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callmeelle22 · 2 years

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Made for Me

Pairing: Ichabod Crane X Abbie Mills

Rating: M

Word Count: 6, 425

Summary: It is not a tentative, terse, transient sort of love.

Ichabod knows that that’s true.

Because it feels like they were made for each other.

He feels it when they’re curled against one another on the couch, lost in laughing commentary and thoughtful conversation; lost in cuddling and kissing and intimacy.

He feels it when she’s wrapped around him in bed, her naked flesh warm against his, always accepting his hard length when he reaches for her in the night.

Or, Ichabod needs a little reassurance, and Abbie gives it to him.

Read below or on AO3.

“As sure as there are stars above

I know, I know you were made for me”

“Ride with me.”

His voice is quiet as he asks, in deference to the tension he still feels in his limbs, the tightness of his arms, the pressure in his lungs. It’s sometime after 10 in the evening and he’s standing barefoot in their kitchen in a pair of black sweatpants and a t-shirt; she’s dressed down as well—thin gray biker shorts and one of his t-shirts—and the house is at the same temperature that is always comfortable for them. But he feels hot all of a sudden.

“Crane,” she tries, but Ichabod pauses her with a quick shake of his head. Her frown deepens, dark eyebrows furrowing over her liquid brown eyes, her full lips pulled down. He knows that she’s angry and confused, ready to get back into an argument that had not been her fault, but he doesn’t want to do this here, tainting their home with bickering he’s unsure if he can control, bickering that reminds him too much of the last time.

“Take a ride with me, Treasure.”

The endearment softens her, he can see it, even if it’s only infinitesimal—the smoothing of her mouth, the slight droop of her shoulders, her lashes hitting her cheeks as she blinks.

“Fine,” she agrees.

They take the time to put on shoes and jackets to ward off the late April chill before venturing out into the night. His truck, a newer model of the old one of Frank’s that he’d been driving since he moved to America, sits big and tall next to Abigail’s Jeep. He unlocks the door with his key fob as he rounds the truck to the passenger side, following after Abigail’s quick steps. She reaches for the handle before he can, but he’s right behind her, his hand covering hers, his body close enough to feel the glimmer of heat coming from her. She huffs, looking to the sky before eyeing him, and for a moment, Ichabod thinks there’s going to be some sort of standoff: both he and Abigail standing with their hands on the door, their bodies pressed in a way that he has to remember that they were arguing only moments ago, staring at the other and waiting for one to relent.

Abigail does first, stepping back and muttering something that ends with “fucking polite,” and though she waits dutifully for him to open the door for her, she eschews his help getting into the truck, grabbing the door and the jamb to haul herself up. He waits as she jumps up and settles into the seat, closing the door softly after her.

He starts driving to nowhere in particular, the radio on low as a male artist croons, a fish was made to swim in the ocean; a boat was made to sail the sea; as sure as there are stars above; i know, i know you were made for me, and Ichabod chances a look over at Abigail, until the pull of the truck brings his attention back to the road.

“I’ll be so pissed if you wreck this truck and kill us while I’m still mad at you.”

Her voice is serious, obvious ire coloring her words. But there’s the faintest hint of amusement there as well, and Ichabod will clutch on to it like a life line if he has to. He reaches over to her, sliding his hand over the smooth skin of her thigh left bare by her shorts. He squeezes her thigh once, twice, before she reaches out to stop him. But no, she isn’t stopping him. She curls her slim fingers around his, holding him to her, her thumb deliberately running across his knuckles. It’s a show in growth, he thinks, how he’s sure that before she never would have let him touch her as angry as she was earlier; he hopes that it is also a show in the depth of her feelings for him.

He drives on for a while, holding on to her hand, watching the scenery as it passes. Trees spring up on either side of the road, the darkness hiding the blooming greens and oranges and reds. The night is bright, stars dotting the sky like glitter on midnight satin, the hum of music, a grape was made to grow on a vine, an apple was made to grow on a tree, acting like a score to a movie scene Ichabod doesn’t fully understand yet.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asks, several long minutes later..

He shrugs. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

He takes note of where they are now, a few miles away from the edge of the city, from an area that features a pedestrian made driving trail overlooking the city. He must be driving on autopilot, to the place he’d found when he and Abigail were in the thick of their dalliance, a place he would go to think about whether he could ever be able to get her to commit to him or if she was satisfied just using him to abate her loneliness—a loneliness that he too had felt, one that had begun to recede every time she wound up in his bed. It leads to a hilltop lookout, with the river in the distance and the city a touch closer and a view that’s likely soothed heavy a heart.

“When I was a boy,” he explains, “I had a bit of a temper. Eventually, I think it’s what partly got me sent off to boarding school, but before all of that, whenever I was feeling pissed off, Father would put me in a car and drive around until I was either calmed down or ready to talk.”

There’s a weighty pause before she wonders, “Well, we were already talking so did you get me in here so that you could calm me down?”

“We weren’t talking,” he says softly. “We were yelling. I’m calming us both down.”

He chances another look at her, a quick glance taking in the delicateness of her features: the soft arch of her eyebrows, the broad line of her nose, the fullness of her mouth; the deep mocha of her eyes set into the maple of her skin, all of it a picture of elegance, even in her displeasure.

It makes him think of the last six months, of the last two years. Of the dalliances with the ladies at university that had never felt quite real. Of the vacillating efforts of the woman who’d become his wife, only for her to decide that she shouldn’t have tried at all. Of the pleasure of meeting Abigail, the pleasure of her friendship, the pleasure between her thighs. Of all the years, the laughter and the confusion, the pleasure and the pain, that have readied him for her. Of the love he has for her.

The idea of love has always fascinated Ichabod. He’d seen it in his parents, in their own way, a functional sort of love that had stemmed from mutual goals and steady affection. He’d seen it in Abraham and in other men at university, with any of a number of women, categorized by dizzying lust and misleading interest. He even thinks he had recognized it with Katrina, in their too simple interactions and their easy, if boring, conversations. In every instance, he’d seen it all as true, even if it meant spending weeks apart like his parents, or going all in for only months at a time like Abraham, or short-lasting like his own marriage.

In the year, though, since he and Abigail have been more than friends, and the months that they’ve become more than late trysts in the still of the night, he’s discovered a different kind of love:

one that is nights curled together on a worn-in couch while home improvement television shows play in the background;

one that is early morning smiles over coffee, where previously unnamed wants and desires are consumed as easily as the dark roast in their mugs;

one that is touch—his hands on her wherever he can get them and her eyes that study him when she thinks he isn’t looking, the burn of it as potent as if her hands were on him too;

one that is arguments, some she starts or, like this one, ones he does, eyes blazing and bodies tense and words never before said spewed like lava;

one that is longevity, because she is tattooed into Ichabod’s skin, into his soul even, and there’s no way that this doesn’t last, not when it feels like this—

(like a woman digging through grief to prove herself of love; like a man navigating the insecurities that come from failed ones)

— messy and honest… so much more honest now.

It’s that honesty that had caused the swell of anger—of, really, discomfort and doubt and disquiet—that had started this whole thing, that makes her mutter now,

“I feel like you don’t trust me.”

The words hit, and he understands where they’re coming from, ashamed to have been the catalyst. The thought makes him angry, at himself mostly. He doesn't respond, not yet, not as he turns down the darkened trail, lit only by the bright lights of his truck, by the lights of the town peaking over the horizon.

Tonight, they’d been at a party, or rather, a cocktail hour put on by the university, a way to engage and relax at the end of midterms before everyone dispersed for the weeklong spring break holiday. Abigail had met him there, after a stop for appetizers with her girlfriends. Ichabod had had to rush from a rather distressing meeting with one of his students regarding a midterm grade, walking hurriedly into the ballroom because, despite her ventures into the real world, she is not always comfortable alone with all of his colleagues.

He’d found her easily, as if a beacon hovered above her, a pathway laid out for only him. She’d been a vision in yellow, the long-sleeved silk dress wrapped lovingly around her body and fluttering down to her calves, tall gold shoes strapping around her ankles. Her back had been to him as she’d moved forward, but he always knows when it’s her—knows the curve of her waist like he knows his hand, knows the gait of her walk like he knows the way he feels for her.

He’d moved toward her, and only when he was closer had he seen the man standing near a corner in front of her, in a tailored suit and a charming smile, his hand lingering on her elbow. They’d been laughing, Abigail's mouth turned up wide, and Ichabod had wondered, if only for a moment, whether she laughs with him like that. He’d wondered, for longer than a moment, what her response would have been if he hadn’t walked up in time to hear the man say “...take you out sometime?”

He can admit, now, that that had angered him, had blinded him to the way she’d immediately turned to him, her big eyes shining, a smile quite like delight curving her mouth.

“Crane,” she’d greeted, his name like honey dripping from her lips, a not uncommon phenomenon since they’ve been official.

He and the other man had been introduced, as Ichabod Crane, History professor, and William Jones, adjunct Biology professor, and the qualifier of his job instead of their relationship, even as she had run her slowly hand over his chest to straighten the lapel of his jacket, had made everything appear a little green.

When they’d gotten home, and they’d barely made it out of their clothes, he’d picked the fight, asking aloud if she’d been interested in his offer of being taken out sometime, if she’d prefer someone with skin like hers and who’d seemed to make her laugh with abandon. It hadn’t been pretty, especially when she’d ripped into him about unfounded accusations and petty jealousies, the look of hurt on her face one he’s never seen, one he hopes never to see again.

He does not know how to explain what he’d been feeling earlier, cannot say why irrationality had come in and settled heavily in his chest—there as he and Abigail had swung around the bar, speaking to his coworkers, some of whom Abigail has built relationships as she’s sought advice on her next career or educational moves. It’d been there as they’d ridden home in near silence, Abigail shooting him questioning glances the entire way. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep—because midterms and new administrative expectations and a group of students who’ve taken the word of internet philosophers over the research he’s diligent in relaying have made sleep but a memory. Maybe it’s because they haven’t spent much real time together lately—because when he falls into bed after marking papers, she’s already asleep, her scarf tied tight over her head. Maybe it’s dread—because in him there’s a sort of trepidation that, as they truly settle into domesticity, as Abigail grows and blooms and laughs, she’ll realize that she’s more for this world, that she no longer finds the same comfort in him, that she no longer needs him as her crutch any longer. Maybe he’s not actually what she wants—after all, his parents hadn’t wanted him to stick around, his friendship with Abraham had fizzled as the man left for greener pastures the moment university ended, Katrina had found someone more to her liking. It could be either of those. It could be all.

Ichabod turns to her, finally, noting the way her eyes are watching him, waiting for an acknowledgement of her statement. She’s still in her makeup from earlier—the dark liner around her eyes, the mascara that lengthens her eyelashes until they kiss her cheeks every time she blinks. Her hair is in tight, long twists that fall near to her derrière, gold beads sparsed through the locs. He’s enamored with the look of it, the feel of it brushing his face when she kisses him, on his chest and shoulders when she’s leaning into him, hips writhing on top of him. He’s enamored by her, by her beauty and strength, and it’s the first time he’s ever felt quite like this: like his world rights every time he looks into her face, or as if it all shoots up into flames at her touch. Like he’s somehow hot and cold at the same time: the warmth reminiscent of a warm blanket, wrapped around him in the dead of winter, the cold a shock to his system—making him feel open and alive. It’s the sort of romantic love he’s never had, never even seen outside of romantic movies he’s watched before.

It’s intoxicating and he loves it.

Ichabod just doesn’t want to be in it alone.

“Do you remember,” he starts, quietly. She turns at the sound of his voice, getting comfortable enough to listen, her back now to the door of the truck, her socked feet crossed, her hands hidden in the sleeves of his sweatshirt she’d grabbed instead of her own jacket. “Do you remember when you went for drinks with that other man and you said that you were with him because it was easier?”

“Sure,” she responds, cautious.

“And do you still think that? That being with me is…difficult?”

The quiet spans, and in it, he can hear the phantom rustle of the song that played earlier, as sure as there are stars above; i know, i know you were made for me; we’ll have quarrels, but what can i do?; you’ve been mine ever since i met you. In it, he can see her walking away this time, slamming the door on him like he’d done to her what seems like so many many moons ago.

“Crane, what is this about?

“Answer me please, Abigail”

He keeps his gaze on hers, even as he finds he wants to look away at the thought of her response. She tilts her head.

Abigail has said before, in a way that somehow had been both a joke and not, that he’s observant, able to see through her how others cannot. That is not wholly true. He is able to see what lies within himself—the same ache to be loved; the same fear that he would never be. But it is she who gazes at him as if she has found the answer to whatever conundrum in the depths of his ocean blue eyes, as if she can quite literally read him (scanning the arch of his brows, the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth) until she’s got it all figured out.

She reads and he waits. The tides have turned, he muses, from mere months ago, when he’d bite his tongue so as not to spook her; he wonders if she’s there now, tempering her words because they might not be what he wants to hear.

“I think that you think I find being with you too hard,” she eventually says. “That I’m going to leave you because we’re not necessarily easy.” Her voice rises. “But should I remind you that you left me first. That I was being the difficult one and you didn’t want…”

“I left because you were kissing another man.” He doesn’t shout it, but the heat is there, he can tell by her response, her eyes flashing at him. He continues, contrite, his voice softer this time.

“Tonight, the way you were with William, the way you’d laughed with him. It reminded me of before. And I promise that I do not mean to throw it in your face again. You explained and I understand, but I fear that I,” he swallows, gathers his thoughts. “I fear that I am not enough, or maybe too much, and I…” He shakes his head, because he doesn’t know how to finish, or even if he should. But then she’s there, crawling over to him across the console, and then onto him, settling herself right above him. Despite her curves, she’s a little thing so she fits, if not comfortably, fully, into the space between Ichabod and the steering wheel, especially when he slides the seat as far as it goes.

She wiggles a moment, adjusting herself so that her knees aren’t pushing into the door or the center console, and then she touches him, reaching up to curve her fingers at the nape of his neck, her thumbs rubbing lightly at his jaw. She presses into him, close enough that he can smell the sweet scent of lavender and rose on her skin; close enough that he can see where the liner under her lids is smudged; close enough that he’s suddenly comforted, the feel of her surrounding him like a balm to his heightened feelings.

“I am so sorry, for ever making you believe that you weren’t enough.” She looks at him, really, those whiskey eyes cataloging his, letting his catalog hers, letting him see the sincerity in them. “And I’m doubly sorry for what Katrina did to you, although I wish I could go to Britain or wherever the fuck just to beat her ass.”

He can’t help the small lifting of the corners of his mouth, though he’s sure his expression is still solemn as he reaches up to loop his fingers around her slim wrists, holding onto her. “How did you know? About Katrina, I mean?”

Abigail lifts her shoulder delicately. “You mentioned once that she had found someone who was enough for her. Which, by the way, was just a shitty way of her saying that she wasn’t good enough for you.”

She pauses for a moment after that, attempting to pull her hands away from his face. She’s in his lap now, the place he loves for her to be above any other, and he’s in no hurry to let her go. He doesn’t allow her to move away, instead looping her arms around his neck before circling his around her waist.

“Say it, Treasure,” he urges, because in this regard, at least, he knows she has more to get out.

“Do you really think that I don’t…that I don’t find you charming? That I don’t laugh with you? That I…” her words taper off as she shakes her head before she begins again. “Please don’t think that I want anyone else but you. That man was cute, sure, and the sort of suave that comes from confidence, but he wasn’t you, Crane. You, who feeds me and encourages me and compliments me and makes love to me like it’s the only thing you ever want to do. You, who got me to sing again and calls me by full name and makes me laugh because you’re a dork.”

Ichabod snorts at that, something melting in him at her words, at the grin she gives him, so pretty and wide and sweet, a smile he’s only begun seeing in recent months.

“You can’t compliment me at the same time you insult me.”

She tightens her arms around him, bringing them a touch closer. “It’s not an insult if I love the dork.”

And that softens him completely, how easily she says it. “Treasure…”

“When I was out with Cynthia and Sophie earlier,” she interrupts, “ they told me that I was glowing. Glowing, Crane. Because of how happy I am with you. Do you know the last time I glowed?”

“You always glow, love.”

She rolls her eyes at him, though the lilt of her mouth warms him down to his very toes. “Smooth talker.”

“It’s not smooth talking if it’s the truth.”

Abigail hums, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she slides a hand down to his chest, her pearly white painted nails fingering the collar of his shirt. He casts a glance out of the window, at the darkness surrounding the truck, the town lights glittering in the distance. If the windows were down and he listened hard enough, he’s sure that he might be able to hear the sounds of a Friday night, people laughing and talking, music playing on patios, cars rumbling through the streets.

In here, it is just them, with Abigail perched on top of him and the purr of the lyrics like a distant drum in his head, and i’ll never leave you; no, i’ll never leave you. He likes it, likes when it’s just the two of them. Because that’s when he’s less uncertain, when they’re both able to peel their layers and remember how well they fit into one another. He’s always known it, since the moment he’d seen her in Frank and Cynthia’s home, lingering over a platter of fruit in jeans that hugged and eyes that longed. And it had only been confirmed when she’d wiped the tears from her face on a lonely May night and welcomed him home. Because that is what it had felt like to him, what with how perfectly she’d fit into his arms, what with how perfectly he’d fit into her. He’s only just got to remember that they fit in the light of the day too.

“I miss you too, you know.” It is Abigail that breaks the silence again, and when his brow lifts in question, she tells him, “you’ve been so busy. And I’ve been keeping busy so that I don’t just sit around and wait for you. I miss you and you miss me, and we have to make sure that we make time for each other. So that these feelings don’t come up; so that neither of us ever feels like we’re losing the other.”

“I’m sorry, love. About earlier. I do trust you because it was never about him. Or even you, really.”

“You’re enough,” she says earnestly, and she’s barely able to get it out before he kisses her.

It might be one of his favorite pastimes, kissing Abigail.

He loves the feel of her mouth, her full bee-stung lips like pillows against his own. He loves the taste of her, like the candies she sucks after drinking coffee. He thinks of how wholly she gives it back to him, pressing him to her, opening her mouth for him. His insecurities, his doubts, are not assuaged fully because she’s right, they have to work at it. But Ichabod cannot deny that the love he feels for Grace Abigail Mills is returned, in equal measure.

It is not the love of companions, of two people with similar goals who’ve decided to forge a life together;

It is not a lust-filled, fleeting love of people consumed in sex;

It is not a tentative, terse, transient sort of love.

Ichabod knows that that’s true.

Because it feels like they were made for each other.

He feels it when they’re curled against one another on the couch, lost in laughing commentary and thoughtful conversation; lost in cuddling and kissing and intimacy.

He feels it when she’s wrapped around him in bed, her naked flesh warm against his, always accepting his hard length when he reaches for her in the night.

He feels it when he’s reminded of the two years they spent building a friendship, both hidden in their own shadows; when he’s reminded of the months they spent using their bodies to say what they didn’t know how to aloud, screaming orgasms in the place of i need yous. He’s reminded of the months he spent without her in Scotland, nursing his hurt in drink and sleep, realizing that he’d never felt this pain at losing anyone before her.

He feels it when she pulls away from him, mouth swollen and eyes hazy, to tell him, “I love you, Crane. I’m in love with you and only you, because I swear that you were made for me. There’s a reason that you came here when you did. I was okay with burying myself in grief until you made me realize how much brighter my life would be with you in it. You are it for me, Crane. It’s you, baby.”

He kisses her again at that, harder this time, hot and open and wet. He grips her waist, likely squeezing her too hard, but she only moans in response, a soft but heady sound. She rocks against him, just a light tilt of her hips, and it’s his answering groan that starts it for them. He glides a hand up her back, along the deep curve of her spine, until he can gather the ends of her locs in his hand. He twists them gently around his fist, bringing her head back until her neck is exposed to him.

She’d told him once that normally she wouldn’t let him touch her hair like this. That it’s just something Black women don’t always allow. But then she’d tangled his hands in it, whispering to him, “but fuck if it doesn’t make me wet when you pull on it,” and he’d resolved to only touch it like this, to pull it just enough for it to sting, just enough to open her to him.

It works, and she moans “Crane” as he presses his mouth to the skin of her neck. She tastes sweet, with just a hint of salt, and he nearly laps at her, circling his tongue in the space right above where neck and shoulder meet. He nips at her, soothes the hint of hurt with his tongue again, loves the way she starts to writhe in his lap—back arching and hips rotating and his cock swelling beneath her.

She pushes her own hands into his hair, the tresses a touch longer on top than they are on the sides, cleaned up around the edges. She doesn’t pull, but instead she curls her fingers into the tresses, her nails scratching lightly, the move felt in his hammering heart, his heated flesh. She holds onto him and then leans down to kiss him, open mouthed and wet.

“Take off your clothes, Treasure,” he pulls back enough to say against her mouth.

She licks her lips, gives him a smirk. “You mean to do this here?” she asks, the touch of his accent in her words, and he smiles at her, even as he taps her hip and whispers, “yes.”

She has to climb off of him to do so, and he can’t gather the will to care about how slightly ungraceful she looks as she pulls her clothes off, because he’s watching every inch of skin that’s exposed. She pulls the t-shirt and his sweatshirt off in one go, shrugging out of the material. The skin of her shoulders is smooth, a deep, silky brown leading down to small breasts, still somehow full and tipped with even darker nipples, such a fascinating contrast to his lightly tanned skin flushed red. He shrugs out of his own shirt and jacket, pushes his sweatpants down to just over his knees, his dick popping free, hard and thick and waiting for her. And still, he watches as her removed clothes reveal the curves of her body, softer now since she’s only kept the running part of her workout regime, a little plumper too, only a touch in the belly, and mostly in her hips and thighs, the latter of which he clutches as she climbs back on top of him.

When she slides down onto him, the world blanks. He closes his eyes and all he feels is Abigail; he’s surrounded by her: the touch of her hands on his shoulders as she descends until he’s bottomed out in her; the smell of her skin and her arousal, like warm, heady roses. He revels in it, for a moment, in the heat of her, in the wet of her, in the softness of her, and then he opens his eyes to her.

The way that she looks at him cannot be feigned; he knows it can’t because even when other women had claimed to love him, they’d never quite looked at him like she does. Even when she claimed to only need his body, he’d seen it. And now, they haven’t even really begun yet and her eyes are low, so low, that he can barely see her irises, can barely see that they’ve gone that chocolate brown that denotes her arousal, but he can, and in them he sees desire and lust and love, that evident in the part of her lips and the flush in her cheeks and how she barely takes her eyes off of him.

“I love the way you look when you’re fucking me,” she says, her voice just above a whisper, and it’s like the words were taken right from his lips.

This is new, how she tells him things when they’re together. He thinks it’s because she finds it easier to tell him things when they’re wrapped in passion, when they’re both stripped bare in every way that counts.

“Yeah?”

He sits back and watches her, almost lazily, the way her thighs flex when she rises, the way she bites at her lips when she slides back down. She breathes out when she comes down again, and pauses just long enough to change their rhythm. She leans closer, so that her breasts, the hard tips of her nipples, are brushing against his chest. She hovers in front of him, her locs falling over her bare shoulders, caressing his. Instead of up and down, she just swivels her hips, rocking back and forth, rocking in tight circles, fucking herself on him. He bites his lip at the sensation, at the way her pussy clenches delicately, dripping at the way he steels in response, at how bloody wet she gets when she rides him like this.

“Tell me what I look like, love.” His voice is a hoarse whisper, the sound like gravel on sandpaper, even to his own ears. He keeps watching, keeps his eyes on all of that smooth brown skin, on the trimmed bit of hair covering where his swollen cock is buried inside of her, but he touches her again now. He trails his fingers along her biceps, over her forearms and back up. He caresses her clavicle, delighting in the satiny skin over bone, down the middle of her torso. He dallies at her belly, along the lines of her waist, because he knows how sensitive she is there, and how much he likes loving on her scars, on those places she might otherwise hide if he let her.

“Tell me, love,” he urges, looking back up at her.

“You look at me like I’m the only thing you see. Your eyes turn almost navy and y-you…” her voice stutters out when his fingers touch her clit. He gathers up some of her slick on his fingers, grazing where she’s wet her thighs and his, and then he rubs the hardened nerve.

“And I?” he wonders, wanting to know, needing to know.

She chokes out something that sounds like both a laugh and a sob. “I-I can’t even think when you, when you do t-that.”

“So should I stop then?”

He pulls his hand away, meaning to give himself back some time, but she grabs his hand and, in a clear show of who runs all of this, places it back on her clit.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she murmurs.

His smile is dirty, a tilt of his lips and a blaze in his eyes. He moves his hand again, but this time, he trails the wetness back up her belly, leaving a line of her own essence on her skin, before curving a hand behind her neck, his thumb pressing lightly against her throat.

He brings himself into this fight now too, thrusting up into her as she grinds down on him. She cannot answer him, or if she does, it only comes out in series of mewls mixed with her own staggered mutterings, “god, Crane, you feel so so so, fuck.”

They’re close, as close as he always wants her to be. He licks his lips

“And you,” she manages, swallowing a cry. “You look like a man in love.”

“I am, Treasure. In love, with the only one I see.”

She blinks down at him, eyes shuttered in the way that lets Ichabod know that she’s close. That and the way her hips move, in a dizzy sort of rhythm, chasing after her release.

“No,” he whispers, holding on to her, lightly still at her neck, harder on her hips. “Stay with me.”

She does, eyes near slits that stay on his face as his take her in too. She’s so bloody beautiful that Ichabod often finds himself lost in it, and he cannot say that he cares, that he’d rather be lost in anyone but her. Sometimes he feels obsessed with her, with how much he needs to be with her, with how much he wants to flay himself open so that she can crawl inside and he never has to let her out of his sight.

“Stay with me,” he whispers again. And he knows by the way she leans into him that she understands he doesn’t just mean right now, that he’s not just asking her to keep her eyes open.

“Always, Ichabod,” she responds, the slightest tilt of a smile on her face. She really only says his name when she’s making love to him—or, like earlier, when she’s pissed at him—but he likes it infinitely more like this, when the timbre of her voice softens and her body melts into his, pliant and yielding. He can hear it again, the song in his ear, as sure as there’s a heaven up above me; from you, i know i’ll never be free, and it sounds like her singing to him, just the same as her breathing out, “now make me come, baby.”

They rock together, as sure as there are stars above; i know, i know you were made for me, breathing each other in, clutching at one another like a lifeline. Her orgasm draws near, her pussy clutching erratically around him, and the sharp heaviness in his scrotum tells that he’s right there too. Abigail digs her nails into shoulders and he presses his fingers hard into the skin of her hips, and he doesn’t know who comes first, or if they come at the same time, but they’re both there in the moment, Abigail flooding him as he spills himself inside of her, the sound of both of them singing “oohhhh,” like the crescendo to the music of their love making.

She doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she falls into him, her breathing heavy, their bodies slick with sweat. The fingers on one of her hands scratch very lightly at his scalp, and it could be a minute or it could be five, before she begins to hum, singing softly, “we’ll have our quarrels, and you’ll upset me. But what can I do? You’ve been mine ever since I met you. And I’ll never, never, never, never, never. Never leave you.”

She presses a kiss to his throat when she’s done with the verse, and he remembers the song that had played when they’d first gotten into the car.

“Who is the artist?” Crane asks quietly.

“Sam Cooke,” she says. “One of my dad’s favorites.”

“Oh?” He shifts so that he can wrap both of his arms around her. It’s becoming uncomfortable in the truck like this, but he wants just a couple more minutes. “My father enjoyed the Beatles, as cliché as it is.”

“Hmm.” She lifts her head to catch his eyes. “You don’t talk about your parents all that much,” she declares. "Other than to say that y'all only talk every so often."

“Well how about we get back home and I can tell you a little more. And then you can sing to me again.”

She laughs, and it’s a brilliant sound. “Alright. But I’m not singing Janet to you tonight. I’m too tired for another round of this.”

He kisses her soundly on the mouth before he lets her climb off of him. “We’ll see, Treasure.”

“As sure as there’s a heaven up above me

From you I know I’ll never be free, no, no

As sure as there are stars above me

I know, I know you were made for me”

#ichabbie #ichabbie fanfiction #sleepy hollow fanfiction #ichabod x abbie #meant for me #in the still of the night

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hes-writer · 4 years

Text

Trial (4)

Summary: harry and y/n face the truth

Warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff

Word Count: 4249 words

A/N: thank you so much for supporting this series !! @devilinbetweenthesheet-s. I will do the taglist later in the day :)

EDIT: idk why the ‘read more’ is not working. I apologize for the scrolling!!

Part 4 of the Tarnish series!

___

Harry was crying.

Admitting his feelings when he was younger was quite a task for him. Now that he was nearly in his thirties, the journey of being vulnerable with himself and with his feelings became easier with each emotion that he permitted himself to submerge in. Harry validated those emotions--he was allowed to experience them because it makes him human. It added texture to the ever-growing mosaic that painted who he was as an individual. Adding to the people that surrounded him, influenced by their kind-nature and the goodness of their heart to become who he was now.

And now, it seemed like his emotions increased tenfold. The clench of his abdomen and the harsh jolt of his chest forced his slouched shoulder to stay deflated. His breathing hitched as sobs threatened to take over, throat sore with the effort to keep it all in because Harry was smart enough to know that these emotions coursing through him right now were ones he wasn’t validated to feel. Paired with the latest information that that little girl being held by another man was his own daughter--and that the woman who was glowing with her caring, motherly-instincts was supposed to be his family; it broke him completely.

Quaking thoughts circled his brain and punctured his muscles as if they were attacking him not only mentally, but physically as well in exchange for his past mistakes that he couldn’t quite place if he deeply regretted or not. Was it a mistake to cheat on Y/N? To leave her alone in the exposure of the public eye while she was carrying his child in her tummy?

Harry should have known the day she fell sick and vomited in their kitchen sink. He was, sadly, too busy throwing a subdued celebration of finally having time alone with Camille. He should have noticed the way her face brightened with radiance. Or the way her cravings for strawberries and pickles either grossed her out or completely compelled her to consume more than she usually would.

But Harry guessed that that was around the time his efforts went out the window because he didn’t have to pretend to care as much anymore. Camille appeared to be his one and only. With their relationship coming so close to being revealed and Y/N having one foot out the door, Harry let fate play out the rest. Don’t get him wrong, Harry still loved Camille; that was why his slashed heart still throbbed at the sight of her watching over her little cousin, yet knowing that the topic of children was still not a card on the table.

The distress that he was feeling right now was core-shredding, heartbreaking grief that left a hole in his heart. The worst part was that Harry didn’t exactly know how to fix it or whether he even could. As he walked to his car with hands jammed into his pockets, he was grateful that the hood of his sweater hid his face and the tears sliding down the slope of his cheeks.

His senses were in overdrive, figuring out how to fix the mess he created. Wanting to run up to Y/N and ask her why she didn’t tell him, needing to feel his little girl in his arms. Pinching his skin to transfer the pain he felt in his heart because of the thought that he missed his baby’s first words, her first steps. Was it ‘dada’ that babbled out of her mouth? Did she reach out for Connor when she stumbled over nothing when she walked on stubby legs? Did Y/N mention his name to her?

“Harry!”

He kept on walking despite the hushed call of his name, assuming that it was a fan that caught sight of him and wanted a picture. Harry adores them, but now is hardly the time to fake a smile or act like his life didn’t just flash right before his eyes--quite literally.

The vehicle beeped as Harry pressed the ‘unlock’ button on his key fob, just about ready to pull the door open and shield himself from prying eyes. He flinched when a hand fell on his shoulder, “Harry,”

He looked up to find Gemma panting, resting her hand on the roof of the car, “Are you. . .alright?” Her drifting eyes inspected his face, tinted a slight pink and moist with the salty liquid dripping from his tear ducts.

Huffing in annoyance, Harry clutched the handle to let himself in. Gemma followed his actions, shutting the door and locking it. The tinted windows of the car provided a semi-private enclosure that was filled with Harry’s sniffling and Gemma’s heavy breathing, trying to catch her breath.

“H-her name is Halo,” Gemma began, gulping when Harry paused his ministrations, straining his ears to listen despite the dull thud occupying his vessels. “She’s almost two years old,”

“You said you didn’t know,” Harry’s gruff tone echoed. Gemma anxiously rubbed the ends of her palms against her jeans. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew all this time and y’didn’t tell me,”

“I-I was--she didn’t want me--”

“Why would she tell you and not me? I’m the one that dated her,” He raised his voice with every syllable he spoke. The frustration he felt from seeing the woman he once loved living the reality they shared together, except he wasn’t anywhere in the picture and that reality was only a fantasy in his life now. “It doesn’t make sense,” He rested his forearms on the wheel, facing the car’s symbol.

“The baby is yours, Harry,”

His head quipped with speed, grazing his forehead on the rounded leather but that pain didn’t amount to the new wave washing over him. “W-what?”

“It’s really not my place to tell,” Gemma said nervously, making eye contact with Harry’s searing yet teary gaze. “She wanted to tell you but you were so happy with Camille. She was posting these things on her Instagram about your trips and Y/N called me crying because you looked so free and happy without her. Y/N didn’t want to ruin what you guys had by dropping this on you,”

"That's-that's my baby?" Harry stuttered over his words while tugging his head out of his memories. Gemma nodded in confirmation. “Then why in the world was she--Halo?--calling him ‘dada’?

“Look, Harry, you’re not stupid. You know why Halo called Connor her dad,” Gemma spoke slowly, “This is a conversation that you need to have with Y/N if she lets you,”

At the mention of the man’s name, Harry couldn’t help but be filled with anger. He barely knew this man yet he received everything that Harry wanted in life. ‘But she’s my kid. I’m her dad. I’m the one who’s supposed to give her kisses and make her laugh,” He mumbled quietly as if his inner thoughts were far too strong to be kept in his mind

He was staring mindlessly at the numbers on his dashboard, hands gripping the leather steering wheel to try and ground himself. "But if that's my baby, how can she call someone who's not her father, dad?" He whipped his head towards Gemma, searching for validation that would make him feel better but the siblings were aware that he lost that title three years ago.

“I think you know you lost that place in their lives,” She reached a comforting hand to pat his arm, feeling just how tense he was under the fabric.

Harry shrugged her off, pinching his brows and pursing his lips as sadness began to swirl down the drain only to be replaced with resentment, irritation and bitterness. The taste on his tongue was hot with anger and his ears felt warm as he wheezed air instead of opting to yell his dissatisfaction near his sister.

“This isn't fair. She's m’baby too. Connor is not her father,” He spat with venom, “I am,” A pointed finger poked his chest. "She knew she was pregnant when she left me. She’s so fuckin’ selfish. How could she do this to me?

Gemma was quick to remind him of his actions, "You cheated on her, Harry.” Gemma cowered back at Harry’s beady eyes glaring at her with an unreadable emotion, stone-cold. “Maybe you should go home. Calm down a little bit,”

“No!” Harry cut Gemma off, “Need t’a hear her say it myself,”

Harry didn’t know what his plan was when he harshly slammed the car door behind him, practically storming on the patches of grass like a mad man. It wasn’t hard to spot the picture-perfect family sitting on a park bench which brought a scowl to his shielded face. He wanted to give Y/N a piece of his mind and it wasn’t necessarily the nicest thoughts that crossed his brain.

Halo was sitting on Connor’s lap while he was feeding her a peeled cupcake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting—-Harry felt like he was punched in the gut. The baked good was Y/N’s specialty and it had a lot of sentimental value to both of them. It was what she baked for their first year together. He could vividly see her frosting-dotted nose, aiming to splotch the cream on his cheek while she laughed. Harry wrapped his arms around her, hugging Y/N from behind and proceeding to kiss her sweet cheek, leaving the perfect opportunity to stain his skin with the frosting.

But he didn’t care if he was smashed headfirst into the cake (as long as it wasn’t ice cream cake)—Harry just wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh heartily.

Y/N was snuggled on Connor’s shoulder, fixing Halo’s hair as she made grabby hands at the confection. He cannot lie--Connor was a handsome man. Harry rarely felt intimidated or insecure, but seeing that this man managed to snatch everything Harry could ever want seemingly in a blink of an eye; Harry felt very jealous.

He pouted, eyes rimmed red and lips quivering wishing that Cory or Connor--whatever that little shit’s name was would disappear so that Harry could take his place instead. Actually, it was his spot in the first place. Only if he didn’t mess up, he thought. He missed Y/N so much! Seeing Y/N in her element of niceness and bright-gleaming smiles sent a truck full of sand down his throat as he gulped his emotion below the surface. The closer he got to them, his vision tunnelled towards Halo; brown, flouncy curls and a cute dimple embedded in her cheek as she giggled, accidentally knocking the cupcake on the ground.

If that wasn’t symbolism staring at Harry straight in the face; a sign that their so-called relationship really had no chance of reprieve. Harry chose to ignore it.

Connor clutched Halo tightly against him, crouching down with a napkin to clean up the scattered cake on the ground. Y/N was the first to notice him, her forehead creasing as her eyes bulged at the sight of Harry walking towards them. She subtly poked at Connor’s arm, hurting Harry even more because it meant that Y/N felt uncomfortable with his presence.

He was close enough to read her pink lips, “We should go,” matched with Y/N’s frantic actions of packing the juice boxes and the Tupperware of cupcakes into the tote bag beside her. Connor searched the park until his gaze landed on Harry, protectively shielding Halo from him.

Is he serious? Harry thought. That’s my own daughter.

Speaking of Halo, the two-year-old happily continued munching on her new cupcake, frowning slightly when Connor stood up, “Why we leaving, Daddy? Did I do somethin’ bad?”

Y/N sighed, they promised that Halo could play at the park all day and now it was cut short because of a certain someone.

“No, you didn’t, bub. Let Daddy explain at home, okay baby?” Connor hitched Halo higher on his hip, hoping that she wouldn’t ask any more questions until the trio left.

“Who’s that?” Halo asked, pointing at Harry only metres away from them. Her stubby finger outstretched at the stranger in front of her, eyes bright and sparkling with curiosity. There was no sign of recognition painting her green orbs.

Harry gulped, wanting so badly to scream “I’m your dad!” but he knew that Y/N will add that to the list of his mistakes he had made.

“No one, angel,” Connor planted a kiss on her head, looking over at Y/N who had finished packing everything up. He tilted his chin in an attempt to scare Harry off.

But the thing was, Harry was already scared. He could feel his stomach in his throat but vomiting wasn’t the right word to describe it. His heart drooped deeper than the levels of the Earth. He was scared because his family was right in front of him but he couldn’t touch them or hug them in his arms. He was only allowed to look from the outside because there was a small possibility of being forgiven.

“Y/N. . .” Harry began hesitantly. The surge of confidence he had decreased with each passing second. He kept a close eye.

Y/N shrugged the strap on her shoulder, “Leave us alone, Harry.”

He felt his anger disappearing, a new emotion cascading his tear ducts and the blood in his veins. Harry looked back in retrospect; she really did mean it when Y/N said that she never wanted him around again. “I just want to talk. Please, let’s talk,”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Harry,” Connor interrupted, grabbing the bag from Y/N and wrapping an arm over her shoulder, guiding them away from Harry. “She’s happy without you, mate. can’t you see?”

Harry kept his gaze trained on Y/N’s face, actively avoiding eye contact but drifted when Halo’s frown caught his stare. The little girl’s chin was hooked over Connor’s shoulder, squirming in his arms in an attempt to stop him from walking. Halo was smart enough to know that Harry’s expression screamed sadness and her mummy said that “you need to find a way to make them happy” if someone was sad.

“Wait!” Her shrill yell caused both Connor and Y/N to turn around. A piece of Harry’s heart shattered on the floor when Halo pulled Connor down by the nape of his neck, small hand leading his ear next to her lips. Then, she did the same to Y/N, pointing at Harry which caused him to straighten his stance, wanting to impress his daughter even though there was no point.

The couple shared a look before ultimately having Connor walk closer to Harry. Halo gripped her cupcake towards him, “‘ere y’go hawwy,’ She still couldn’t pronounce her ‘r’s’ yet.

Harry began to sob.

It was his daughter and those were the first words she had uttered to him. She didn’t know him yet Halo treated him with kindness and it ripped at his chest because Y/N must’ve taught her that. His palms became wet as tears streamed from his eyes, dampening the sleeves of his hoodie. He didn't care about looking foolish in front of them, not when his daughter saw him as a stranger and called Connor her ‘dada’.

Halo recoiled at the sudden reaction, her lips curving downwards, “Dada, mama, he’s cwyin’,” She tucked her face at the junction of Connor’s shoulder and neck, scared that she made him cry. Halo didn’t mean to make him cry. She felt so guilty that she started spilling tears of her own too, her face contorting into a scrunched expression as her mouth wailed open sobs, matching Harry’s.

Harry’s first instinct was to take a step forward and comfort Halo but he was rendered frozen when Connor shot him a glare, shifting Halo’s body out of reach and he could only see her face over the man’s shoulder. Y/N dimmed her eyes, brows pinching when she couldn’t help but let a smidge of sympathy wash over her. She muttered a few words to Connor, pushing him by the small of his back towards the parking lot.

When they were out of earshot, Y/N faced Harry, “What were you thinking? Are you trying to mess everything up again?” He tried to cut in, “Isn’t it bad enough that we’re talking about this in public? Why must you ruin everything, Harry?” She whisper-shouted, trying her best not to garner them any attention.

“N-no, Gemma told me and I jus’ wanted to see her--and you. Wanted to hear the truth come out of your mouth,” His large hands jammed into his pockets to prevent him from fiddling with them.

“Look, you have no right coming here,”

“I know that b-but I--,”

She held a palm up, “I’m not sadistic like you Harry. If you thought that I wouldn’t let you around her then you’re wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, I do miss you and I wish that you were there for us when we needed you,”

“I had no idea--,”

“Will you let me speak?” Her tone carried irritation. “But we’re alright now and we don’t need you anymore.”

Harry never thought that those statements would ever come out of Y/N’s mouth. “Don’t you think I deserve to get to know her?”

She sighed, “Deserve? Definitely not.” He nodded in agreement. “But I’d live in regret if Halo never got to know her real father. . .”

Harry’s expression lit up, hopeful eyes shooting glances at her, “D-does that mea--? Are you--?”

“You can see her. You can get to know her but only because you’re Halo’s father,” Y/N took a brave step forward, ignoring the way her heart throbbed as if she was being stabbed by a thousand knives. Painful memories drifted in and out of her train of thought until she shook her head to muster them out. It was in the past but she could never forget the feeling of hopelessness taking over her whole body.

With a hand on his shoulder, she continued, “Anyone can be a father and you’re just that. Don’t think that you’re entitled to anything more. You will never be her dad. Connor is. Understood?”

Harry took a deep breath and swallowed a heavy gulp, “I. . .understand. Thank you, Y/N. For letting me back in when I don’t deserve it,” He glanced at the two tiny figures piling in the car. He could just imagine himself plucking little Halo into her booster seat, booping her nose as she asked for the hundredth time why she had to sit at the back and not at the front with them.

“I’m not finished,” She deadpanned, “You are going to be there for her. Not for me, not for us because our relationship is over. You can hurt me as you did before and I can accept it but don’t you dare try to hurt her,”

And it was true. Having endured his painful game once before, Y/N was stronger now. She could take heartbreak as agonizing as that but she wouldn’t dare stand seeing Halo’s teary eyes staring back at her, asking why Harry had left them. She was far too young to experience the feeling when a piece of herself is ripped apart.

“I won’t hurt her. I promise,”

“I heard those words come out from your mouth years ago and look where we are now. Once you hurt her, it’s over.”

“Y/N, t-that’s hardly fair. I am her dad, aren’t I?” Harry cleared his throat at Y/N’s raised brow.

“No, you’re not. We just went through this, Harry.”

“Don’t call me that,” He muttered quietly because she only ever called him ‘baby’ or ‘h’.

“Will you stop? I laid out my cards. If you want to even have a speck of presence in her life, then you have to abide by what I said,” She crossed her arms in defence, “You will never be Halo’s dad, Harry. Connor is her dad. I don’t know how many more times I have to repeat this before it gets through you thick head,”

He opened his mouth to talk, “No wiggle room whatsoever?”

“No. Do I have to write a letter for you to understand that?”

In a moment of hurt and despair, Harry spat out, “Might as well, yeah? Waited over two years to tell me anyway,”

“Are you kidding me?”

His throat ran dry, realizing that he just ticked another box to favour against being a part of his daughter’s life, “I-I’m sorry. I didn't mean to,”

“Whatever. Are you willing to make the sacrifice?”

“This isn’t the place to talk about this,” Harry suggested, wanting to have some sort of foot on the ground so he doesn’t feel like he’s topping over with guilt and sadness. “Maybe you can come over to my house,”

Y/N shook her head, glancing briefly at her phone when it buzzed, “No. I will not step foot in that house again. If you really want to discuss it, you can come over at our place,”

“Your place?” Did they all live together? Well, that was another slap to the face. Not only was Connor playing dad to Halo, but he was also part of the household. Harry’s face must have contorted into a grimace because Y/N sighed softly.

“Yes, our place. Meaning all three of us,” She gestured behind her. “I have to go. You can probably get my number from Gemma; you can text me then.”

“Yes, yes! Of course, I want to talk to you. . . about this, I mean,” Harry lowered his enthusiasm. The small voice in his head reverberating that this was not about him and Y/N; this was about Halo.

“And make sure you don��t bring anyone else,” Y/N said sarcastically, subtly pointing in the direction of the paparazzi hiding behind some bushes. Harry was usually good at spotting them but today was just a puddle of hurt and confusion. “I don’t want her having to read nasty things like I did,”

What Y/N said may have been a side comment, but Harry couldn’t help but take it to heart. Was this a good idea? Sure, he wanted to be a present dad in Halo’s life. However, is it worth it to stir unwanted drama? If only he didn’t cheat on Y/N, all of this could have been avoided.

With his mind in a haze, Harry barely noticed Y/N’s figure moving away from him. He jogged to catch up with her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. Harry felt numb to the way she shrugged her touch off of her immediately, “Were you ever going to tell me about our daughter?’

Y/N stared at him quizzically, tilting her head a little bit sideways, “I thought I did? Wait!” A look of recognition plastered across her features, “I did try to tell you but you blocked me before the message sent through,”

Harry gulped with realization. He blearily remembered bitterly blocking her number just as she texted “I need to tell you something,”

___

Y/N: Since you’re not picking up my calls

I need to tell you something

Y/N took a deep breath as her thumbs tapped on the letters slowly as if to withhold the news from him. She was not at all ready to reveal that she was pregnant and that he was the father but Y/N knew that it was the right thing to do. Despite the fact that he was currently out of the country on vacation somewhere on an island with sandy beaches with Camille. Y/N was aware that this spike of courage was rare and so, she had to do it now.

Y/N: I’m pregnant

And you’re the father

She locked the device as soon as she pressed the arrow to send the message, clutching the phone close to her chest and shutting her eyes so tightly that it hurt. Minutes passed with no response and Y/N was shouldered by curiosity to check if he had sent anything back or simply left her on ‘seen’.

It was neither. The screaming red exclamation mark surrounded by a circle indicated that she had been blocked.

___

The times when she left missed calls on his phone were for a reason much bigger than the two of them. Y/N didn’t call to beg for him back or to ask Harry to want her again. He was ashamed to admit that he had rolled his eyes upwards every time he clicked on a voicemail she had left, stating, “Hey H, it’s me. Call me back when you hear this. I need to talk to you,” which he deleted without a second thought. She didn’t text him endlessly to politely ask for her things packed and settled for her pick-up because Y/N could not bear to spend another second in a room with him.

It wasn’t that at all.

Y/N was physically moving farther and farther away from him, settling herself into the car before driving off to hers and Connor’s shared house. Halo sat in the backseat, singing along to the radio.

Harry was surrounded amidst the joyful squeals of children and reprimanding voices of their parents.

He stood alone with no one but loneliness by his side and the brisk flash of cameras in his peripherals.

_____

Let me know what you thought!

———

Permanent Taglist: @splendidsunsetx @swagmoneymaya @textingharry @arypesanchez @theresthingsthatwellneverknow @mellamolayla @luviewoo

#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles fanfic #harry styles series #harry styles angst #harry styles x y/n

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kaiba-cave · 3 years

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So our like, four hour trip to ikea (an hour there, two hours in the store, an hour back) yesterday ended up being an all day event because on the drive home, there was a big accident on the highway, all the lanes were closed, and the traffic was backed up pretty much right to the city we were in.

The one hour drive home turned into THREE HOURS of just sitting in traffic barely moving. By the time we got to the exit where they were re-routing traffic and finally got off the highway, it was still slow going because all three lanes of highway traffic were merging into one so we could all exit at the same area. Then we all had to drive through freaking middle of nowhere farm/orchard/vineyard/greenhouse land trying to find a different way home.

We would’ve been home by around 4 or 4:30 and instead didn’t get back until 8.

Also we decided to drive my Pa’s car because it’s an SUV so having any large boxes in it would be more comfortable than in my car. We measured the car and knew the stuff would fit in it, we just thought it’d be easier with the SUV. Not so.

When I went to open the back door to put our stuff in, the handle broke right off. And I could not figure out a way to get that freaking door open without the handle. I couldn’t find a handle on the inside, I couldn’t find a button anywhere near the steering wheel to open the back trunk, only the hood. I didn’t have the key fob, just the regular key, so I couldn’t pop it that way. We ended up being able to juuuust get it in through the door and slide it into the back. In the end it would’ve been easier to just drive my car.

We also forgot that my Pa’s car’s air conditioning doesn’t work unless you’re driving relatively fast??? I have no idea what the correlation is there, but if you’re driving slower than like, 60 km/h, the air that comes out is warm. If you’re going faster? Regular cold A/C air. This was fine on the way there because it was mostly highway driving where we were going fast enough. NOT SO on the drive home where we were stuck in 2 km/h traffic for three hours and just had to endure the heat with the windows open where we got a breeze that lasted half a second every half an hour or so.

I also hadn’t eaten or drank anything since like 12 am the night before so I was dying of hunger and especially thirst since I’d been super hot at ikea. I didn’t get a drink there because I wanted to just get out of the store and get my mask off, and figured I could wait the 45 minutes it would have take for us to get back to Niagara Falls. 😑

So that was fun.

But hey I got my birthday present. I had been debating between a new bookcase or a glass display case for my figures and had decided on the bookcase. But when I saw the glass case in the showroom I liked it a lot so I decided to get that instead lmao. Now I’ll have somewhere to put all my anime figures without my cat being able to knock them down and break them.

I also got one of those tiny wooden beds they have in the kid’s section, except a lot of people buy them to use as pet beds. I always wanted to get one for Ralph because the wood isn’t painted or anything, so he could have safely chewed on it, but I never got around to it. So I got it for my cat instead, lmao. We’ll see if she even uses it.

#text

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shapeofsuffering · 3 years

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i was tagged by @oceanmoss (ilysm sahar!! 💞💕) to spell out my url with songs! ((this is gonna take ages sahar if u hate me u could’ve just said fjfkgk)

scarecrow - mcr / hate to see your heart break - paramore / about a girl - the academy is... / paparazzi - lady gaga - eez eh - kasabian / one eighty by summer - taking back sunday / fantastic bastards - death spells / sleep - mcr / universally speaking - red hot chilli peppers / from now on we are enemies - fob / father’s song - prince / edge of seventeen - stevie nicks / remedy - frank iero and the whatever / inordinary - hayley williams / no shows - gerard way / guilty pleasure - cobra starship

I tag (and I’m so sorry for tagging you in such a long ass post jffkfk) @desert-scng @iero @awsugar @i-wish-i-was-a-ghost and anyone else that wants to do it

#love a good tag #thoughts

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ivegotthefanficinme · 4 years

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Freedom Part 1 Mandalorian X Reader

Summary: An escaped slave owned by the Hutt clan, with the knowledge of dark clan secrets. A bounty is set and the best hunter in the parsec is hired, The Mandalorian. Two vastly different paths cross. Both are scarred physically and mentally by their past. Can they ever truly be free? *SLOW BURN*

Warnings: Blood, Mentions of slavery, PTSD, Rape implications

Parts: Part 1 (You are here), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

You shivered in the cold night, pulling what thin clothes you had around yourself tighter. You hadn't thought about the cold nights in the desert, only of the sweltering hot days.

Sitting under a small ledge of rock you scoot closer to the fire, exhaustion settling into your tired body.

You had run so far... you think to yourself. Running for days without sleep, too afraid to stop.

The chills intensify and you scoot closer once more to the fire. Wincing as you move, the pain in your side still hasn't subsided.

"At least if I freeze to death out here, it will be on my own terms. I'll die free," You mutter to yourself, warming your hands close to the flame. "Either that or I'll bleed to death."

"Now we can't have either of those," a voice says suddenly.

You draw a small knife, jumping to your feet.

"Who's there?" You ask, glancing around but the light of the fire isn't enough to see more than your close surroundings.

Into the light steps a man in gleaming armor, his chest plate perfectly molded to his body and his head covered in a shining helmet.

You have seen these types of soldiers before, long ago. The name on the tip of your tongue but unable to place it.

You hold your small knife up at him, "What do you want?"

"I'm here to take you back."

"No," you shake your head, "you can't take me back there."

"I can, and I will," he says gruffly, his voice modulated by his helmet.

"I won't let you!" You step out slashing at him with your knife. You scream when a sudden searing pain shoots up your side.

"You bastard!" You crumple to your knees.

"I didn't touch you. You must have reopened that wound on your side," he says.

You groan in pain.

"How do you know it's me your after, bounty hunter?" You move so you lean against the rocks, holding your side, residing yourself to not trying to fight him off, at least for now.

"Puck, and a fob, but a visual confirmation is required."

Your eyes widen. Shit, you think, this isn't good.

The two of you are silent for a few moments, sizing each other up.

An easy target, he thinks as he sits down on the opposite side of the fire.

You watch him closely, your Y/C/H hanging in locks over your eyes.

Maybe, you think to yourself, he can be reasoned with.

"You can't take me back there," you say.

He shrugs, "I need to get paid, there's a hefty price on your head."

"Please," you beg, "Don't take me back."

"All my bounties beg, what's so different about you?"

"Because they are the ones that are bad, I just managed to escape," you say.

The man, who you have finally remembered the name for, Mandalorian, doesn't say a word.

"I'll give you anything," you reach into your bag. "You want money? Take everything I have," you toss him a small bag filled with coins.

He still doesn't move, just watched you silently.

"You want my body? It's nothing that hasn't been done to me before."

You stand, turning your back to him as you take off the long, thin cloak you had been wearing.

The Mandalorian bites his lip under his helmet, stifling a gasp.

Your back is littered with scars, gleaming white from the light of the fire.

The Mandalorian stands, quickly making his way around the fire.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in your heat. The scraps of cloth you wear now barely cover you.

As the Mandalorian gets closer he sees something on your left shoulder blade, a burn, long scarred over.

You know what he sees.

"Five years ago I was branded. I will forever wear the mark of my captors, an H for the Hutts."

You shiver, the cold starting to numb the pain in your side but the blood still drips down onto your once white cloak.

You turn around suddenly, The Mandalorian looking down at you ominously.

"Please don't take me back there. I have been hurt enough by them. Please...." you pause, your lips trembling, whether from pain or emotion, the Mandalorian cannot tell. "If you take me back there, I will kill myself."

"We can't go anywhere tonight anyway. We wait until dawn to travel," the Mandalorian says, forcing himself to step away from you.

Blood still leaks profusely from your wound.

"What is your name?" He asks.

"Number twenty-seven," you answer, starting to sway.

"No, your real name."

"Y/N."

With that, your eyes flutter closed as pain and blood loss overcome your body.

The Mandalorian reaches one arm out catching you. He holds your body in one arm as he ponders what to do while taking a closer look at the slash in your side.

#the mandalorian #mando #baby yoda #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x y/n #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #din djaren #din djaren x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal

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abundanceofsoph · 4 years

Text

SkyFire 3: Chapter 1

Sign of the Times release weekend: 7th-9th April 2017

Word count: 3.7k

And we’re back at it again. Really excited to delve into married life with these two and see what Harry’s solo career will be like for them.

Please reblog and share your thoughts :)

Catch up on Part 1: The First 5 Years and Part 2: The Indefinite Hiatus

>Instagram posts

Aurora tried to stifle her yawn as the conversations flowed around her. She was sitting in the Golden Stag, surrounded by friends and colleagues celebrating the release of Harry’s first single. It had been a long day and it was getting rather late into the evening but she didn’t have the heart to pull Harry away from his friends given how much fun he was having, so she plastered a smile on her face and sipped at her coffee, hoping the caffeine would keep her going a little while longer.

They’d woken up bright and early to cross the river and head to the BBC radio studios in Marylebone. The first interview of the day was thankfully with Harry’s long-time friend Nick Grimshaw and Aurora was happy to be greeted with a hug and steaming hot coffee as soon as the stepped into the studio.

“You’re a legend,” she told him as she took a sip. “Although I think I’d love you more if you could get a better timeslot.”

“But I like morning radio,” Nick pouted.

“And that’s great for you,” Rori chuckled, “but just know that I’m not coming with him for the next one.”

“Well I’m glad you’re here for this one,” Nick replied, gesturing for Rori and Jeff to take the seats waiting for them over against the wall and out of the way while Harry sat across the desk from Nick, settling headphones over his ears as they got ready.

“Ready Harold?” Nick asked with a cheeky grin.

“Ready Nicholas,” Harry replied, a matching smirk on his face.

“Good morning!” Nick said into the microphone after he was signalled back on air.

“Good morning,” Harry echoed, a slight chuckle in his voice at the energy Nick suddenly had as soon as he was on.

“I feel a bit sick about this,” Grimmy began. “You are no longer - we would say the sentence; Harry Styles from One Direction - you are now Harry Styles, Solo Artist. How does that feel and how does it feel knowing that this is like day 1 of a really important, you know, new chapter in your life?”

“It’s a bit weird…” Harry answered, and Aurora smiled softly at her new husband as he talked to Nick excitedly about the new single and the writing process.

“Now of course I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention something pretty exciting happened 2 weeks ago,” Nick said after a while, throwing a smile to Rori, who returned it with a slight chuckle.

“Ah yeah,” Harry mumbled, blushing as he also glanced over at Rori. “Yeah, I got married.”

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you.”

“It was a lovely day,” Nick said. “We’re joined by the lovely Mrs Styles in the studio this morning and I’ve got to say, it was a wonderful day.”

“It was a pretty great day wasn’t it?” Harry laughed, his gaze flicking between Nick and Aurora. “Glad you had a good time.”

“What’s married life like?”

“So far it just feels like being on holidays,” Harry replied. “We only just got back from our honeymoon yesterday so married life is just laying on a beach so far.”

“Gosh it must be such a hard life to be you Harry.”

“It’s pretty good most of the time,” Harry said. “But sometimes I have to get up ridiculously early for a breakfast radio interview.”

“Well that’s rude.” Harry let out a loud laugh, his noise scrunching up adorably. “That’s alright Harry, we both know the only one mad about how early it is, is your missus over there.”

“Yeah, she’s never been a morning person,” Harry chuckled, mouthing an apology as Rori flipped him off. She sipped on the remainder of her coffee as the topic of conversation moved away from her and back onto Harry with the two men recounting stories from their nights out drinking together until Grimmy finally started to wrap up the interview after about an hour and half.

xXx

After saying goodbye to Nick, the day had been one interview after another and by the end of the day both Aurora and Harry were exhausted and were very much regretting agreeing to a celebratory dinner at the pub. All the usual suspects were present; Anne, Robin and Gemma, Jeff’s wife Glenne, as well as the album’s production team, with Louis and Ella rounding out the group there to celebrate the beginning of Harry’s solo era.

Helen and Greg were happy to host the event and ensured that everyone had a wonderful time, closing the pub to the public and ensuring that everyone, including Harry, were able to drink and party without worrying about prying eyes. Leaving Harry to spend time with his friends, Aurora sat next to Glenne on her left, and Ella on her right. The three women chatted happily as they ate, discussing Ella’s new job she had recently been offered as a sixth form teacher at nearby Wimbledon College for the next school year. She had recently completed her master’s degree and was excited to be starting teaching after summer in the school’s humanities department. Aurora was excited for her friend, knowing that Ella had wanted to be a teacher since the two girls were 8 years old. Glenne was interested to hear more about the British school system and Rori, having experienced both the British and American systems, was always happy to discuss the differences between the two.

Sometime after the meal was finished and everyone was milling around, drinking, laughing and dancing, Aurora looked down the table to where Anne and Robin were chatting with Grimmy. She noted that Robin was looking rather tired and figured that her in-laws would probably be looking to leave well before Harry was finished partying with his friends. She excused herself from her conversation with Ella and Glenne and headed over to her husband, inserting herself into the circle of friends throwing back shots with him beside the bar.

“Can I have your keys please baby?” she asked him once she gained his attention.

“Ya don’t have t’ take m’keys love,” Harry slurred out drunkenly. “I know better than to drive after ‘ve been drinkin.”

“And while I appreciate that, that’s not why I need your keys,” Rori smirked, running her fingers through his hair as he leant his head against her shoulder and clung to her like a koala. “I want to give mum a set of keys to get into the apartment since they’ll be ready to go well before we are.”

“M’kay,” Harry replied, kissing her neck as he fumbled, trying to slip his hand into the right pocket of his checkered trousers.

“Here, let me,” Rori chuckled, swatting his hand away and slipping her own into the pocket to fish out his keys. Once she had them in hand, she attempted to untangle herself from her clingy partner. “Gotta let me go so I can give them the keys, H.”

“No,” he pouted. “Stay here with me.”

“I’ll come right back.”

“Fine,” he huffed, standing back up to his full height and letting go of her waist.

Aurora laughed at his puppy dog eyes and placed a quick kiss to his pouted lips before heading over to Anne and Robin.

Anne and Nick are deep in conversation when she sunk into the empty seat beside Robin, neither noticing her arrival.

“He seems to be having fun,” Robin said, nodding towards Harry.

“I’m glad,” Rori replied, smiling proudly. “He deserves to have everyone celebrate him.”

“He does,” Robin agreed.

“You doing ok?” Rori asked, taking in his exhausted expression.

“Just getting a bit old to party all night,” he joked, attempting to alleviate the concern he could see on his daughter-in-law’s face. “I’ll be alright darling.”

“Well I figured you guys probably wouldn’t want to stay out as late as the party boy,” she said, allowing him to steer the conversation away from the depressing topic of his health and handed him Harry’s keys. “The fob will get you into the garage and then the lift. Green key’s for the front door and both guest rooms have fresh sheets on the beds and towels in the bathrooms so make yourself at home in whichever one you like. I’ll try to keep him quiet when we get home so that he doesn’t wake you up.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, leaning forward to place a quick kiss to her temple. They both broke into giggles as Harry called across the room to her, his voice slurred and a little whiny. “Think you’re needed elsewhere,” Robin chuckled. Rori rolled her eyes with a grin before heading back over to her husbands’ side and allowing him to wrap his arms around her like an octopus.

xXx

Aurora woke up the next morning, her face smooshed into the pillow and Harry’s warm, heavy body pressed along the length of her back, weighing her down into the mattress. She was a little confused at first, given that usually it was Harry’s insistent kisses that would wake her in the morning, but quickly the memory of his drunken state the previous evening popped into the forefront of her head and she remembered why he was currently snoring in her ear. Given that she had half dragged him into the apartment in the early hours of the morning, she wasn’t at all surprised that the usual early bird was still out like a light and she supressed a chuckle as she rolled out from under him and threw on some clothes before making her way out into the kitchen.

“Good morning sweetheart,” Anne greeted in her usual perkiness. Aurora grimaced, squinting against the bright sunshine streaming in from the large windows looking out over the Thames. “Tea?” Anne asked.

“Please,” Rori replied as she collapsed into the seat beside Robin at her dining table. She let out an almighty yawn and then dropped her head down on to her folded arms against the tabletop.

“We didn’t hear you come in,” Robin said. “What time did you finally get him home?”

“I think it was a little after 3,” Rori mumbled, her face still hidden in her arms.

Anne looked her watch, noting that the younger woman had only had about 5 hours sleep. “Here’s your cuppa, love,” she said, placing the mug on the table and rubbing a hand along her back.

“Thank you, Anne,” Rori said, finally sitting back up to take a sip of the steaming drink. “God, I needed this. I’ve got a writing session this afternoon and I’m already regretting scheduling anything for today.”

“How about some bacon and eggs?” Anne offered, smiling warmly at Aurora’s quick nod and pleading eyes. “We were thinking about staying until tomorrow to spend a bit more time with Harry once he’s up but if you’ve got people coming over to work, we can head home.”

“No, No,” Rori replied, shaking her head and yawning again. “We’ll be down the hall in the studio all afternoon so you should stay. I know Harry will want to spend some more time with you both before we kick off the promo tour.”

“As long as you’re sure we won’t be in your way,” Anne said, already returning to the table with Rori’s breakfast.

“Oh god this is good,” Rori moaned around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You’re a saint Anne. An honest to god, saint.”

Aurora was happy to spend some time with her in-laws as they all sat around the dining table waiting for Harry to finally surface. When he eventually did make his way into the kitchen, Aurora couldn’t help but laugh.

“You look like shit baby,” she chuckled, showing absolutely no sympathy for Harry’s awful state.

“S’not nice,” he mumbled, his knuckles rubbing at one of his eyes, his hair sticking out in every direction and a pair of sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. He places a kiss on the top of his wife’s head before falling into the chair next to her. “You should be nicer to me when I’m not feeling well.”

“That rule only applies when you’re feeling poorly,” Rori grinned. “You don’t get any sympathy when you’re hungover because you went too hard last night. This is karma, my love.”

“Can’t believe I married such a bully,” he mumbled, pouting at his wife.

“If I was really so mean I wouldn’t have carried your butt to bed in the early hours of this morning, now would I?” Rori asked. “But how about I make you a coffee? Would that make me a good wife?”

“Make you the best wife,” Harry replied.

Aurora offered him a soft smile as she headed over the island bench and popped a capsule into their coffee machine for him. “Do you want something to eat?”

“I think if I eat anything, I’ll be sick,” he admitted.

“Just a black coffee it is then,” she chuckled. “Don’t forget Tom’s coming over to write this afternoon. Anne and Robin said they’re staying till tomorrow so maybe if you can pull yourself together, the three of you could spend some time together.”

“I thought you were working with him tomorrow before we leave,” Harry said, frowning as she handed him his coffee.

“Doing both hon,” Rori replied, kissing his temple. “We’ve got a busy few months ahead of us so I’m gonna have to squeeze things in around the schedule.” Harry nodded in understanding, still too hungover to enter into a discussion surrounding the hectic schedule on the horizon for them both, instead letting it go and watching as Aurora left the room, heading back towards their bedroom to change.

xXx

Tom arrived a little after 2pm, the doorman letting him into the elevator so that Aurora didn’t need to head down to the lobby to let him in. Aurora hugged him once she let him through the front door. “It’s so good to see you again,” he said as he gave her smaller body a gentle squeeze. “Congrats on the wedding.”

“Thank you,” Rori replied as she stepped back from the hug and gestured for Tom to follow her into the dinning room where Harry and his parents were still milling around the dinning table, however the breakfast dishes had since been cleared and Harry was starting to feel a little bit more human and less like death warmed up. “Tom, my husband Harry,” Aurora said, unable to help the smile at introducing Harry as her husband.

“Great to finally meet you Harry,” Tom said as the two men shook hands. “Congrats on the wedding and the new single mate, it’s an absolute banger.”

“Thank you.” Harry replied with a genuine smile. “These are my parents, Anne and Robin.”

Tom shook Robins hand and kissed Anne on the cheek and then Aurora lead him from the room and down the hall towards the studio.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about You and I,” Tom said as they settled into the studio. “I’ve been messing around with the mix if you wanna hear it.”

“Absolutely,” Rori said with an excited grin.

Tom matched her smile, pulling out his phone and queueing up the rough track. Aurora found herself bopping along as the song played, pleasantly surprised by the drum beat and the drop leading into the chorus. She enjoyed the way that Tom had taken what had begun as an emotional ballad and turned into a something more like a pop-dance track.

“I feel like I can already hear that on the radio,” she said when the song ended.

“I still want to tweak it a bit,” Tom admitted, returning his phone to his jacket pocket.

“Want some advice?” Rori asked, waiting for him to nod before continuing. “Don’t overproduce it. Sometimes you just have to leave it be before you over complicate the track and take away from what makes it great. You’ve got a story here and your voice is what sells it. The synth and the beat bring something to it that I never would have thought of and I honestly think it’s ready now.”

“Really?” Tom asked.

“Really,” she smiled. “I’ve been doing this for a while now and you wouldn’t believe how many songs I’ve seen sabotaged by an artist or their producing getting caught up in the process.”

“You really understand all of this,” Tom said. “You could be dominating the charts if you started holding on to some of this stuff for yourself. Why don’t you?”

“I’m not really interested in chasing the spotlight,” she replied. “I’ve got a big enough one on me already just because of who I am, and I enjoy the collaboration more than being the one centre stage. Besides if I decided to go solo, I wouldn’t be able to tour with Harry and I feel like the pressure to write would stifle me.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Tom agreed. “I appreciate the advice honestly.”

“Anytime, Tom,” Rori said. “You release that track as it is and you’re going to have a hit on your hands. I’ve got friends in breakfast radio that I can probably convince to give it some airtime too.”

“That would be incredible,” Tom smiled brightly. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. But you didn’t come over for advice, let’s get writing and see if we can’t pull another banger out of our arses.”

They spent the afternoon throwing around lyrics and melodies, playing around with anything that came to mind, seeing what would stick until the sun began to set and Tom headed out for the evening. He said farewell to Harry, Anne and Robin on his way out, and he and Rori, reconfirmed their plans for Tom to come back mid-morning the following day to continue working before she and Harry left for New York.

xXx

Sunday was far more productive, with the pair picking up on an idea they had tentatively thrown together the previous afternoon. Slowly the song began to take shape and as the afternoon progressed Aurora hooked up the microphones. They started to record sections of the song, with the piano forming the core, while Tom laid a drum track over the top using his beat pad. They discussed adding a guitar into some of the sections and Tom tried out a few different options before they settled on something that seemed to fit in with the sound they were aiming for. Eventually the progressed to recorded Tom’s vocal track and then sat around playing it back a few times, both with pinched expressions.

“Somethings missing,” Tom pointed out after their third listen.

“I know,” Rori agreed, “but I have no idea what it is.” After a while of moving elements around and trying to add instruments, she huffed in frustration before walking over to the door and yelling out down the hall. “Harry can you come down here a minute please?”

It turned out that she didn’t need to shout however, when Harry’s head popped out of the door to their home office right across the hall.

“What’s up?” He asked

“Oh, sorry. Thought you were at the other end of the house.”

“Nah, came down here after Mum and Robin headed off.”

“Can you come listen to a track and help us work out what’s wrong with it?”

Harry happily agreed and silently listened as they played the track, his thumb and forefinger pinching his bottom lip and his eyebrows creased together as he thought.

“Play it again for me?” he asked when the track ended and Tom hit play, seeming less frustrated by his lack of comment than Aurora was. She shuffled from one foot to the other impatiently as they all listened to the song again in complete silence. “You got the lyrics written down?” he finally asked when the song ended. Tom passed over Aurora’s handwritten lyrics and he scanned across the words, his eyes falling on the pre-chorus. “Try doing a call and response with this section,” Harry suggested after a few minutes. “Rori take the first line and alternate lines and then when you repeat the chorus, Tom take the first one, Rors you sing the second one.”

Aurora looked at Tom questioningly, shrugging as if to say, ‘why not?’ and then watched as he scrubbed through the instrumental track to a bar before the pre-chorus cut in. “Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s go,” Rori replied before clearing her throat.

Tom hit play and a beat later Aurora started singing, Harry smiling and nodding his head as the pair followed his suggestion.

Everything we've been criticizing Well, I don't wanna live like that Overthinking and analysing Never gonna take it back I thought I was winning, but I was dying Everything we never had Losing you is what I want fighting Of all the battles that I've won They don't matter now you're gone Nothing matters now you're gone Of all the battles that I've won They don't matter now you're gone Nothing matters now you're gone

“That’s what you were missing,” Harry said when they finished. “Have fun,” he added, kissing her softly before leaving the studio.

“He’s not wrong,” Tom said with an excited grin. “That sounded great.”

“It does seem to work well as a duet,” Rori agreed. “Guess you’ll have to figure out who to feature on it with you.”

“Think I already did,” Tom replied with a pointed look at her.

“You sure?

“Never been surer,” he said. “You said you like the collaborative aspect of music and there’s nothing more collaborative than a duet now is there?”

“You’ve got a point,” Rori admitted with a blush. “Better start looking at how to split the song up then.”

They both put their heads together, divvying up the verses and trialling out different arrangements over the course of the afternoon, only stopping when Harry returned a few hours later to remind Rori that they needed to leave soon to make their flight.

NEXT CHAPTER

OR CONTINUE READING ON AO3

#skyfire fic #husband harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #dad!tony #ptsd #domestic fluff #iron dad #step dad steve rogers #aurora stark #harry styles #tony stark

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daredevilexchange · 4 years

Photo

Want to be featured here? Head to this page and fill in the form!

See what this is about here, or if you’re using the app here.

What's your fannish ID? brandywine421 on Ao3 ( @brandywine419 on tumblr)

What types of fanworks do you create? I write fic! Constantly! I am productive af, possibly at the expense of quality I'm sure, but for me, I can edit something for days/weeks - but I could be using that time to WRITE MORE FIC so - it's a fair trade for me. Mostly AUs, I love dropping other characters into canon (we need more Miles!) or changing character's histories without losing the core of what makes them our faves.

I really want to learn how to make gifsets but damn, that stuff is HARD. But one day - *nods* - I will have a bunch of gifs of the Defenders flexing their arms with the lyrics to "this aint a scene it's a goddamn arms race" - *nods* - Imma figure it out.

What are your favourite types of fanworks, when you're not creating? I read fic and adore gifsets/moodboards. Mostly fic, tho.

What do you like in particular about this fandom? Matt Murdock brought me to this fandom with his Catholicism and hotness and emo jawline. I saw DDS1 and it didn't 'click' with me - Steve Rogers was my bae at the time - and S2 has Elektra who I heart and the introduction to Frank - but it wasn't until the Defenders smacked me in the face and I, sort of, left Steve for Matt. (Sorry, Cap.)

Matt's just trying his best you know? He's a perfect focus for whump and his character traits make almost any AU I drop him into an experience. I love shipping him with anyone that's not canon and the blind (ha) loyalty between him and his friends - S3 Foggy & Karen & Matt interactions made me squeal - S3 in general sent my muses into a STATE. Every time I try to quit writing Matt (looking at you Geralt, I see you bb) my muses chime in with something new and probably fluffy af to do to him.

Do you like participating in fan events? I do like to play - but it totes stresses me out. :) I write what *I* like to read, so it's always a personal investment when I sign up for exchanges because it's *for* someone else so I want it to be 'better' than my normal output since it's a gift. I much prefer to pinch hit because it's like a surprise prompt and my muses can run with it without giving them the time to stress/obsess about it. My muses are very fickle.

What about your creating process? Ooh. This is a big question that I could take years to answer but yes - particularly the music - I always have a playlist.

If I'm writing plotty things , maybe I try to stick to quiet or Dateline/true crime channel but probably I'll put on my post-rock (the atmo playlist); if I'm writing action - upbeat shit like blackbear/panic/banks, if I'm writing smut - heavier shit like deftones/NIN/mcr, h/c defaults to emo like FOB/TBS/Envy at the Coast (the manpain playlist!) etc.

I have artists I relate to characters, too (21 Pilots/RKS = Matt, 65 Days of Static/Tom Waits = Frank, Hozier/Halsey = Jessica, etc) but I'll stop here.

Do you interact a lot with other fans? I try to comment on Ao3 but tumblr is a learning curve I've never figured out plus I'm not great at using it. I'd love more friends to follow!

Is there any particular piece you'd like to showcase for this post? Maybe check out Manatee - https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442737 - it's one of my fave gen pieces. Or if you're looking for specifically Fratt, there's my flailing romcom series - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1247531

Do you have other fandoms you'd like to talk about? I read fic, that's basically all I do with fandom but if I could put the early seasons of Arrow and Flash in a bubble and cling to them forever, I would. I also love the Merlin fandom just because when I'm feeling down I can immerse myself in thousands of pages of fic where they're happy forever. I miss Primeval and The 4400 and of course, The OC. I love stories/shows about friendship and loyalty and pretty folks doing all the wrong things in the pursuit of doing right. I'm not sure if they have anything common with DD apart from, well, I'm shallow and they had a character I thought was hot. You don't have to use this answer, lol. (DDE: HAHAHAHAHA)

Is there anything else you want to tell us about yourself? I have a short attention span :D

Where can your fanworks be found? I have as of today, 88 posted fics on Ao3 for DD - https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandywine421/pseuds/brandywine421/works?fandom_id=3352745 Thank you, @brandywine419 !

banner by @context-is-for-kingpins !

[ID on a white background, four black triangles that look like spotlights from above. Each illuminates one of the Defenders silhouetted in white: Jessica, Luke, Danny, Matt. A hand on the left is holding a pen writing the words Content Creator Spotlight. There is a little Punisher skull on the pen. End ID]

#Daredevil #daredevil fic #defenders #marvel #the punisher #content creator spotlight

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improvidus · 4 years

Text

Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters | Oneshot

Rating | K+

Warnings | None

Genres | H/C, friendship, family

Characters | Christopher LaSalle, Dwayne Pride

Relationships | Christopher LaSalle x Dwayne Pride (friendship)

Word Count | 3K

Summary: With two full-time jobs and the investigation into his family's company, Christopher LaSalle is beyond exhausted. Pride decides it's time to stage an intervention. Takes place in early S5.

"You always were a party animal."

The team was gone, the bar was closed, the lights were low, and Christopher LaSalle sat alone, the epicenter of a semi-organized explosion of paperwork that spilled across nearly every inch of the table he occupied. At the sound of Pride's voice, he looked up and stretched, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He huffed. "Yeah, well. Not anymore. Lately my nights are filled with a whole lotta...this." He flung out a hand to indicate the chaos surrounding him.

"You've been goin' pretty hard, Christopher. For a long time, now." Pride dragged a chair out and straddled it, gazing at LaSalle with what Percy used to call his 'concerned basset hound' face. "Why don't you head on home? Get some rest."

"I'll be alright, King. I gotta get this stuff squared away with the IRS."

"I know. That's what I'm talkin' about. NCIS, your family's company—" LaSalle appreciated that Pride never referred to it as his company. "You've got two fuller than full-time jobs and now all this, too. You're burning the candle at both ends, and I suspect the middle's gonna catch up wit' you sooner than you're thinkin'."

LaSalle ran a hand over his face. "I know, King. I do. I just—I don't see what I can do different. My family needs LaSalle Enterprises. Not to mention all the employees who're depending on it to keep them and their families afloat. And NCIS…" He trailed off, studying the grain of the wood where a bit of table peeked through the sea of paper. His voice grew quiet. "Well, I need that. Keep me afloat."

When he looked up, Pride's eyes were smiling. "An' we need you. Always. But if you need to take a break an' deal wit' all this—we'll manage. And we'll be around when you're ready to come back."

"I appreciate that, King. But I'm good. Really."

Pride did not appear to be convinced. "Christopher. When was the last time you—"

"The last time I what, slept?" LaSalle bristled. "Don't do that."

Pride drew back a little. "Don't do what?"

"Don't try to take care of me."

Pride let out an incredulous bark of laughter. "Christopher, I'm always gonna take—"

LaSalle cut him off, surprised by the sudden irritation flaring in his chest. "No, I know, that's not what I mean. You're always tryin' to take care of everybody, but you never stop to take care of yourself. At least, not lately. You think I don't see it? I know you, King! How many times, how many cases, have you told me that I couldn't take care of anybody if I wasn't takin' care of myself? Well, I'm pretty dang sure that isn't a principle that applies exclusively to me! I know you haven't been sleeping either, so don't be all up on my back about it!" He took a breath.

Pride was staring at him.

There was an awkward beat.

LaSalle deflated a little. "Look, it's not like I don't wanna sleep. Believe me, I want to. I just…" He let out a mirthless huff. "I don't have time to sleep. And when I do…" He trailed off and shook his head. Pride didn't need to know about the nightmares.

Pride was quiet, waiting for something.

But LaSalle didn't have anything to give him. He tapped his fingers on the table once, twice. Then the fight drained from his shoulders, and he put his head in his hands. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but he felt even more wiped out than he had a few minutes ago.

"Christopher." There was a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head, but a few moments ticked away before his eyes flicked up to meet Pride's. The hurt he had expected to see there was nowhere to be found. Only concern shined back at him. Fourteen years, and the patience of this man still blew him away sometimes.

A wave of regret washed over LaSalle. "I'm sorry, King. I know you're tryin'. It's not fair for me to take this out on you. I just...Well, I wish you'd take some of your own advice every once in a while." A sigh shuddered free, unbidden. "And as far as work goes..." He shook his head and rubbed at his chin. "Well, the truth of the matter is, I'm afraid if I give the company my full attention, it's gonna suck me up and never let me go." He shook his head once more, meeting Pride's eyes, now. "If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon stick around."

Pride smiled, but LaSalle knew him well enough to spot the worry mostly concealed behind the crinkled, twinkling eyes. "Always happy to have you."

LaSalle nodded, somewhat relieved. Then the time, lit up in the lower-right corner of his laptop, caught his eye and he straightened. "Shoot, King! I had no idea what time it was. You must be waitin' to get to bed."

Pride shrugged. "Nah. It's like you said. I haven't been sleepin' much either. You're welcome to keep workin'. Here." He tossed LaSalle a fob of keys and rose, grunting, to his feet. "I'm gonna get a shower. Lock up when you finish?"

"Sure thing."

Pride squeezed LaSalle's shoulders as he passed his chair. "Don't stay up too late."

"Yes, Dad."

Pride chuckled and LaSalle smiled, but then the attic door clicked shut and he was alone with his exhaustion and a mountain of trouble in the form of receipts, bank statements, and a whole lot of zeroes. The glare from his laptop suddenly seemed blinding, and he rubbed at his eyes again as a long-pent up sigh burst from his lips. Times like these, he wished he'd never given up coffee.

***

Dwayne Pride pulled a clean t-shirt over his head and sighed.

Christopher was right; he knew that. It was hypocritical of him to scold his friend for pushing himself too hard when he was doing the same thing to himself. Remove the log from your own eye…

He shook his head. Well, it was easier said than done.

He had seen the exhaustion pulling at Christopher ever since his father's death, since LaSalle Enterprises had fallen squarely on his unwilling shoulders. And in the weeks after Pride had been shot, there had been something else, too—a hollowness in Christopher's eyes amidst the relief, dimming the sparkle he could usually count on finding there. Lines and shadows had formed around his eyes, ones that Pride knew from years past—and more recently, personal experience—meant nightmares.

Like the scars Amelia's bullets had inflicted on Pride's body, the shadows faded over time, but the weariness remained and deepened as the burden of the investigation into LaSalle Enterprises grew in size and weight. Something had to change, and soon.

He could order Christopher to take time off, get things sorted, but he suspected the team was the only thing holding Christopher together right now. His words of fifteen minutes ago were all but an admission.

Pride reached for his towel as an idea took seed in his head. He mulled on it for a minute or two, giving his hair a few brisk shuffles before returning the towel to its hook and heading for the kitchen. If he played his cards right, maybe he could lull Christopher into catching some sleep without his getting wise. It was a temporary fix, but a far sight better than no fix. He opened the squeaky cupboard above the stove and reached for the hot chocolate.

While milk—braced with a generous dose of heavy cream—warmed on the stove, Pride took his Fathers' Day mug from Laurel down from the shelf by the coffee maker. A flash of red caught his eye, and he moved another cup aside to reveal Christopher's Alabama mug. He pulled it down, cracking a grin as he ran his thumb over the slightly scratchy paint of the Crimson Tide emblem. Roll tide. He wasn't actually sure when—or how—the mug had made its way into his kitchen, but he did know it had been there for a very long time. Boy'd probably left it in the truck, or something.

The milk began to hiss and he dropped a few scoops of cocoa in, mixing until the dark globs disappeared. When the mugs were filled, he dunked a stick of cinnamon in each and stirred them around a bit. He paused to wipe up the small mess he had made when he poured the mugs and then headed back down the stairs to collect his drinking partner.

"Chris? I've gotta fresh cup of hot chocolate up here, and it's got your name all—" he reached the last step and looked up, stopping in his tracks. "—over it."

The makeshift workplace was even more disheveled than when he had last seen it. Several of the stacks of paper had been toppled over, loose pages floating to carpet the barroom floor. There was a file folder there, too, its contents fanned out amongst peanut shells and crushed pretzels.

In the middle of this chaos, Christopher LaSalle slept, face pillowed on his keyboard, one arm flung out across the table, the other curled around his laptop.

Pride huffed, a smile lining his face as a feeling too large for his heart to contain swelled in his chest and prickled his eyes. Christopher LaSalle had come such a long way from the angry young detective he had met over a decade ago. He had become family. Pride would trust him with his life—with Laurel's life, even. They had been through hell and back together, and Pride took a moment to thank God for this Jonathan of a friend.

On an impulse, he pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the camera app, turning on the flash before snapping a photo. Neither the sudden burst of light nor the unnecessarily loud shutter sound did anything to rouse the sleeping man. Pride swiped to the photo and grinned. Whether to share with the team or to save for himself, it was a keeper. At the very least, he'd be sending it to Laurel.

He was reluctant to wake his friend, but he reasoned that he'd have a much better chance of sleeping through the night if he did his sleeping on Pride's couch rather than on his keyboard. At the very least, he'd have fewer cricks in the morning.

"Christopher." There was no response, and Pride stepped around the table to try again. Motion on the laptop's screen caught his eye. A text document was open, reading simply, "jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj." Even as he watched, it filled the remainder of the page and moved on to the next. He smirked. "That'll show 'em." Shaking his head, he put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "Chris?" He knelt and shook him a little. "Christopher. Hey, son."

It took a bit more prompting, but eventually Christopher stirred, inhaling sharply. His left eye—his right was squeezed shut by his cheek plastered to the keyboard—cracked open and blinked in confusion for a moment before he frowned and lifted his head. Little squares were imprinted on his cheek where the keys had pressed. A few pages drifted to the floor on the breeze he caused as he sat up.

"Hey." Pride smiled at him and did his best to swallow the laughter that rose in his throat at the bleary grin Christopher offered him in return.

"Hi."

"You sleepin' good there, m'brother?"

Christopher squinted and looked around the empty bar. His frown deepened.

This time, Pride didn't quite manage to catch the chuckle before it escaped. "C'mon, son. Let's get you someplace you can lie down."

Christopher mumbled a hazy "'kay," but Pride was fairly sure the kid hadn't actually understood his words.

He tried again. "Can you get up an' walk wit' me upstairs?"

Christopher nodded. And made no move to comply. In fact, after a moment or two of blinking blankly at Pride, his head returned to the keyboard with a dull clunk. This time, the h key was sent on a marathon.

Shaking his head, Pride allowed himself another chuckle. At the moment, Christopher resembled nothing more than a toddler who'd been awakened too early from a nap. When his eyes fell closed again, Pride stood and took him gently by the arm.

"Alright, okay. Let's go." With some difficulty, he coaxed Christopher up and guided him towards the stairs.

"Case?"

Pride gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Nope. No cases tonight. Just sleep."

Halfway up the stairs, Pride was cursing himself for neglecting to have the new banister installed as he barely managed to catch Christopher when his clumsy steps nearly led him right over the edge. A few stumbles and catches and grunts later, they made it to the top and Pride reached around Christopher to push the door open. He wrestled his friend inside and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Kin'?"

"Yeah, Christopher," Pride strained, doing his best to abort Christopher's collision course with a bookcase.

"'M really tired."

Course corrected, they made their way into the living area. "I know it, Christopher. We're gonna get you some sleep, okay?"

Christopher nodded as Pride propped him in the corner between the wall and the bookcase. "Stay put." When he was sufficiently that convinced Christopher would topple over when he let go of him, Pride turned to gather up the sheet music scattered across the couch and transfer it to the piano bench. "Over here, Christopher."

Christopher obediently sat down on the edge of the couch, hands planted against the cracked leather on either side of him. Pride felt his bewildered gaze on his back as he entered the bedroom and re-emerged with a pillow and a quilt. He placed the pillow against the arm of the couch and patted it. "Lie down."

The younger man shook his head in a petulant way that brought the photo of seven-year-old Christopher, barely-visible in his big brother's football gear, flashing through his mind's eye. Then Christopher set his jaw, and the little boy disappeared. "This ain't right."

Pride frowned. What did that mean? He had no way of knowing if Christopher was referring to his obvious state of disorientation or something deeper, but he decided answers would have to wait until they had both had some sleep. Instead, he looked his friend in the eye and infused his voice with all the conviction he had in him. "This is exactly right." He held Christopher's eyes until he saw a flicker of understanding, and then he gave the pillow another pat. "Now lie down, son."

This time, Christopher complied, face crashing into the pillow, eyes slipping closed—and feet remaining on the floor. Pride waited a moment for him to kick his shoes off and pull them up, but Christopher was still. Like a light, Pride thought with a smirk. Kneeling, he pulled off Christopher's shoes before taking his ankles and swinging them onto the couch. He watched Christopher's face as he shook out the quilt and laid it over the boy.

The weariness that Pride had seen in his face earlier was gone, replaced by an expression so peaceful it bordered on serenity. If before Pride had thought he looked ten years older, he now looked ten years younger. The lines of stress and sadness, engraved by years on a job that had given him a front-row seat to all the worst the world had to offer, were softened in sleep. Only the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth remained distinct, and Pride smiled.

He made one last trip downstairs to lock up and shut off the lights, pausing by Christopher's abandoned workspace. He saved the open documents, opting not to erase the gibberish inflicted by his friend's impromptu nap. Something to tease him about, later. Then he powered down the laptop and put the papers—as much in order as he could figure—back into the accordion folder at the foot of the chair Christopher had occupied.

He carried these things upstairs and placed them alongside his sheet music on the piano bench before the scent of cinnamon and cocoa drew him back to the kitchen. He poured the not-so-hot chocolate into a pitcher, cinnamon and all, and put it in the fridge for another night, another dilemma. His job had been much easier than expected, tonight. A yawn swelled in his throat as he placed the mugs in the sink and filled them with water.

Pride checked on Christopher one more time on his way to his room. He slept soundly, one arm dangling over the edge of the couch, feet up over the arm at the end. The glow from neon lights outside the window cast his face in squares of cool blue and flickering yellow. Pride bent down and took his wrist, gently folding his arm back beneath the quilt. He put a hand on the younger man's back.

"Sweet dreams, Christopher." God knows they're precious.

A few minutes later, he was in his own bed, his partner of years asleep in the next room. Outside, someone played "Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water" on a tenor sax. He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in many weeks, Dwayne Pride slept deeply and free of dreams.

A/N: Welcome to my brand-spankin’-new NOLA blog! This fic is my first foray into this fandom, and I’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts! I’ve got another one well underway, as well as a long-ish series in the brainstorm stages.

The events of this fic are largely based on real-life experiences that I do not recall because I was still so sleepy I was falling all over the place. Ironically, my beta was falling nodding off at her laptop whilst reading about Pride making hot chocolate, which is about the point Christopher was doing the same thing downstairs.

Speaking of my my beta, you should all go check out the brilliant, brilliant Mellia Bee on AO3 and FF.net. Her Steggy stories are the bomb, and a huge part of why I started writing fanfic.

The Scripture Pride references is from Matthew 7:5, and because it’s probably kind of obscure, “Jonathan of a friend” was referring to the best friend of David, Israel’s most famous king. Jonathan really stuck his neck out for David, helping him at great danger to himself. You can read about them in 1 Samuel. And finally, the photo of small Christopher was just me throwing in a nod to Lucas Black’s role in Friday Night Lights. I’ll try to post the actual photo, because it’s really stinkin’ rotten adorable, and y’all must see it.

Apologies for the long A/N! Thank you for reading this, and thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to comment! Feedback is soul-food, like pecan pie, and it keeps le old gears turning. While we’re on the topic of food, don’t forget to eat today, lovey human! Drink your water, take your vitamins, eat an orange. I love you. Jesus loves you. Hang in there.

Author out.

My FF.Net page:

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/12357741/

My AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project7723/works

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glitterandrocketfuel · 5 years

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YBC Hot Takes: The Phoenix

Remember a few days ago I dropped a Hot Take that Youngblood Chronicles was actually Patrick’s solo career during the hiatus? Well, strap in and strap on, kids, I’m about to start a whole Lecture Series here at the Peterick Institute for FOB Meta and Fine Purveyors of Flexible Metallurgic Haberdashery. I’mma break this out into separate posts because I do like to go on, and will tag the series.

I’ll be focusing on the video aspects more than the lyrics, because one big part of Fall Out Boy’s modus operandi is to create artistic disruption via cognitive dissonance between the songs and the videos. While each medium expresses a coherent narrative, they’re frequently at odds with each other on the surface levels (unless viewed within a multimedia continuum of the history of the band and its members).

The Phoenix: Changed and Raised

Save Rock and Roll emerged seemingly out of nowhere, catapulting Fall Out Boy back into the scene and onto the charts, and the ambitious project that YBC turned out to be only added fuel to the fire. But it’s no secret that the hiatus, while necessary, shook some of the foundations of Fall Out Boy’s dynamic enough for them to grow as people and as a band, but in so doing, it also had to rip away some illusions and shove each of them outside their comfort zones...and into dangerous, painful territory. Follow me below the cut to dig deeper...

youtube

The boys open the mysterious briefcase. They're all in agreement that whatever's in there is amazing, and it's amazing enough to handcuff to Patrick's wrist. Off you go, lad, with your not-at-all-suspicious-looking briefcase to some tranquil suburban neighborhood where you can get some rest and wear your cute little fedora and be your cute little self. Kids on bikes, little houses with white picket fences, nice green lawns, holy shit masked marauding wimmins comin' outta nowhere to taze your snack-sized ass--

It's telling that Patrick is out with his precious musical mcguffin strapped to his wrist and a kid crosses his path. Fall Out Boy's members have always called their fans "kids" even when those "kids" have kids of their own (who are now going to Fall Out Boy Concerts, but that's a sidequest). They do what they do "for the (starry-eyed) kids" (who feel like dead ends/who didn't make it/who never had it at all/you used to love but then we grew old...). At the same time the kid and Patrick make the connection, share a smile (Hey, do you like me? This thing I made? I know it's not the same as the last thing, but--), we learn that the kid was just a decoy. Bait. A distraction from the masked (adult) vixen to ambush Patrick and toss him into the windowless van behind the kid.

He's taken to a shadowy torture warehouse where everything from jackhammers to meat cleavers (and I will swear there was a flash of a speculum in there which *somebody* had to have a laugh over, but the significance of gender in Fall Out Boy videos is an entirely different academic track all its own here at the Peterick Institute). And Patrick's hand gets the chop-chop.

MEANWHILE...

Cut to Pete, curled up in bed with a girlfriend in a suburban house, doing the domestic thing. He says he was supposed to be naked, but he chickened out at the last minute, which is also telling (the prelude to the hiatus had him saying that the world had had enough Pete Wentz, and that colors his interactions even today). During the hiatus, Pete's putting his life together the best way he knows how--looking for the picket fences and the things we are all told are "normal." Maybe he's even getting some rest. He's interrupted when The Kid (The Fans) knocks on his door and delivers a gruesome Message.

Not only gruesome, but dropped into a grocery bag and hung on Pete's doorknob in a drive-by. At first glance, Pete looks at it and shrugs and goes back to whatever he was doing, but let's not get sidetracked by a drive-by suggestion of self-absorption or a whiff of an inability to cope with or comprehend what just happened right away, because Pete is not as dumb as he looks. He knows that anything Patrick does will always have Fall Out Boy hanging over him like a meat cleaver, cutting him off musically, until his connection is literally severed (the hand with the FOB tattoo is cut off). Not to mention, the whole media-circus vortex of The Life And Dramatic Times Of Pete Fucking Wentz that can't help but catch Patrick up in it. It's not out of the realm of possibility that Patrick has deliberately severed this vital part of himself in a pointed and violent, yet impersonal, way. To a heartbroken and head-fucked Pete, it's crossed his mind that he may have driven the people he cares about to drastic measures to escape his toxicity.

We all want to know why Pete eschewed cell phones, landlines, email, snail mail, fucking Western Union telegrams, or just driving over to his friends' places to check up on them in favor of sending a cryptic Raptor-Gram, but let's not forget the fact that during the hiatus they sometimes communicated through tweets to other people, media interviews or drive-by postings and hearsay. But whatever message Pete's trying to send becomes lost in translation, because it doesn't quite get to the other band members in time.

Andy in a parking lot, maybe a little stalled at the hiatus while he catches his breath, and Joe, at the gas station, trying to take a road-trip far away from all this bullshit. Hey, does this rag smell like chloroform? Didn't you guys learn not to get thrown into windowless vans with weirdos.

But where's our boy Pete? He might be sending Raptor-Grams to his buds, but he's let a viper into his bed as his girl, dressed in menace and eyeliner (let's table, for a moment, her 'vintage 2007 Pete Wentz' eyeliner game because there's a whole world of subtext ripe for speculation about how Eyeliner!Pete could be a funhouse-mirror Agent of Chaos for everybody in his orbit) pounces and, instead of chloroform or tazers, injects him with a chemical cocktail of distortion in order to get him into the van.

Back to Patrick at the charnel house, who's singing his heart out while the rest of his organs are being harvested as he pulls his intestines out and puts them on a wax pressing to vinyl. His hand's gone, because he's played his heart (and lungs and kidneys, and maybe a spleen, too). But the rest of his guts have been taken out and arranged on silver platters (or vinyl pressings, as it were), ready to be consumed by anyone who's interested.

Patrick himself is seated at the head of the ornately laid-out table, with feeder lines going into and out of his veins as he waits for the world to come consume the thing he's worked so hard and bled so much for, even down to the point of painfully severing a beloved and necessary part of him (the h(b)and).

#peterick institute #ybc meta #YBC hot take

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nicoleknows-nothing · 5 years

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Pucks Deep (Mark Scheifele Fan Fiction - CHAPTER TWO)

CONFUSED? START HERE, READER >> INTRO & CHAPTER ONE

Mark Scheifele, #55 of the Winnipeg Jets. Born in Kitchener, Ontario, drafted back in 2011 and signed an eight-year deal with the Jets in 2016. He plays centre, serves as an alternate captain, and shoots with his right hand. He also played for team Canada in the 2012 World Juniors and team North America in the 2016 World Cup of Hockey. Last season, he played sixty games in the regular season, scored twenty-three goals and assisted in thirty-seven for a total of sixty points. His six-foot-three, 207-pound frame is the perfect bulk for winning battles--

“When are you going to stop Googling him?” Ruby walked into the kitchen, heading straight to the Keurig machine to make a cup of coffee.

I turned away from my laptop, adjusting my glasses from falling off of my face.

“Until I know his whole life story.” I protested, taking a sip of my cold earl grey tea.

I had been up since six in the morning, as well as sitting at my laptop for most of the day before, researching everything I could about Mark Scheifele. I've been on Wikipedia, the NHL website, Instagram, Tumblr, Reddit, YouTube; I found so much information already, I could start writing an autobiography for him.

“I have an idea.” Ruby sat down beside me at the kitchen table, the smell of her hot hazelnut coffee filled my nose, giving me a boost of energy. “Why don't you text him instead of being an internet stalker?”

“I'm not ready yet.” I bluntly answered, tapping away at my keyboard.

“It's been 48 hours.”

“I just--” I sighed. “What if he doesn't answer back? Or he pretends that he doesn't know who I am? Or he does text back and says that giving me his number was a mistake?”

“He’s not going to do that, Neens! If he didn’t want to give you his number, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place,” Ruby tried to assure me. I ignored it and started to look in my internet history to find a page I found earlier about Mark’s past relationships. I showed it to Ruby. “His ex-girlfriend is a freestyle skier. She won a gold medal in Sochi! How do I compete with that?!”

Ruby slammed my laptop shut.

“Okay, listen to me.” She grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look her straight in the eye. “First of all, You’re doing that thing when you over analyze situations in your head and you psych yourself out. You need to stop, it's not healthy.”

“Second of all, forget all of the other girls. He wants to talk to you, he wants to get to know YOU. Gold Medal Girl who? She's got nothing on you! You are talented in so many other ways that can easily impress him! You just need to get out of your own head and you need to text him!”

Ruby is the perfect hype-woman, and she was right. Before I knew who Mark really was, he was just the really cute guy at the bar. He was nice and out of all of the women in the room, he gave me a chance. Now, I just know a little bit more about him...maybe I know a bit too much but I shouldn't let it cloud my judgement. However, there was one thing I was having trouble with.

“What do I even say?” I asked, twirling my cell phone around in my hand.

“You could start with 'Hey, it's Nina?’” Ruby suggested.

I stopped playing around with my phone and laid it on the kitchen table, concentrating my gaze on it. I stared at it for so long that I was hoping I could send the text with my mind because my fingers were an anxious, shaking mess.

“It's not too early is it?” I looked around the kitchen for the time, even though I know there isn't a clock in the kitchen.

“It's 9:30 AM, he's probably up by now.” She grabbed my phone and put it back in my hands. “Do it.”

I unlocked it and opened the draft I had been sitting on for the last two days. All you have to do is say hi, and then the rest will follow…

Hey, it's Nina :) ...and send!

“There. Done.” I put my phone back down on the table and took another sip of my tea. I felt a mild sense of relief but was still apprehensive of the text I would get back.

Within moments, my phone was ringing. I checked the caller ID and choked on my tea.

“It's Mark!” I coughed through the liquid stuck in my throat, which was followed by instant panic. “What do I do? I'm not ready for this! TALKING IS HARD! WHAT DO I DO!?”

“ANSWER THE PHONE!” Ruby picked up my phone, swiped the green icon, and shoved it in my face.

“H-h-hello?” I stammered.

“Hey Nina, it's Mark!” He could hear me coughing up a lung in the background. “Are you okay? Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all!” I finally cleared my throat and got up from my chair to pace around the kitchen. “I'm surprised you called me, and so quick.”

“I’m driving at the moment and didn’t want to make you think I was ignoring you.” He explained. On the phone, his voice sounds sweet but gravelly at the same time. “To be honest I was excited you messaged me, it's already made my day.”

I went blank, my brain didn’t want to construct sentences. What was the English language? My response consisted of saying ‘uhh,’ ‘cool,’ and ‘yeah’ in between girlish giggles for what felt like a century. Then finally I managed to spit some words out.

“Well, it's a pretty cool number, I couldn't wait to call it...” Ruby looked at me perplexed, even my mouth was questioning what kind of word vomit was that.

“Thanks! I've never gotten a compliment about my phone number before.” Mark laughed on the other end. “So, what are you up to today?”

“Nothing too exciting, just chilling out with the roommates.” More like isolating myself in my bedroom, eating leftover Vietnamese takeout, and playing ranked matches on Rocket League. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m on my way to the Iceplex for practice. It's open to the public today if you and your roommates are interested in coming.”

“Uhhh…” I looked over at Ruby who was hopping in place with a big smile on her face and giving two thumbs up. “Yeah, sounds like fun. We'll be there.”

“Great! I can't wait!”

We said our goodbyes and as soon as I got off the phone Ruby and I were bouncing around the kitchen,

“See? That wasn't so bad!” She reassured. “He even said he was excited to hear from you!”

“I said weird things but it’s okay because he still wants to see me!” I cheered. Heather came into the kitchen and stared at the two of us screaming like teenagers who were about to see One Direction on their reunion tour.

“What are you guys so excited about?” Heather croaked while making herself a cup of tea. I stopped jumping around to notice the redness around her nose, pale skin, and bags under her eyes.

“We just got invited to go watch gorgeous guys play hockey!” Ruby squealed, ignoring the state of our friend.

“Ugh, no thanks.” Heather sniffled. “Cold rink. Cold weather. I’m staying in bed, drinking an entire bottle of Nyquil and binge watching Game of Thrones.”

“I’ll help you back to bed.” I offered, walking with Heather back to her room and tucking her into bed. “Feel better, okay? And if you need anything, text me.”

By the time I put the first episode on for her, she was passed out. I walked back into the kitchen to see Ruby getting off of the phone.

“What are you doing? Why are you not dressed yet?” She asked, pushing me into my bedroom and digging into my dresser. “You need to get all dolled up for your sexy hockey man!”

“I could ask you the same thing. Who were you on the phone with?” I overturned her question. Ruby was holding up shirts to my chest and throwing clothing all over the place.

“Our third…” She quickly changed the subject, looking at my burgundy crew neck sweatshirt. “Oooh, this is cute! Wear this!”

Who is ‘our third?’

---

“I'm so happy you guys invited me!” Simon locked his lifted Dodge Ram 1500 with his fob key. “Do you think Big Buff will sign my Jets hat?”

The ride to the Bell MTS Iceplex was an event all in itself. I was scared for those driving around us because Simon almost got us into THREE accidents, including narrowly missing a family crossing the street in the Unicity area. I never sunk so low in a seat as Simon got berated by the father for driving irresponsibly. Probably didn't help that he was blasting heavy metal the entire way down Portage Avenue, as well as looking at his phone to see if a girl he gave his number to at Cowboy's answered him back. He also decided that it would be a fun idea to quickly do donuts in the empty parking lot by Assiniboine Downs, adding nausea to my already crippling anxiety. As soon as he had his truck parked at the Iceplex, I beelined it for the door, distancing myself as far as I could from Simon and Ruby.

I instantly regretted my decision to split from Simon and Ruby. The Iceplex was crowded, a sea of dark blue and white jerseys covered the first floor of the building and continued up the staircase to the second floor. It was worse right by the entrance; groups of eager kids pushing by eager adults to make their way into the Canadian Tire arena where the practice was being held. I could feel myself getting antsy waiting for those two slowpokes to get in here. Finally, Ruby and Simon walked in and I pulled them to the side to avoid the large crowd of fans.

“How are we going to get into the arena?” I asked, my breath short from feeling claustrophobic.

“There are bleachers in the balcony. Usually, people like to be by the rink so they can get stuff signed.” Simon explained, grabbing mine and Ruby’s hands and pulling us forward. “Follow me!”

We bulldozed through the crowd, getting dragged to the second floor to the entrance of the balcony. I watched as Simon pushed his way down to the front row of bleachers and found seats right in the middle, receiving dirty looks from every single person he blew by.

“Any time now, girls!” He waved us over. I started to feel a bit grateful that Simon tagged along. I could never be as adamant or pushy as he is. He could care less.

We sat down as the team was about to start doing drills. I sat there quietly, observing which way the puck was going and trying to figure out why the players were wearing either a red, blue, or white jersey. This was already confusing to me. I asked Simon what the deal was.

“The red jerseys are the defensemen. And the white and blue jersey are the forwards.” He explained.

“But why white AND blue? Why not just two colours?”

“Well, the different lines can be split by colour. Or if they're practicing in their special teams, the power play line is one colour and the penalty killing line is the other.”

I tried to let the information sink in…”I don't get it.”

“Haha it's okay, don't worry about it right now.” Simon shifted my head towards the northern part of the rink. “Just watch your dude go!”

My eyes immediately found Mark on the ice. He was wearing a white jersey and talking to one of the red jersey guys by the boards. A whistle blew and he made his way to the middle of the ice with a few other players. I watched in awe as the whistle blew again and his feet glided across the icy surface with quick precision. The puck was passed to him; the control he had was flawless, manoeuvring around and keeping it away from the other players. He gave the puck away to another white jersey on the other side of the ice and advanced closer to the goal. The puck was sent back to him again; it barely touched the blade of his stick when he took his shot. The puck went in, flying over the goalie’s shoulder and into the top left corner of the net. Applause erupted in the small arena. I clapped as well, blending into the crowd because I wasn’t the type of person to make a big deal about a practice goal...but Ruby was.

“WHOO! LET’S GO #55!” She shouted, her arms straight in the air while jumping from her seat and standing on the bleachers. Oh my god…

“Ruby! Get down!” I grabbed her by the bottom of her black zip-up hoodie and pulled her down.

I looked back at the ice and there was Mark, looking up at us as he skated by. His crystal blue eyes instantly found mine in a crowd of hundreds, the connection creating an electric current inside of me. My face felt flush as I smirked meekly and waved at him from above. He winked, his guard hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

As strange as it sounds, him chewing on a dental appliance was really attractive. I don’t know why or how, but the image somehow flicked a switch in my brain that made the conclusive decision; it was hot, like mucho caliente.

Once practice was over, the team spent an hour interacting with the fans; answering questions, taking pictures, and signing anything a person had on them. I overheard one guy say he had the whole team sign his chest and was heading to Living Canvas right after to get their names tattooed. I decided to sit outside of the arena by myself around the concession area, staying away from the frenzy. Simon was busy getting autographs on his snapback and Ruby wanted to wander around the facility.

Twenty minutes after the crowd died down, I got a text from Mark.

Hey! Are you still here?

I replied. Yup! Sitting at the concession.

Cool! Be out there soon.

I quickly tapped on the camera of my phone and checked my makeup and hair. Everything looked good, that was until Ruby came up behind me and threw a grey knitted toque on my head.

“Ta-da! Your first piece of Jets merch!” She beamed. “All you need is your man’s jersey and you’re set!”

“Thanks, Ruby!” I adjusted the toque on my head and stood up from my chair to strike a pose. “How does it look?”

Before she could say a word, a voice behind me spoke up.

“It looks good on you.”

I turned around and saw Mark, standing tall despite being active on the ice for the last two hours. His fingers ran through his damp, cool brown hair, swooping it to the side before placing his hands in the pockets of his charcoal sweatpants. His hockey bag slung over his right shoulder, the strap pulling at the sleeve of his cobalt blue Nike sweater.

“Hi.” he grinned.

“Hi…” We stood in silence for a moment, admiring each other. Ruby instantly got uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m gonna leave you two alone and go find Simon.” She was about to walk away when Mark was snapped out of his trance.

“Speaking of your friend Simon, he actually got escorted out of the building a while ago.” He told the two of us.

Ruby’s eyebrows went up in confusion, I deeply sighed in disappointment.

“What did he do?” We asked in unison.

“He snuck into the dressing room pretending he was from the Free Press, but today wasn’t a media day so everybody was kind of confused as to why he was there,” Mark explained, laughing about the situation. “He’s okay though, he told me he was gonna wait by his truck.”

“Okay then, I will meet you at the truck.” Ruby decided.

“Actually, if it’s okay with you…” Mark interjected. “I can drive Nina home later. I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat because I am starving.”

“Yeah, I’m okay with that.” I agreed. The combination of anxiety bubbles and butterflies in the pit of my stomach was starting to make me hungry.

“As long as she is home at a decent time, then it is fine with me.” Ruby wagged her finger at the two of us like an overprotective mother. “And no funny business!”

We parted ways with Ruby as we left the Iceplex. I watched her make kissy faces from outside the truck while Simon wrapped his arms around his body and proceeded to make out with himself. Those two...

“I'm parked over here.” Mark pointed towards the west side of the building.

Was this really happening? Am I actually on a 'sort-of’ date with a professional hockey player right now? Did I brush my teeth this morning? How bad is my breath? How red is my face? I don't know if it's from the cold temperature in the rink or from me blushing so much. I think i'm sweating, do I smell okay? Will he noticed if I take a quick whiff of my armpit?

He's looking at me. My god, he's pretty. His strong jawline, the subtle stubble of his goatee, his long eyelashes... Have I been staring for too long? How long have I been silent? I'm over analyzing again, say something for the love of God!

“Wooooords…” I said that out loud… Where's the nearest hole?

“What was that?” He asked, chuckling. I stayed silent, fearing that I would say something stupid again.

We stopped in front of a sleek silver SUV. I have watched way too many David Dobrik videos to immediately recognize the make of the car.

“You have a Tesla Model X!?” My mouth dropped open and eyes wide in wonder. Mark double clicked on the back of his key fob and the trunk opened.

“Pretty neat, huh?” He threw his hockey bag in the trunk and clicked another button. The side doors lifted up over my head and floated back down moments later. “I like opening the falcon doors for fun sometimes.”

“Cool!!” I marvelled. Mark came to the passenger side of the car and open the door for me.

“Your chariot awaits…”

#mark scheifele #mark scheifele fan fic #mark scheifele fan fiction #still have no title #sue me #creative writing #winnipeg jets #winnipeg jets fan fiction #nina mendoza oc #hockey fan fiction #chapter two #my work

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just-folie-a-deux-it · 5 years

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OH s h i t i just had an idea. remember that vid of fob at the zoo? when pete is giving a tour and talking bout gay zebras and stuff? so. the idea. poly!fob revisiting that zoo. thats it. i have no idea what they’d do there, i sometimes have ideas like that hah - 🦇

Lmao I have no idea what video you’re talking about, but it sounds intriguing.

Pete probably hops around from enclosure to enclosure, wanting to see everything he possible can. Of course eventually he wears himself out and complains about how it’s hot and his feet hurt and he’s tired, but he has a good run while he can. Patrick particularly likes the monkeys and comments about how alike they and Pete are, and even look. He��s rewarded with a light punch in the ribs, but it’s worth it. Andy is iffy about the zoo, not liking how small the habitats seem and the idea of keeping animals in captivity certainly doesn’t appeal to him, but he knows that at least some of the animals couldn’t survive on their own so he tries to keep that in mind. Joe mostly takes pictures of all of the rest of them because they look so cute fawning over all of the animals. Instagram goes wild in the comments.

#poly!fob #Anonymous

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secretagentspydetectiveninja · 5 years

Text

More of the Misadventures of Aish rereading Misadventures and fixing typos, like a cowardly fool because I can’t sleep

chapters 21-25 oh no here we go

(actually I did this in like November on my phone but only just now remembered that I never posted it so here ya go, this is all weeks old)

Okay so with the chapter titles, I didn’t actually start naming them until about ch27 or so, but I had already nicknamed this chapter something like “IT’S FRIENDSHIP YOU COWARDS” bc this one got a surprising amount of notes on tumblr and I’m 99% sure most of the people who read it did not realize that this is in fact a Kimax fic

And also THIS CHAPTER WAS THE TURNING POINT. I could either have kept the fic rly lighthearted until way near the end, or decide to start shoving in the Angst much quicker. 3 guesses what I picked >:D

Oh highkey same Alix?? except for me it’s not superpowers or anything it’s just called “anxiety disorder”

The obliviousness physically pains me

I’m the guard who just blatantly lets Alix steal popcorn. also why was there just casually popcorn there. god I don’t even know what I was thinking when I wrote any of this

Oh yeah I remember!! I was mad at people setting off the smoke alarm while making popcorn in the middle of the night!! just uni things am I right

...why am I noticing now that the whole popcorn thing is just a metaphor for Kim’s entire love life I am going to throw this fic out of the window I swear

IT REALLY IS, UGH I HATE THIS, ARE YOU TELLING ME I DID THAT BY ACCIDENT

this is a freaking game of Civilization where one civ takes a runaway lead in the science victory while the rest are all still stuck in the industrial era

Kim is me watching dinosaur movies too tbh, dinosaurs are so frickin rad

well this is depressing

and adorable

I hate so much that I know what the Bad Dream means I hate it I hate it I h

IT’S OKAY KIM I’M PROUD OF YOU, YOU’RE MY SON AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

“It’s not up to you to question why people care about you so just roll with it” damn past me, that’s actually some really good advice???

Alix is a Kimax shipper even this early in the fic, btw. whenever she talks to them about each other she’ll always say stuff like “oh yeah you two are so close” or “he cares about you so much” without specifying whether she means that platonically... my dudes... she’s shipping it

Kim having an existential crisis in early hours of the morning is such a mood because it’s 2am and I’m having one right now

BAD FORESHADOWING, YES BAD THINGS ARE GOING TO START HAPPENING SOON LIKE ASSASSINATIONS AND STUFF, YOU WEREN’T WRONG

Alright chapter 22 now

the carriage guards!! my favourite characters in the entire fic!!!!!! they’re the BEST okay they just casually chill at school through the entire thing and only show up again in the last chapter omg they’re so amazing I love them??? absolute LEDGES

Kim’s parents being all like “yeah if our son doesn’t wanna come home from school then just KIDNAP HIM and bring him back lmao”

“Hey, do you want me to threaten your guards with my snake or something?” WAS THAT FORESHADOWING??? BECAUSE SHE VERY MUCH DOES DO THAT LATER. TO DIFFERENT GUARDS YES BUT IT’S LEGIT A THING SHE DOES

talking on the phone is stressful? yes it’s that good old “anxiety disorder” again, really a pain tbh

god I’m so proud of Kim, already that good good character development

also Kim’s grandma is me

omg I have to put Kim and Alix’s dumb chess games in the sequel, I came up with an entire thing about how they blatantly cheat etc and it’s ridiculous and Max gets a headache whenever he has to “referee” (aka make sure they don’t fight), it’s so great okay

me: *thinks about chapter 34 and throws up*

oh I’m the snake too btw. the snake also will hate chapter 34

Max holy moly repressing your feelings isn’t healthy??? stop that

hhhhhhh chapter Lila now, like literally that’s the entire chapter 23, it’s basically just Lila

this is just the damn Volpina episode

dupainchien!!!!! dupainchien!!!!!!!!!

I know this isn’t even that much of a big deal in this fic but like... can Marinette and Adrien just get together already lmao

hskdjhdkjfhgs for the record Lila and Kim is actually a pretty good ship?? but they’d both try to out-brag each other and it would be ridiculous so uh

hm anyways. time for CHAPTER AROACE

Kim’s like. ABOUT TO start falling for Max oh thank god, I need this

Lila: *just stabs Kim’s homework with a parasol*

Kim just... Did That??? WE STAN

(oh and later note: in this he just treats Lila like how Adrien treated her in Chameleon lol)

I remember at this point I wasn’t sure if Lila would actually really return in the fic, and then literally like 2 chapters later I brought her back already because damn that girl needs a redemption arc

do I hug Kim or do I hug Max?? you FOOLS, you ABSOLUTE BUFFOONS, I am going to hug ALIX for having to deal with all their romo bullshit

Max trying to get drunk on orange juice is the mood

JULEKA’S MAGICAL GAYDAR!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!

(also Juleka is absolutely wearing a Reflekta dress)

Juleka, outright: “Max. my dude. alix is aroace you dense idiot. you are all idiots. you absolute fuckwits.”

I’m still the snake btw

hhhhhhhhhh I wanna make a daisy chain now, or just go outside and sprawl in some grass, I can’t because it’s 2.30am and I live in the city and it’s winter, screw this fic for making me miss my school days

oh no I’m having an allergic reaction again

I mEAN IT’S CUTE THO, IT’S CUTE, BUT I KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN A BIT LATER SO THIS IS JUST PAINFUL

“You need more sleep” me calling myself out

I am going to hit Kim over the head,,

STOP BEING WEIRD JUST TELL HER YOU LIKE HER?? GOOD GOD I DON’T EVEN SHIP IT AND I STILL WANT YOU TO GET A BLOODY MOVE ON

oh good, he wants to smack himself in the face too

no nonono no Alix I think you are cute too. but you see, I mean it in the adopting way. but you ARE objectively adorable (source: the Reverser episode and also like all the other episodes) people just don’t say it in this au because of your TERRIFYING PET SNAKE

she offered to give him a telephone... lov that foreshadowing

*unimpressed* “are you in love with me?” OH FUCKING FINALLY

skdfhskdjfhsd avoiding people and having a heart attack when someone knocks on your door? I see the return of that anxiety disorder eh

Alix didn’t bring the snake (me) with her on purpose bc she knows Kim is still a bit scared of it at this point and doesn’t want him to be in a bad mood while she’s crushing his heart and soul

GOD YES I LOVE THIS SCENE

I hate myself because when I was writing this I was thinking “oh mood?? oh mood worm same hat???” and yet still. didn’t. realize. I’m. aro. *le sigh*

I’m gonna cry this is so sweet

“So are bossy, intimidating, hot girls your type?” no actually because Ondine is neither bossy nor intimidating (tho yeah she is hot) (and not particularly relevant in this fic unfortunately)

Alix is not in fact as oblivious as she claims to be btw, she just thinks it would sound mean to say “oh yeah I guessed you had a thing for me but I aggressively ignored it bc it annoyed me since I’m aroace lmao”

I’m genuinely going to hecking cry omg I remember now why this was my Ultimate Brotp for so long ugh it’s so good, @ ZAG LET KIM AND ALIX BE FRIENDS

I’m laughing?? so hard??? at the fact that their height difference is so ridiculous that literally like he has to kneel down??? god this is the funniest thing

oh also btw she was internally debating with herself like “should I give him the mistletoe kiss?? sounds gross but I feel so bad for him dammit” and decided to right there on the spot because she was lowkey curious anyway, which I’ll be honest is still an aro mood

OMG I’M ACCIDENTALLY SUCH A GENIUS OMG LISTEN NO LEMME EXPLAIN

SO LIKE. there are two (2) instances in this fic where I tried to pretend to be funny by dropping in the word “heartrate”. one is near the beginning, and the other is right here

in other words, the exact start and end points of Kim’s crush on Alix?? AND I DID THAT BY ACCIDENT OMG I’VE CHANGED MY MIND I’M PROUD OF MYSELF NOW

oh... oh no. uh oh. the dreaded evil Chapter Twenty Hecking Five

it’s called “Pain” for a reason. also my OG nickname for it was “Death”. also for a reason.

I even listened to Death Valley (the FOB song) on repeat while writing it (along with the next like 9 chapters lol) because the word DEATH just seemed so accurate

no really this is THE real turning point in the fic, where it stops being just a dumb teen movie and starts being all A N G S T Y

like this is the first chapter that has NO lightheartedness AT ALL

okay. here we go

this is all??? foreshadowing??? for dumb chapters like 30 and 34??? I Hate

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO THE SNAKE

I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK JUST READING THESE WORDS THIS IS SO HORRIFYING ALEXA PLAY DEATH VALLEY

this is the equivalent of seeing a kwami die, for the record. like I know kwamis can’t die but THIS IS HOW IT WOULD FEEL

god this is even worse in hindsight knowing what happens later, bc poor Alix is all like @ herself “oh well it’s a nightmare so it’s not real” and I’m just like... oh dear. honey. sweetie. welp. I mean on the bright side you’re psychic so that’s kinda cool right

I love how Jalil is actually really sweet and a genuinely cool brother, you just never get to see it when Kim’s around bc he hates Kim lmao (I mean for good reasons..)

“I can’t live without this snake!” I MEAN YOU’RE NOT WRONG

these timeline powers are SO cursed man. why was I so evil and cruel holy actual shit

(the whole “some character deaths but not really” tag refers to all this clusterfuck btw)

okay it’s funny how this bit with Adrien is the Collector episode despite it not having aired yet when I wrote this, I guess I’m psychic too

Nathalie being sympathetic huh? not so much in the sequel when I get round to it...

Adrikins being all “I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER” I’m dying

uh yeah there’s a difference between being grounded, and like, literal actual house arrest

damn... capitalism really is bad

so is imperialism

fix this damn typo thing where I used the word “soon” twice in one sentence like was that really necessary

DUPAINCHIEN

I love how Kim is so obviously bi that even Marinette notices and straight-up tries to set him up with a hot commoner boy

oh noes here comes The Death

Hi Aish Snekwami, I am afraid

god imagine how horrible it must be??? to have something traumatic happen in another timeline but you’re still aware of it in this one so you still suffer the effects even though nothing bad happened in this timeline????

Max shows up for two seconds this chapter to remind everyone that I have an anxiety disorder again and then hecks off, good for him

HOLY FUCK?!?!?! IMAGINE LITERALLY DYING ACTUAL DEATH IN ANOTHER TIMELINE AND EVEN THOUGH YOU SURVIVE IN THIS ONE YOU STILL HAVE TO LIKE. FEEL THE WHOLE TIME YOU’RE DYING OF GODDAMN COBRA VENOM HOLY FUCK WHY DID I MAKE THIS SO ANGSTY

I mean I think I remember writing this when I was on a very heavy painful period which full-on incapacitated me but like even that’s nowhere near as bad as fucking. snake. bite (ye I did some research, it was creepy...)

man this is so evil... I can’t

THIS IS HOW IT FEELS TO DIE

god that’s so haunting ughhhhhhhhh

honestly whenever I stub my toe etc I always think to myself “is this karma for that time I lowkey killed Alix off in chapter 25?” and yeah, it probably is

OKAY THAT’S ENOUGH FOR NOW

#more like the misadventures of aish having anxiety #random stuff #misadventures

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