep himself from blurting out how hot he actually thinks his new roommate is.  “Yeah dude. I think we’re going to get along just fine,” Wicks holds his fist and Ollie bumps his against it.

“I think so too.” 

(i hope i did ur idea justice!) 🥰💕🥺

#idk how i feel abt the ending but eh #abby this prompt was so good #i hope it’s kind of what u wanted #olliewicks 🥺🥰 #my background boys #ollie and wicks #ollie/wicks #ollie o'meara #pacer wicks #omgcp

[the-samwell-swallow]

I heard from Chad L that Ollie O’Meara and Pacer Wicks from the hockey team got married over spring break!

Hello dear Insider,

Hold up. Is Chad L’s source the hockey team? The LAX team and the hockey team are notoriously unreliable ESPECIALLY when it comes to each other and both seem mistrustful of us for some reason, so we can’t take this seriously without further evidence. Are you sure O’Meara and Wicks didn’t simply commit to each other in a Super Mega Best Bros kinda way? They are always fistbumping and this seems on brand for them. #BestBrosForLyfe.

As always, we rely on insiders like yourself to keep us well informed. Hear anything juicy? See a good story? Let us know! We cannot pay freelance journalists at this time.

#inside tips #hot goss #the samwell swallow #omgcheckplease #ollie and wicks

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

Why what Coach said, while not exactly racist, was still Not Okay.

Okay, I’m back at it with this line.

In the wake of the update, some folks in the fandom, myself included, zeroed in on that microaggression.

And in the wake of that, some folks have been unable to see the problem.

So I felt like elaborating, despite how challenging to put into words. As in... this was posted in the middle of June... yet was in my drafts since end of May.

First off, since it seems that my other post wasn’t clear enough to some, I would like to reiterate that I did not get the impression that Coach is racist*. At least not maliciously or mockingly so. It felt clear that he was just being matter-of-fact in stating Chowder’s race as a point of identification. And fortunately, he did not assume Chowder’s ethnicity (yes, even though “Chow” is a very Chinese surname, pegging him as Chinese is an assumption of not just the ethnicity itself but how he identifies), nor did he use some archaic term like “Oriental”.

That still does not make it alright.

First off, this is not an appeal to be race-blind. That bullshit is bullshit. Chowder’s Asian-ness is as much part of his identity (even if he doesn’t speak the language, take part in traditional culture, etc; *glares at people who spout rhetoric about “bananas”*) as his adorable energy and badass goalie skills.

Yes, there are times when referring to Chowder’s race is okay. Even when race/ethnicity is not a discussion point, race as a descriptor does have its place; be it conversation or writing. Of course, it’s far more preferable to say “Asian” than something like “almond eyed“.

But this ain’t it.

Had Coach started with “Your teammate/friend/housemate“ and, if Bitty asks to clarify, answered with “The Asian one”, it would have been way less cringey than him starting off with “That Asian boy...”. 

And even then, recognizable traits are often preferable to go to first (eg “The one with the spiky hair” or “the energetic boy in the teal/Sharks hoodie”). Even then, the fact that he managed to recall Chowder’s last name means that he shouldn’t had to have done that.

Ie a preferred sentence would have gone something like ”That friend of yours let me in--Chow.”

Those seem like minuscule distinctions. Frustratingly so perhaps. But they are noticeable to the person being described.

Again, it’s hard to explain the slight punch in the gut and second-guessing that happens when a stranger says something like “The Asian kid...” in reference to you. You're pretty sure there isn’t ill-intent behind it, especially when in a small town/rural area that is comparatively nondiverse. ... But the mind still wonders what kind of assumptions that person may have about you.

Overall, I’d say the good chunk boils down to a sense of othering, which is especially pronounced for Asian-Americans, who have a status of perpetual foreigner (even from other PoCs). Like being asked where they are from, or if they can understand a foreign language, even when they are American-born.

That’s not even getting into the fact that “Asian” in itself can be an assumption as there are many non-Asian ethnicities that have features associated with Asians (especially indigenous people from the Americas). In this case, “Chow” is a bit of a giveaway, but not everyone has obvious markers.

As I finish this up, I’m not even sure if I explained anything. So I’ll just leave off with this:

If it was Ollie, do you think Coach would have said “That white boy let me in-- O’Meara“?

Now we could shrug, go that’s just how things be, and move on. After all, sometimes you have to pick your battles; more often than not, it’s more trouble than its worth to call a stranger out on microaggressions. But for those of us who care for the Bittles and want Bitty to be happy with his family, well...

Why not wish for Coach to be better?

*Disclaimer: for some, all this would actually fall under racism. Personally do not classify it as such (racial bias, yes; racism, no) due to the volatile nature of that term here, but to each their own.

**Second Disclaimer: Also reiterating that Ngozi having him say that line speaks volumes to how brilliantly she was able to encapsulate his character, even if it makes us frustrated with him, and set the tone with a single panel.

#Coach Bittle #Chris Chow #Check Please #omgcp #omgcheckplease

[camilliar]

i’m not going to fucking finish this

They met at a kegger the night before their first skate. The party’s at the Haus. Of course, the night of that party, it’s not the Haus yet, to their minds; nobody will clarify that until the next afternoon. Pacer Wicks is 18 and so he’s drunk in an instant, emptying his Solo cup because he’s carried so many duffels down the hall from the elevator to his double over the course of the day that by night he can’t feel his reactions slowing until one of the D-men, a big blond guy, pulls him over by the collar of his polo and says, “Another frog, you guys should get to know each other. We’re gonna make you all hop.”

“Hop?” asks the other guy.

“You know,” says blondie. “Like frogs.”

He’s cute, Wicky thinks to himself, staring up at this blond man’s blue eyes and bushy eyebrows. Many years later he’ll give a speech at his wedding brunch (the two of them, their immediate families, just after the civil service at that confounding box of a city hall; Wicky has oatmeal) where he blushes and says, “You were standing right there and I didn’t see you.” But that’s nearly four years away, and on a muggy August night in the Haus a tall blond man looks right at Pacer Wicks and calls hm a frog, and Pacer Wicks only glances at Ollie O’Meara for a split second before he turns away and, realizing his red cup is empty, asks if he can get anyone another beer.

“Awfully compliant for a frog,” someone tells Wicky, and he spends the rest of the party waitressing.

The worst thing about hockey is all the good-looking boys. They say you don’t find many in this sport, but that’s not Wicky’s experience: Another one, for example, was sitting on the stairs. “Starting goalie,” he says. “You won’t get to know me very well.” Wicky couldn’t specify what made him so gorgeous, neither the next morning nor on his deathbed. Maybe the secret of beauty is its mystery, to the point where you can’t really know what a guy’s face even looks like, can you? if he’s pretty enough. You just know you’d let your kneecaps hit the bottom stair so you could bury your face in his mesh shorts—if only you weren’t in the middle of the party, that is.

“This isn’t our story, bro,” the goalie says. “Nobody’s going to Kickstart this.”

By this point Wicky is so drunk he can’t even answer, just hands the guy his beer and tries not to be too thankful that one of the many things he’s learned over his high school career of competitive hockey is that he can’t keep a boner when he’s this wasted.

“This whole thing is a continuity error, you know.”

“Meaning what?” Wicky asks.

“You’re not supposed to be here tonight. The Taddy Tour is the first time you step into the Haus. So how can you be here tonight? Continuity error, my good man. Logic. Lol.” Who says “LOL” aloud?

Someone shrieks, from the general vicinity of the doorway, “Is that a pie?”

“Oh my god, Rans, have you seen—we gotta fuck it!”

“Pour one out for the first skate,” says the goalie, and he lurches to his feet.

If Wicky weren’t so drunk, he’d follow. But he is drunk, and the goalie is right; they do have their first skate in the morning. He steps in gobs of goo and crust as he stumbles toward the front door. As he drags himself down the stairs, something’s glued to the soles of his Sperrys. Nuts, maybe? Is that pecan?

~

Pacer Wicks forgot so long ago that his first name is “Pacer” that when the president of the college awards a diploma to “Pacer Wicks,” Wicky stands there for a moment, and then another moment, until the girl behind him (Clare Widdicombe-Abramson; they were in a seminar together last year, Beckett Before France) gives him a shove and says “go!” And he gets it, he does, because they have now been waiting to graduate not only four years but also for hours, and if Wicky is distracted it’s only because he has been forced wait and wait, first for the As and then the Bs (many many cheers for Bittle) and then what seems like eight centuries later, the Os. Now Ollie is seated back in his row, and because the sun is hanging over Main Quad and bouncing off the Pond it’s absolutely impossible to lock eyes with Ollie when Wicky makes his celebratory fist-bump, which connects with air until he’s handed a degree. Lucky Ollie has always been an Ollie; it’s perfectly suited to the locker room and stamped on his birth certificate—and it’s now embossed on his diploma.

After the snapshots and the faint cry from his family and the team, the wind-swept trudge back to his row, and the heat bearing down on his black polyester back again, Wicky opens the cardboard (awfully cheap, considering the retail price of a Samwell bachelor’s is orbiting $250k) and traces his name: Pacer Wicks. That’s me, he thinks, I’m Pacer. I’m Pacer Wicks. He’s been typing it into so many job applications. He thinks about introducing himself to his future in-laws — after this! during lunch! — and the priest who’ll marry them and the case workers they’ll try to impress and the interns he’ll have to hire and the other parents at playgroup, all calling him “Pacer.”

The immensity of it! he thinks, as they’re finally down to the Zs. Here comes Zaragoza (cool kid, softball manager) and then Zhivago (Wicky doesn’t know him). Is that it? Only two Zs?

“Ladies and gentleman,” says Newland. “The Samwell University class of 2017.”

~

First times mean little to Wicky, who can’t remember most of his. On skates? He’s always skated. Moment he realized he’d end up playing college hockey? No coherent realization, just, one day recruiters were in the stands. Sex? There was no first time he did it with a boy; boys would whip theirs out for no specific reason going back to pre-pubescence, and starting at hockey camps showering was de rigueur. Was there a moment when it became intentional? If there was it flowed uninterrupted from the pre-conscious time when everyone did it without thinking much. There was always another boy who’d grip you to completion if you’d return the favor. Nice assist, heh. A ha ha ha ha ha.

Was there a first time with Ollie? No seduction required; they shared doubles on the roadies.

#fic post