#but mostly angst

[farfromstrange]

Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 3: I'll Show You Every Version Of Myself Tonight

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader

Summary: Michael recalls what happened during the day, and he tells you the truth (kind of).

Warnings: Angst, mention of death, non-sexual intimacy, Michael just hates himself, description of a seizure, slight hint at a panic attack (?), Everyone telling Mikey what to do (and they're being assholes about it)

Word Count: 7.7k

A/n: As promised, this is the day from Michael's POV, and explaining why he was so desperate that night (and wanted to get away for a few days). I struggled a lot with so many characters and writing their accents, so I apologize for any mistakes! Also, we have some plot in here and some of the other Kinsella family members, but nothing too major. Also, I do not accept any Birdy slander!

His hand strokes leisurely over your bare thigh. You’re lying with your head toward the headboard while he’s lying the other way around; He’s propped himself up on a pillow at your feet and draws absentminded shapes on your skin. 

Silence has settled over you. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady, but you’re not asleep. He can tell by how you react to his touch. 

Your skin feels like silk under his fingers. You offer a little bit of calm, the end he had been begging for after this awful day, and being with you now, still close but not holding each other, he revels in the intimacy of it all. You share time without talking, and maybe that’s a bad idea with how many secrets are between you, but that is not what bothers him. 

“What are you thinking about?” your gentle whisper breaks through the silence, but it doesn’t burst the bubble you have formed around yourselves. 

Michael sits up, He’s wearing boxers and nothing else, and the closer he gets, the more the temptation rises to run your hand through his hair – all of his hair. You reach out to touch his torso. His chest hair feels soft under your fingers. 

He sighs wearily. One of his arms hooks around your bent knee and he places his head upon it. You look at him from your comfortable place on the pillows. There is something about your eyes that puts him into a state of awe. Your hand is still stroking his chest, but it’s not sexual, it’s caring, it’s a silent testament. 

“Today was…” he’s not sure how to describe it. Every single one of his days feels weird somehow. 

You pulled him somewhat back into the present, but deep inside, he still lives in the past. In his mind, he finds himself back in prison sometimes, and that’s terrifying. He has adapted behaviorisms that he would have never thought possible like keeping the untouched food out instead of throwing it away, not shaving, only showering at certain times and most of all, he still struggles to sleep in a bed. He tried. After meeting you, it became easier, but he feels himself slipping back into the same patterns from before. 

“What?” you ask. 

He shrugs. 

“Talk to me, please.”

With you, nothing can hurt him, he thinks. 

“I went to see Anna this mornin’,” Michael says, and if you hadn’t focused on him, you wouldn’t have been able to hear his voice. That’s how quietly he admits it to you. 

You frown. He can tell the thoughts are connecting in your mind. 

You know a little about family law in the UK, but you have never thought about what it would look like in Ireland. 

You know from experience that if you’re single, unemployed, fresh out of university, and merely twenty-one years old, a court probably won’t grant you custody of a one-year-old. Even if you’re related. Even if you tell the court that the biological parents – or one of them, at least, even though ignoring abuse can also be counted as such – are abusive and controlling toward their other children. Without proof, they won’t believe you, and if they don’t believe you, you won’t get custody. 

And if you were in prison for eight years after being convicted for the wrongful death of your own wife… well, chances are that getting custody or even visitation rights as the biological parent is going to be a hard task unless the child isn’t safe where it is now – but Anna is safe, from what you heard from Michael. And the court isn’t sure if he bettered himself enough to be a father to her. After all, he connects to very serious trauma that a child her age shouldn’t even have to carry, and even though the courts are sometimes unjust when it comes to custody battles, they are very vigilant in this case.

You get it, but you also see a side of Michael the authorities don’t seem to get. He’s a good man. He deserves the chance to at least reconnect with his little girl after being deprived of her for so long. 

You know how much it hurts not being close to someone you love, although in your case, it was your own choice to leave. Still, the pain is grand and anyone who has to carry it might tend to make stupid decisions along the way. Like seeing the very same daughter he is not supposed to even be near. 

“Are you allowed to?” you ask because maybe he is and you read it all wrong. 

But then he shakes his head and he says, “No.” 

“Michael!” 

“I’m sorry, I just can’t– I needed t’see her. I didn’t talk ta her, I just sat there t’see if she’s okay. I had ta–“ he breaks off. “I do it to convince myself she’s real and that‘m not dreamin’. I just want her back. Is that so wrong?”

“It’s not wrong, but you could risk everything just by watching her from a distance. If someone finds out–“

Your eyes soften amid the initial frustration when he moves his head to press his forehead against your knee. You can no longer see his eyes, but the tears pearling off of your skin tell you he’s crying. 

You touch his head. “Michael, darling,” you say, “please, talk to me so I can understand.”

He sniffles. Slowly, he lifts his head and crawls over to you. He reminds you of a cat like this. His head finds support on your chest as he curls into a ball, and you wrap your arms around him. 

“It’s okay…” You run your hand through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

It surprises him how comfortable he is in being vulnerable around you. You unveiled his guarded heart and started slowly breaking down his defenses. He let you in enough for you to see parts of him he had long kept hidden, and you are on your best way to pull it all out of him. 

He shudders under your gentle touch. You are so soft. Not just your skin; your touch and your soul are soft. You cradle him like he is everything to you, but he can’t believe that he would be or should be everything to you. He’s not deserving. He tried today but failed again. 

The foundation that kept his face stern before and added a supposed strength to his demeanor burns under your touch, and soon he is standing in the ashes of pretense and he feels it all.

He denied himself to feel the pain all day and now you’re here and you are so fucking soft– He starts sobbing into your chest, allowing him to fall further and further and further without a ground to land on. But there you are, catching him as often, and you don’t let go until you’re sure he’s safe. 

Your arms have become his forever sanctuary. Feeling comfortable with you has been a hard task from the start and he still struggles, but he can’t help but let himself go in your embrace. You know exactly what he needs. You know who he is and you still stick around, and you know what he needs. It’s not just sex, it’s comfort, something he tried to hide by taking you against the wall, and it was good and he needed it, but he needs this so much more.

And he realizes that he needs to talk to you, too. He can’t just rely on you to touch and comfort him, something he has been lacking for eight years and perhaps even sometime before that while he was burning his life to the ground with a bad decision after bad decision and lost what was dear to him – he has to talk to you to earn that comfort because if he doesn’t, it feels like he’s using you and he once again starts hating all aspects of himself with a passion unmatched. 

You’re doing this because you feel like you have to, he figures; because he’s broken and he looks like it most of the time, and you like to fix when something is broken to earn yourself a little love back, but you deserve more than you think you do and he doesn’t want you to please him just for the sake of pleasing him. He wants you to feel comfortable around him, too, and he wants to give back what you are giving him, and not just through countless orgasms. You’re worth more than that. 

He contemplates, then makes a decision that is hard to swallow, but you deserve it. And so he tells you exactly what happened.

— Earlier that day —

Hearing the lack of trust in your voice when he admitted that he didn’t want to go home moved something in him. Of course, you’ve only just started to get to know each other, but there was something else in your voice that made his heart sink. 

Darkness attracts light. The sun gives way to the moon at night, but the sun always finds a way to shine the brightest. Too much darkness can kill the light, and without light, darkness would take over and then there would be no happiness. 

You’re kind, you put love into every little thing you do and you care about people. That’s the kind of person that people who are much darker than you feel like they can use, and knowing you, you probably let them. But even you reach your limits. 

He could see in your eyes though that you meant it when you said you would help him get a proper job and fight for Anna, and considering you barely know him, that’s a big display of trust – you trust in his ability to be better, at least, and that is something he holds very dear to his damaged heart. 

It’s been a while since someone was so endlessly willing to forgive him and to actually put in the effort to try and be with him; he knows how exhausting it can be, that sometimes being with him can become draining, and that it runs the people around him dry. At least it used to be this way. He hurt you, but you seem to have faith in him. You believe in him, you don’t think he will run you dry and you’re not exhausted. You may be a little weary, but he would never blame you for that. Even more now, Michael wants to stay true to his promise. 

He feels alive with you. Safe. Loved. Cared for. And whenever he is close to you, he feels the desperate need to protect you, not just from him and this stupid life he has been born into but from any other possibility of harm that might come your way. He wants to make sure you’re okay, and that you have someone you can rely on, too. But there is something you’re hiding, he could tell. He’s not an idiot, he can tell when someone isn’t being entirely open with him, it comes with the Kinsella name; he has to know people, be able to read them, and judge quickly but with precision. 

He tried not to let the nagging feeling of you hiding something more serious from him get to him because it is your life and he still feels like he needs to prove himself to you more than anything, though the inkling he has won’t leave him. 

The way you froze when he finished the sentence for you, “We haven’t reached tha’ level of trust yet?” This small moment of hesitation told him that there must be more to it. But he can’t think about that, not now. 

Anna is wearing her usual school uniform as she strolls past the restaurant with two of her friends. He suspects they are her friends because she’s laughing. A sad smile finds its way to his lips. She looks happy. 

He remembers the day she was born. Every parent is somewhat afraid to screw up, especially with their first child. Some are more nervous, others less. Michael was the kind of first-time Dad that found himself thinking too much about what could happen. He was scared of not being enough, of subjecting his daughter to the dangers of his family, and he questioned if he even had what it takes to be a good father. He read books, asked Jimmy and Amanda, and he annoyed Birdy almost every day until the day Anna was born. 

He remembers repeating one sentence in his head, “I can’t do this.” 

But then he heard her first cry, and it took him only a second to realize that he was a Dad now. He remembers the moment he first saw her face, and he forgot everything around him. 

The most pivotal moment was though when he got to hold her in his arms for the first time, so small and fragile, she fit snugly into the crook of his arm. Was he afraid of breaking her? Yes. More than anything. But all she had to do was open her eyes and look at him, and his previous fear of ‘I can’t do this’ evaporated. Left behind was only endless love and a sense of needing to protect the new life in his arms. He swore he would do anything to assure she would have a good life, no matter what. 

And then, almost as if the first-time-parent jitters were an omen, he failed. He failed to be a husband and a father. Jimmy has always managed to coordinate his children, his wife, and the Kinsella life just perfectly, and Michael believed he could do it just like him, just like his brother – but he failed. He always wanted to be just like his brother. 

At first, things went great and he gave everything he had to give, but then real life settled in, and he fucked up all the good things in his life. He fucked up his marriage and he fucked up as the Dad he promised his daughter he would be. In the end, he lost both of them. He lost Allison permanently because he was too caught up with himself and his family, and he lost his daughter, too, because he just wouldn’t listen to his gut, and his fuck-ups turned into a complex construction of dominos that were set out to tear his life and his soul lower than the ground. 

If he could turn back time, he would. But he can’t. He can only try to turn what little of the steering wheel he has left around to get back what he has left of what he lost, and that is Anna. His love for her has not changed since the first day he held her in his arms, only his attitude toward himself and his life changed, and he feels even more miserable now than he ever did before. 

Before he can register it, Anna has disappeared behind the trees. Once again, she didn’t see him. Part of him hopes that one day, if he keeps this going, she will catch sight of him and that maybe she will be happy to see him – does she even know what he looks like? Does she remember? Does she remember the times he told her he loved her? 

He’s not sure how a child’s brain works, or what the trauma did to her, but he would like to know. He would love to understand what makes his little girl tick, even though she is less of a little girl now and starting to grow into a young woman. He missed so much, and that makes him so fucking angry. 

He missed her, but he’s not sure if she missed him. Allison’s mother has never been a fan of him, but after she found out he was responsible for her daughter’s death, her dislike turned into pure hatred. She would have killed him if she had gotten the chance, he’s sure, and she would if she ever saw him again, he is even more sure of that. But he wouldn’t blame her; he deserves it. 

All of this pain, he deserves it. He convinced himself a long time ago that he is suffering for a reason, and that led to a strict belief that every bad thing coming his way will be because pain is the only thing he deserves, and happiness was not made for a man like him. 

Michael empties his double espresso that tastes cheaper than the brew you can get at a grocery store. You make much better coffee, even if it's just a boring double espresso. 

But you are a good thing, and good things wither in his presence. He tries to shut the voices out, but after seeing Anna pass by happier than he has ever seen her before, they just grow louder.

He makes his way to Amanda and Jimmy’s house then. His hands are buried in the pockets of his jacket that still smells like you the day he lent it to you. His brown eyes are sunken as he crosses the corner to the street his family lives on – most of them, anyway. 

He rings the doorbell and the gate opens to let him in. When he steps toward the front door, Jamie greets him. 

“Hey,” Michael smiles softly. 

“Hey,” Jamie acknowledges him. “Mam’s in the kitchen, Da’s downstairs with Eric, Uncle Frank an’ Birdy.”

The boy doesn’t even question his appearance, so he probably doesn’t know about the fight that drove Michael and Jimmy apart only a few days ago, and neither does he seem to know about the call he made to Amanda before deciding to drive his life against the wall – if it weren’t for your desperate need to fix people, he would still be stuck there. 

He nods. “Thanks, Jamie.”

It is weird to see him so grown up after all these years. He’s almost his height now. The feeling of looking at Amanda or Jamie or the life his brother has built for himself is something he can’t describe, but it runs deep and it finds its way into his bloodstream to poison him. It makes his limbs heavy with the weight of lies and the unknown on his shoulders, and his heart turns into the cloudy Dublin sky. 

Michael steps inside. 

“Which one are ya here to see?” Jamie asks. 

“Your Dad,” he says. 

“Okay, cool.” He leaves just like that, with no questions, not even a glimpse of suspicion. 

Ignoring Amanda in the kitchen, he makes his way through the house and into the basement. The stairs creak slightly under his weight. The closer he gets, the more can he make out Frank’s voice. The wood of a cue stick hitting the object balls on the pool table fills his ears. Some of them seem to fall into the pockets, and he hears Jimmy clap proudly to himself. Frank’s tone of voice is concerned though, and Michael stops to listen. 

He’s come at just the right time because the next thing he hears is his name. “And what about Michael?” Frank asks. 

The sound of one of the balls flying off the table echoes through the room. Jimmy sets his stick down and sighs. “What about him?” he retorts.

“I’m askin’ you.”

“I’m not the boss of him, he made tha’ very clear.”

Their argument wasn’t even about that. Whatever Jimmy had been on that day, he chose his words to hurt him. Talking about Allison and Anna the way he did, and then talking about you as if there would be no good in being together with you cut Michael deeper than he showed at that moment, and he almost lost you because of that. Maybe he didn’t mean it, but he deserved that broken nose nonetheless. 

“Jimmy.”

“Wha’?”

“Whatever fight ya two had–” Frank begins. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jimmy cuts him off. “I haven’t heard from Mikey in days. I dunno where he is. He’s not answerin’ my calls either.”

It’s Birdy’s voice next that tries to diffuse the obvious tension. “Maybe he just needed t’get away,” she says. “Away from all this, I mean. He just got out of prison. Cut the poor boy some slack.”

From the start, Birdy has always been the woman with maternal instincts, and Michael often found comfort in her kindness. She took care of him with a love he lacked during his childhood, and when he got out, she made sure the house didn’t look like an empty, haunted space anymore but that he could actually live in it again. She cares, and it shows in the way she speaks about him. He’s grateful, but he knows it won’t warm Frank’s heart the same way. He doubts the man is possible of positive emotions; he’s always been a rock, and he doesn’t care. Even the topic of family is just a job for him. 

As expected, Birdy gets ignored. 

“Is he still workin’ fer Amanda,” Frank asks, “washin’ cars like I told her?” 

“He was,” says Jimmy. “Until a few days ago, he took it very seriously. And then he left.”

“Good. Maybe he’s finally thinkin’ ‘bout what’s best for him, and that’s not washin’ cars. He belongs here, with us.”

Michael can only imagine Birdy’s disapproving glance. “He wants to get Anna back,” she argues. 

“He can do tha’ while he’s workin’ with Jimmy.”

“No, he can’t.”

“Birdy’s right,” Jimmy says. “Amanda tried tellin’ him she’d put him on the books but he didn’t have ta work, but he wants to. He’s takin’ this very seriously and I can’t say I blame him.”

“This is bullshit!” Frank stops to take a sip from his beer. “Ya’ve grown soft. Let’s jus’ hope Michael will come to his senses. We have bigger fish ta fry.”

He hears Jimmy scoff. “Wha’, like Eamon?” he asks. 

“No, Birdy’s new washing machine–”

By now, her eyes must be bulging out of her head with how hard she’s glaring. 

“Of fuckin’ course, I mean Eamon!” The glass of Frank’s beer bottle hits the counter of the small bar before he says, “And fuckin’ Moor, that bastard.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, right after Michael got out, remember?”

“We all remember tha’,” Birdy cuts in. “And I was seemingly the only one who cared enough about his well-being to check on him.”

“Yeah, Birdy, we know yer a saint,” Jimmy sounds almost bitter. 

“Don’t get smart on me now, Jimmy,” she says. “He’s your brother.”

“I know.”

“Eamon,” Frank says, acting as if the topics of conversation aren’t all over the place, “has us by the balls. We have ta do somethin’. Remember that dealer down on Parnell Street, hm?”

Silence follows. 

“Yeah,” he says, “he’s dead. He got shot this mornin’ around eight. While he was buying a fuckin’ drink at the gas station.”

Parnell Street. Michael knows a lot of streets by heart, that comes with the territory, but that name strikes a chord. The gas station on Parnell Street is about a fifteen-minute walk from Merrion. He knew before that Frank has people there, but Merrion isn’t just a street anymore. 

House number 13, that’s where you live. You drove past it before you parked a good length away from the café and he walked you there. That was at seven-thirty. 

He connects the dots and the second he does, his heart stops. 

Are you in danger?

Michael is convinced now more than ever that he needs to get out. He can’t protect you if he does the very same thing that he is trying to protect you from. He needs that job and he needs to try to distance himself. What if you get caught in the crossfire? Or Anna? He can’t relive the same hell again. It’s bad enough he dreams of that cruel night eight years ago every time he closes his eyes; he doesn’t need to add you to that list, too. He can’t bear to lose one more person he loves. 

“What do ya want me to do?” Jimmy asks, exasperated. “Want me t’start a seance and bring him back?”

“I need Michael,” Frank states. “We need manpower. He’s good at what he does. Not only does he throw a mean punch but he actually takes this shit serious when he needs ta. And he’s a damn good shot. He needs t’come back, otherwise–”

“Dead meat?” Birdy finishes.

“Yeah, dead fuckin’ meat.”

He steps out behind the shelf that has kept him hidden from their prying eyes. He doesn’t let him finish his sentence. 

Birdy is the first to catch a glimpse of him, her grim expression lighting up almost instantly. “Michael,” she says softly. 

He nods curtly, trying to smile, but he fails miserably. 

All eyes are on him now. He feels like an animal in the zoo, judged for existing, judged for being himself, and the only person excited by his sight is Birdy. She’s the one visitor at the zoo that seemingly enjoys every caged animal she sees. The sight of Michael’s dark features is not pretty, he knows that, but the looks he receives leave a bitter taste in his mouth. They pity him. He hates that just as much as silent judgment. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“How have ya been, pet?” Birdy asks. “Or more like where? We were worried ‘bout ya.”

She steps up to him and cradles his face. She traces the butterfly bandage on his forehead, chuckling a little, then moving on to the cut on his nose. She clicks her tongue. “How’s the other guy?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Michael takes it seriously. He looks at Jimmy, then back at her. “I’m grand,” he says. “And the other one’s good, too. ‘t was just a brawl.”

“Hm,” she disagrees, but she leaves it at a gentle hum. 

Frank’s smile is fake when he looks at him. “We were just talkin’ about you,” he says. 

He wants to tell him he heard, but he keeps his mouth shut. If he pretends he isn’t angry, maybe he can get out of this without any trouble. 

“Oh, yeah?” Michael asks. 

“Yeah. How’s the job?”

“Grand.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You asshole, he thinks. 

“You enjoy washin’ cars?” Frank is really pushing it this time. 

He feels so small under everyone’s eyes. Jimmy looks almost regretful and Eric is someplace else, his eyes focused on the snakes in the terrarium, but everyone else makes him feel so damn small. He feels his shoulder slouch, but then he thinks about Merrion Street, Parnell, the gas station, and then you. 

You. 

Anna. 

Himself. 

“It’s not bad,” Michael lies, “but I’ve decided t’work someplace else.”

Everyone looks shocked now, even though Birdy’s eyes scream more surprise than the sense of betrayal he sees in Frank’s eyes, and even Jimmy looks like he didn’t see this coming. Considering Michael was once willing to do everything they told him to, he doesn’t blame them. It’s a big chance for all of them, but especially for him. 

Change is good, change is what he needs. He turns it into a mantra or else he won’t believe it, cave, and then return to the same man he was before. The thoughts of, “They’re your family. Would it really be that bad?” 

But you would never approve. Or would you?

No, he can’t think like that. He wants to be just Michael for a while if not forever. 

“I came to tell ya that. I quit,” he repeats. “The job with Amanda, I mean. I quit that.”

“Come again?” Frank asks. 

“Yeah.”

Jimmy curses under his breath, “The hell, Michael?!”

Michael caught them off guard. Good. The almost defeated expression Frank carries along with his anger and exasperation almost makes him gloat. Maybe he is already gloating a little inside because he found something more important than blood, in more ways than one, and he is fighting for it now. 

He hasn’t fought for something in so long. 

“Where?” Jimmy collects himself first. “Where are ya gonna work?” he asks. 

“I’ve got somethin’,” says Michael, “that’s all ya need to know. That’s why I came here. I didn’t want t’ leave ya in the dark.”

“You came here to tell us ya quit the job with Amanda?”

“Yeah.”

“Pet,” Birdy prompts. 

Michael shakes his head. “I need to get Anna back. For tha’, I need a more stable job. Appease the courts an’ all that. I can’t let anything, not even the smallest mishap get in the way of that. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Would you be proud of him if you heard him stand his ground? He likes to think you would be. It makes the heavy heart he gets from the look on his brother’s face a little easier to just accept. He needs to burn bridges, not appease others. And this is one of the bridges that need to be incinerated. 

“Are you sure about this?” Birdy asks. 

“Yeah, I am,” he says. 

“Fuck,” Frank curses to himself. “Can we talk about this, Michael? Just for a minute?” It sounds like a question but it’s actually a perfectly concealed demand. 

Michael sees through his charade. He shakes his head again. “I made my decision, Frank.”

“When we put ya to washin’ cars, this is not what we meant to happen–”

“Oh, I am well aware of tha’,” he sounds bitter now, and he can taste the copper of blood from where he bit his cheek in an attempt not to yell or throw another punch. “Things change,” he says. “People change.”

Birdy tries to pour some water on the fire that is starting to consume everyone in the room, but it has been fueled by oil and gasoline and water only makes it worse. 

“Anna belongs with Michael,” she says. “I’ve said it before, but she’s a Kinsella. Mikey deserves a chance to prove himself to get her back, don’t ya think?”

Jimmy nods at the same time that Frank starts to shake his head. “Eric!” he calls out and his son flinches. He’s still standing close to the snakes. “Don’t ya have anythin’ constructive to say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael says. 

Eric closes his mouth again. He doesn’t look like he wants to be there, anyway. His skin is sickly pale and he appears almost… guilty. 

“That’s all I came here for. I quit. I’m sorry.”

He’s not sorry. He feels sorry, but not for this.

“Maybe if we take a calm minute to think about this–” Birdy tries again. 

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Pet…”

“I’m sorry, Birdy,” and with her, he means what he says. “I can’t,” he says. 

On his way out, the weight that is lifted from his shoulders only lasts a few seconds before his brother’s voice puts twice as many bricks back onto his shoulders, dragging him further down. 

“Michael, wait!” Jimmy calls out. 

Michael clenches his jaw and halts. “What?” He turns around. 

“I’m sorry for wha’ I said the other day, about Allison and Anna and that girl Amanda saw you kissin’,” he says. “I was on edge and it wasn’t fair, especially not blamin’ ya fer Allison’s death. I know yer strugglin’ and I’m sorry, but ya can’t just leave because of tha’. It was just a fight.”

“I’m not leavin’,” he clarifies, “I just quit my job with Amanda. There’s a difference. I’m still here. Fer family.”

“Is there a difference? Ya’ve been gone for days. I was worried. We all were.”

“Were ya, really?”

They stare each other down. The rope of tension is so visible, it could be cut with a knife. 

Jimmy takes a step closer, his voice softer now. "Look, I didn't mean half of the things I said. I was angry, and I lashed out. I want you back in our lives. I want ya back where you belong, workin' with me. We're family, Michael."

“This isn’t about you, it never was,” Michael snaps. “This is about me and Anna and… and–” He knows he shouldn’t have said your name, but it slips before he can think, and his voice echoes through the house. 

“So yer still on about her?” his brother asks. 

He screwed up. You were just a stranger seconds before, and as a stranger, you were safe. Now Jimmy knows your name and probably everyone else, too, and being a Kinsella is already dangerous enough, he doesn’t need you involved with every single member of his family, but now that Jimmy knows you are one of the reasons he wants out… his brother might not become the problem, but Frank might, and Michael could shoot himself for being such a fool. 

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Point is, I’m gettin’ another job and ya can’t stop me. I want t’be better.”

“We’re family,” Jimmy repeats. 

Michael scoffs. "Family, huh? Is that what ya call it when you drag my personal life into our fights? When you use my dead wife, daughter, and her against me?"

“Ya heard what Frank said about Eamon–”

“I’ll cross that bridge if it ever comes to it, but I’m not playin’ that game. I can’t get involved, and I won’t. Why can’t you just accept tha’?”

“Because Anna, I get, but this woman, Michael,” Jimmy says. 

His eyes darken. “Careful,” he growls.

“I stand by wha’ I said. This relationship is doomed. People have died already. What if someone starts a war? They’re not gonna give a fuck about whether or not yer goin’ straight now. You know how it is; they always find a way t’ destroy us and what we love. You’ve experienced it yerself.”

His words cut deeper than a knife. Michael's heart aches as he realizes the truth in his words — love and happiness within the Kinsella family come at a devastating cost. He stabbed a dagger straight through his heart and pulled it back out. As if the demons in his head weren’t saying the same thing, Jimmy had to go ahead and drill the hurt even deeper, the fear and the uncertainty. 

He thinks about Allison, her blood heavy on his hands. He went down too many wrong roads and ended at a point of no return. Now that he has found a way out, that way seems to be the same one-way street heading in another direction, but the end is still a huge wall he will run into, and then he will lose everything dear to him. 

But these thoughts are poison. They’re toxic. He can’t let them get to him, even though he has never taken his brother’s words more seriously. He’s always valued Jimmy, even when he’s angry. What he loathes is the truth of his words. It would be kinder if he was lying; it would make the decision so much easier. It wouldn’t make him rethink what he said, what he chose and is going to choose – he wouldn’t question what he feels for you, which is the part that tears ripples through his soul and the home you’ve made there, shaking his world and inevitably, yours. 

He understands the risks. But he yearns; he yearns so desperately for a chance at redemption. The threat of violence used to be his life, but now it hurts even him to think about the chance of the monsters jumping out of the shadows and cutting him and his loved ones apart piece by piece. He saw the worst of humanity and he knows it can get worse. 

The pits are sheer endless. There is no going back no matter where you are, no matter how hard you try to pull out - It's a door that reads "pull" but you push, and even when you pull, the door won't open. It isn't locked, you're simply trapped, and it's the same with his emotions. 

Michael knows he has a hell lot to lose, and he needs to acknowledge that instead of listening to the voice in his head that continues screaming, “Run!” 

But it isn’t him who should run. 

“I deserve a second chance,” he says. 

“Of course, ya do,” Jimmy says, “but–”

“No, that’s all. I deserve a second chance. Period. So does Anna, and so does she.”

“Michael–”

The sound of heels clicking against the floor follows the sound of a closing door. Amand rounds the corner, her brown curls swaying with each of her movements, and she stares at the men before her in bewilderment. 

Michael feels his throat tighten when he sees her. 

“What is goin’ on here?” she asks. “I can hear ya shoutin’ through the whole house.”

“Michael quits,” Jimmy tells her. 

It’s as if he had been waiting for a moment to snitch. Two against one, and if he adds everyone in the basement, he’s standing alone against five Kinsellas. Just because he made a decision. He chose something for himself. It’s almost as if they can’t live with that. 

“Quit wha’?” Amanda asks.

“His job.”

“What?” She crosses her arms and looks at him. “Michael–”

“Don’t,” he cuts her off. His expression hardens. "Don't act like you care, both of ya. Don't. You may mean it, but no matter what I do, yer just gonna continue sabotagin' every attempt I make at bein’ happy. I can't keep lettin' ya dictate my relationships. I won't let you ruin what I have right now. Don’t tear her away from me.”

Why he sounds like he’s begging, he’s not sure. But standing alone against the force of his family feels humiliating enough to shatter his confidence. 

“Is it about the girl?” Amanda asks. Her body is turned to Jimmy, asking for his approval, and he nods. 

Michael rolls his shoulders. He doesn’t want to get angry, he doesn’t want to hit him again, he just wants to go home – he wants to go to a home that isn’t a place but a person, and he needs it now. He’s not sure how he survived up until this point, but it’s getting harder to breathe as the current drags him down. 

“It’s about more than tha’,” Jimmy adds to his initial agreement. 

At least he got that right. 

“It’s about family and the choices you’re makin’, Michael.”

Michael's voice rises, finally, his pent-up frustration spilling over. "No, Jimmy!” his voice bounces off the high walls that turn into a microphone with the force with which he delivers his words. “I'm choosing myself, fer once,” he says. “I've spent my whole life doin’ everythin’ fer this family, but I failed the people I care about, I lost everythin’ and now I just want to fuckin’ fix things! I won't let ya tear me down just ‘cause you can't handle the choices I make."

"Michael, we all care about you," Amanda says. Her voice is gentle, but he often likes to compare her to a venomous snake. Her words can sound nice, but the meaning behind them can be deadly as soon as it reaches your bloodstream. "We want what's best for ya."

"What's best for me is to be with her, with Anna- I want to be just Michael. I wanna be free from this toxic cycle. I won't let you or- or anyone else dictate what makes me happy. I've had enough. This is my life, for fuck's sake, let me just have tha'!"

"But yer a Kinsella," says Jimmy, "You can't change that." His anger transitions to silent anger. "No matter how badly you wanna escape, you can't."

Michael turns on his heels. "Maybe not, but I can sure as hell try," he says, ready to leave the house behind. 

He feels trapped, not just in there but on this street. He feels trapped everywhere, the walls caving in around him. He's breaking, as is the world, the universe, and reality; everything seems to be falling apart, and he is reaching for the only lifeline he has. As he walks away, he can feel their stares burning into his back, but he no longer cares.

He thought he could at least breathe once he was away from the house, but then his walls are caving in, too. He’s started tearing what little clothes he has into a bad – just enough for a few days – when he feels the room… shift.

The air grows thick with his mounting anxiety, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird desperately flapping its wings against a cage. His vision blurs. A sharp pain shoots through his skull, but it’s only momentary. 

Somehow, he manages to make his way into the bathroom. Maybe cold water will help, he thinks, but then the room shifts again and again and again, and his now wet fingers slip from the tap. The water is still running into the sink, but he can’t move. As the room shifts, so does his brain. He can’t think, his eyes only able to scan silhouettes, and his knees give out. His body betrays him. 

The world around him warps and distorts. The sound of running water turns into a shrill melody as if someone is blowing a flute directly into his ear. The tiles beneath his feet become unsteady, their patterns dancing and morphing before his eyes. His fingers twitch as he tries to somehow lean against the toilet, but he has no power over what he’s doing. The spiral keeps going further down, dragging him with it. 

Time seems to both stretch and contract, the seconds drawn out agonizingly, yet passing in the blink of an eye as his body convulses. He doesn't exactly register what's happening. Sometimes, it feels like he's watching himself seize uncontrollably from the outside, other times it feels like a very vivid dream and then there are times, like now, when he's conscious but also feels detached and not conscious at all. 

Fragments of pictures flash before his eyes like a movie. He feels the fear deep in his bones, and it turns into personified matter dancing through his daydream - but it feels more like a nightmare that doesn't belong to him like Freddy Kruger messing with his head and threatening to cut him up. The body he's in can't possibly be his own. He fears losing control; he fears being consumed by the darkness that lurks within his bloodline, and it grips him tightly. He fights against it, struggling to retain a sense of self amidst the overwhelming chaos, but he's tired. 

He's not sure how long he's lying on the floor, but eventually, his muscles ease up and he slumps. The world returns to his senses, but he still feels disoriented and takes a moment to realize where he is.  As he lies there on the cold bathroom floor, the tears mingle with the sweat on his face. He wipes it off his brow, but he is still sweating. 

It isn’t the first time this has happened, but he hates it more and more every time. If only he could understand what’s happening, but asking for help isn’t his strong suit and he has other things to worry about. His ‘episodes’, as he dubbed them, are the last points on the list. 

He’s not at home here anymore, Michael reminds himself because he doesn’t feel like it. He feels trapped in his own house. The bullet holes are so close, he feels he can touch him through the walls. 

And then he decides, he really can’t stay here anymore. Not tonight, at least, and not tomorrow either. His head is all over the place. In every corner, there is an invisible trigger and he is haunted by the ghosts of his past. They follow him everywhere. 

The past follows him everywhere but into your arms, and so he fights against the ache in his muscles to rise back to his feet and packs his bag. 

By the time Birdy comes around to check on him, the light in the kitchen is dark, the blinds are drawn close and when she knocks, no one answers. Michael is gone again, and she wearily leaves it be just like that – who is she to keep the poor boy from happiness? If he doesn’t want to stay, he shouldn’t have to stay. 

But that’s just what she thinks. She knows as soon as Frank or Jimmy finds out he has disappeared again, kindness is the last thing that will follow Michael wherever he goes now. 

When he tells you about it that night, he leaves out the part about Eamon and whatever else is threatening the existence of the family business right now because you don’t need to know that. He tells you about the fight and Jimmy and his decision to quit his job with Amanda and move on to be with Anna, and you listen without a word. 

You listen and when he reaches the point of talking about packing his bag, he stops. You think that’s it, that’s what you believe, and he wants to keep it that way. He doesn’t tell you about the seizure or the taunting memories. 

Michael ends the story at a point he knows will suffice but still keep you safe, and you don’t seem to notice that he’s holding back because damn it, he’s crying, sobbing even, and all you want to do is comfort him.

He feels guilty for lying again, but it is for your own good. If you knew what was going on right under your nose, close to your own home and close to your heart with him here, you wouldn’t be able to deal.

But there are things Michael doesn’t know about you, and he can’t even begin to fathom how wrong he is about you not being able to deal with the violent lifestyle of his family. No matter how scared you might appear, it is not always because of the reasons he thinks it is. 

You’re a good liar, excellent even, but there is a gut feeling inside of him that won’t go away, and he holds onto the hope that one day, he will learn who you truly are, as much as you wish to know who he truly is. 

Only then can you both be unconditionally happy with each other – honesty is key, and it is still lacking in every one of your conversations.

Michael just hopes you will be able to survive whatever rocks life might throw your way because losing you is not an option he wants to concern himself with – in more than one sense. 

Tagging: @bellaxgiornata @shouldbestudying41 @your-not-invisible-to-me @glowstick-lesbian @ms-murdockswift @acharliecoxedfan @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattmurdocksscars @roseallisonparker @1988-fiend @norestfortheshelbywicked

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #kin #michael kinsella angst #reader insert #no y/n #michael kinsella fluff #hurt/comfort #but mostly angst #charlie cox #michael kinsella x female reader #chaos theory

[resident-gay-bitch]

It all came to head very quickly. It was never meant to come out, not like this at least. It just so happened to end this way and Remus wasn’t sure whether to cry from fear or relief. 

Let me give you some context. 

See, Remus had been sporting some pretty interesting feelings from the first moment he laid eyes on Sirius Black. The boy with the long dark hair, pale skin, deep eyes, and high cheekbones. He was beautiful, Remus couldn’t deny that, right from the start. 

He didn’t understand his feelings at first. All he knew was that he thought this boy, the one rolling his eyes at one that Remus could only assume was his mother, was the prettiest boy he had ever seen, and that Remus wanted to know him. When they were sorted into the same house, and directed to their shared dorm, Remus felt an abundance of excitement.

Remus liked to be around Sirius all of the time. He was confident, brave, strong, brash (to others, never to Remus), loud, undeniably himself, and oh so beautiful. These were all things Remus admired and told himself he wanted to be. Not to say that was untrue, Remus did wish to be more like his friend, but there also lay something deeper. Something that shook him deep in his soul that he couldn’t quite figure out. 

Remus found himself jealous of James and Sirius' friendship more than he’d like to admit. The two boys shared a bond like no other that Remus had seen before. He tried to find a similar bond with Peter, but the boy was too closed off, timid, unsure. It just didn’t feel the same. Peter wasn’t Sirius. Remus wished nothing more than to be James. 

He wanted James’ smile, his charm, his suave and his swagger. He wanted his smarts and his heart and his kindness and love. He wanted to be the one Sirius came to when he was sad, he wanted to own the bed that Sirius crept to for late night conversations, he wanted to be the one to help brush Sirius’ hair because he hated doing it himself but no one except James could touch it. 

He always craved Sirius, but he didn’t know why. 

:) if you'd like to keep reading this fic (8.5 k words) you can find it now on ao3 (link below) :)))))

happy reading! <3

don't forget to reblog and comment!!

#jay writes #every moon needs its star #the marauders #remus lupin #wolfstar #sirius black #james potter #lily potter #harry potter #remus & james #remus & lily #remus x sirius #this follows remus' life and love for sirius #super angsty but also some fluff #but mostly angst #read the tags ig #major character death because like it ends when remu dies #exciting shit #remus x nymphadora #whoops almost forgot a major plot point there #nymph low key deserves better in this but like... oh well i guess #i like causing pain #it's fun #:P #sue me bitch #anyway #happy reading #<3

[popcorn-plots]

Febuwhump day 20: Truth serum

Title: tell me a truth, the truth of your heart

Words: 367

Summary: Stephen ingests a truth serum. The students of Kamar-Taj are curious, but some take it a bit too far.

I'm not dead, I'm just busy with finals and tech week lol

~~~

At first, the questions were mostly innocent. Normal things that weren't exactly secret, but Stephen never really talked about. Questions like, "Who was your first crush?" Lindsey Dale, 1st grade. "What's your middle name?" Vincent. "What did you want to be when you were little?" A Veterinarian. "What's your favorite color?" Dark purple.

Stuff like that. With these levels of questions thrown at him, Stephen figured it would be relatively easy to get through the rest of the day. Until the dirty-minded students got to him.

"Who tops, you or Master Wong?" Wong. (He said, his face bright red.)

"Is he any good?" (Stephen really didn't want to discuss this) Oh, yes. Very good. (Stephen was extremely grateful that he didn't have to elaborate on his and Wong's sex life.)

Once the brunt of the dirty questions had cycled through, Stephen finally allowed himself a moment's rest. It didn't last long.

He walked past a group of Apprentices, whispered about something. Someone called his name and Stephen turned to see a girl, no older than a teen, nervously ask him about how he hurt his hands. Stephen froze. He didn't want to answer, didn't even want to remember the crash. His mouth opened. "I got into a car crash."

The day flashed through his mind and he had to steady himself against the wall before he could continue on his way. Stephen should have known by now that the questions wouldn't end there. "How many times did you die in the Dark Dimension?" A young man asked. 

"I lost count after 3,000." He whispered hoarsely.

An older Master. "How did Dormammu kill you?"

"He..." Stephen couldn't help himself. He started talking and couldn't stop, watching his audience's faces go from awe to disgust to horror. Wong found him later, sobbing as words spilled from his lips. He couldn't stop them, he tried to explain. Wong understood.

Wong took him to their room, and distracted him with mundane questions, forcing him to answer others. Stephen cried himself to sleep that night, unwanted memories assaulting his mind. The next day, he cried in relief when Wong asked him a question and Stephen didn't feel the need to answer.

Ao3

#stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #wong #wongstrange #wong x strange #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump day 20 #i'm so behind but it's fine #truth serum #a little bit of humour #but mostly angst

[leiawritesstories]

I need angsty fluff. Pls.

AS YOU WISH, DEAR ANON 

word count: 981

warnings: I’m honestly so sorry

The Mirror

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The mirror lay shattered into pieces all over the floor. 

She didn’t remember the way the wire snapped. Didn’t remember screaming out all of the rage and pain and anger coiled tightly--too tightly--within her. Didn’t remember yanking the mirror off the wall as she raged, didn’t remember slamming the glass-and-metal contraption against the icy tile flooring and watching as it smashed into a thousand irreparable shards. She didn’t remember the way she’d heaved a shuddering breath in the hollow silence following the crash, a piece of the weight bearing down upon her shoulders lifted after she’d shattered the mirror. 

She remembered the pain. 

Remembered the gnawing emptiness carving out her insides. Remembered the razor-edged words, steely as daggers carving slashes into her mind, her heart, her soul. Remembered reaching out a hand, trying to force a few words past her lips, only to be met with insult and degradation. Remembered the only thing she’d been able to choke out when faced with the question. 

What do you have to say for yourself? Huh? Anything? 

“I’m trying.” 

Trying. A derisive, sneering laugh. Try again. 

Nothing. 

She had no more words. She tried to speak, tried to form a thought, tried to grasp ahold of something, anything, to break the crushing silence. 

Nothing. 

And then--a soft, mocking snort, followed by the scuff of departing footsteps. 

She was alone. 

Alone in the silence. Alone with the words hurled at her echoing in her mind, a great grand clamor of doubt and shame and guilt and rage and anger and searing pain slicing her into a thousand thousand tiny jagged pieces. Alone with the maelstrom of choked-off emotion that raged within her. 

She couldn’t do this. 

She’d tried. 

Tried and tried and kept fucking trying even when she knew she’d fail. 

And she’d failed. 

Nothing. Worthless. Pathetic. Disappointment. 

The words clanged like so many alarms, growing louder and louder and louder and louder until she just couldn’t take it anymore and she loosed a high-pitched keen, the scream she wanted to release still bottled up, still hesitant to pour forth, as she pushed herself to her feet and braced her hands on the frosty white countertop and stared emptily at her face in the mirror. 

And fucking hated the face, the body, that stared back. 

That wasn’t her. 

Those hollow eyes, that dull skin, that limp hair, those faded bruises and scratches and scars hidden by makeup and clothing and whatever the hell else, that--that wrong body--that wasn’t her. Not her. Not her. Not. Her. 

That repressed scream bubbled up in her chest, frothing up her throat, gathering steam and speed and force each new second she stared into the mirror. 

And erupted with her as she screamed and screamed and screamed and yanked the traitorous goddamned mirror away from the wall and hurled it to the cold blank tile and screamed as it shattered into a hundred thousand glittering shards all over the floor. 

Shards like her. 

Eternity passed as she stood there, staring hollowly into the glass smashed across the tiled floor, the storm of rage and pain inside her gradually subsiding, gradually ebbing back into the padlocked strongbox in which she kept everything she ever felt. 

Slowly, creakily, she stepped backwards, shifting herself away from the mess. Wishing she could step outside the mess that she was. Slowly, gingerly, she reached for the cell phone tucked deep inside her pocket, her fingers closing around the blessedly solid glass and plastic of its case. Slowly, cautiously, she swiped across the screen, tapped the phone icon, punched in the ten digits she knew by heart. 

He answered in a heartbeat, so fast she half thought he’d been anticipating her call. “Ae--Aelin?” 

“Need you,” she managed to croak before swiftly hanging up, heart racing and adrenaline pounding from just a few seconds spent on the phone. 

She counted the minutes until he arrived, the stream of repeating numbers helping to ground her as she curled herself into a ball on the floor, her arms locked around her knees. One. Two. Three...

Seventeen before the door squealed as it opened. Ten, twenty more seconds before footsteps pounded down the hall, towards her, before Rowan’s voice washed over her shaking self. 

“Aelin?” Gently, cautiously, his fingertips brushed against her arm, against the thick cheap fabric of the sweatshirt she wore. “I’m here.” 

I’m here. 

Choking out a strangled sob, she melted against him, let him carefully ease his arms under her shoulders and knees and lift her up as easily as if she were a small child. He’d come for her. He always would. 

“We’re leaving,” he whispered into her hair, cold steely anger underlying his soothing tone. “You’re never going back there, I promise.” 

“Never?” she croaked, voice faltering. 

“Never,” he swore, his arms tightening around her as he carried her out of the apartment and down the stairs and out to his car, settled her into the back seat, laying down so she wouldn’t have to worry about being seen through the tinted rear windows, swung himself into the driver’s seat, and drove the fuck away from the place where she’d grown up. 

The place where she’d spent too many nights cowering in her room as an argument raged outside her door, where she’d been used and abused as a mere tool in those arguments, where she’d been broken down into a hollow shell of herself, where she’d fallen in love with a boy only to be shut away from him, where she’d lived and loved and screamed and laughed and cried and ran away so many times, too many times, never running far before she was yanked back. 

The place was nothing to her now. 

All that mattered was getting out. Leaving. Finally driving into a new life, into the life she needed for herself. 

With the boy she loved at her side. 

Always. 

~~~ TAGS: 

@charlizeed

@cretaceous-therapod

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@nerdperson524

@claralady

@fireheartwhitethorn4ever

@morganofthewildfire

@rowanaelinn

@wesupremeginger

@story-scribbler

@nicolivesinbooks

@mackenzieclutt

@stardelia

@shanias-world

@mybloodrunsblue

@swankii-art-teacher

@wordsafterhours

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@violet-mermaid7

@holdthefrickup

@goddess-aelin

@rowaelinismyotp

@dealfea

@irondork

@elentiyawhitethorn

@live-the-fangirl-life

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@chronicchthonic14

@whispers-in-the-darkest-heart

@sweet-but-stormy

@hanging-from-a-cliff

@jorjy-jo

@rowaelinrambling

@thegreyj

@silentquartz

@backtobl4ck

@throneofus7

@elizarikaallen

#my writing #answered prompt #angst #and fluff i guess #but mostly angst #heehee #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin

[winterlovesong1]

let me borrow this (wear your heart till it’s worn)

Summary: Five times Nancy was given a piece of Ace's clothing (and one time he took a piece of hers)

Author Notes: Props to Allison @scarletslippers​ for telling me my original title was worth it - to anyone else who supported this fic to fruition ( @flythesail​ , @destielbaited​ ) this one is for you!

-/-

She knew he was aware she had held onto them. Held onto them all. Because like most things he gifted her, they were treasures of the upmost worth.

Read on A03

#Allison joked I post a fic every three days and to that I use Liv's tags she used in one of my reblogs - please stop (don't stop) lol #and I know I will say this about most of my recent fics but I'm proud of this one so you should read it #and I threaded through some similarities through the vignettes #threaded get it...lol I think I'm funny #anyways here's some Ace giving clothing to Nancy and one time she gave something to him #lots of hurt and comfort #and some fluff too #but mostly angst #but fluff at the end #nace angst with a happy ending #nace fanfic #nacefanfiction #nace fanfiction #writing: winter's

[valleynix]

angst has been planned for chapter eighteen >:3

#also softness #but mostly angst #i am mentally unwell #this is all i think about #BUT ITS SM BETTER THAN WHAT I HAD ORIGINALLY PLANNED

[kayniee]

Zhongli x Childe - Ghost of a God

In Liyue High, there was no shortage of absurd rumours. Childe had only transfered a month ago, and he had already become privy to quite a few. By far the most ludicrous, he thought, was the one about the ghost living in the walls. But what happens when that particular rumour is proven true?

---

Childe groaned dramatically, making his roommate, Scaramouche, raise an eyebrow. "This is what happens when you procrastinate."

"Shut the fuck up." Childe practically growled. "This is your fault."

"Which mental gymnastics course did you go through to arrive at that conclusion?"

"You didn't fucking remind me that it was goddamn due!"

Scaramouche snorted. "We don't even go to the same high school. Face it, dude. This is your fault. Now stop bitching and get your shit done."

Childe grumbled out a few half-hearted complaints, but he knew that his roommate was right. The ginger had been putting off writing his paper for his History of Liyue class for almost two weeks now. The only reason he was doing it now was because Xiangling had posted in the class group-chat asking for a proof-reader.

He sighed deeply. This goddamn thing was due tomorrow and he hadn't even gotten started on it. There was no way he was getting any sleep.

"Dude, you've got to get your shit together." Childe could hear a hint of amusement in his purple-haired roommate's voice. "You're gonna get shipped back to Snezhnaya if you keep this up, and I don't want fucking Dottore as my new roommate. Have you been in his room? It always smells like fucking formaldehyde." Childe could see Scaramouche smirk out of the corner of his eye. "What would Teucer think?"

"That's low, even for you." Childe deadpanned, making Scaramouche snicker. "But seriously though, I'm trying. I usually get my stuff done, I just got really bored reading about the fucking Stove God 'Massachusets' or whatever the fuck, and I guess I just forgot about it until now."

Scaramouche cackled. "The fucking Stove God? Damn am I glad that I got Inazuma Acadamy instead." He practically wheezed. The ravenette gave Childe a reassuring pound on the back. "You got this, man. There's a coffee from the Angel's Share on the counter when, not if, you need it."

The Snezhnayan sighed again. This was going to be fucking torture.

----

Childe glanced at the clock. 2am. He had already written the intro and half of the body, and despite the coffee he had had an hour ago, he felt like death incarnate. Surely a quick nap wouldn't hurt.. He set an alarm for 3am.

An hour's rest would leave him feeling invigorated and he would get his entire paper done and even get started on his algebra homework.. Yeah, he had this in the bag.

-----

When Scaramouche shook him awake at 7am, however, he realized he most definitely did not have this in the bag.

"You fell asleep?!" The ravenette shouted, looking very pissed off.

"Shut the fuck up - I - I set a fuckin' alarm -" Childe groaned rubbing his eyes. He shook Scaramouche's death-grip off his shoulders, pulling out his phone. There was an alarm set for 3pm.

"If you get kicked out of the Harbinger program I'm going to fucking fly to Snezhnaya and beat your goddamn ass."

Childe's eyebrows furrowed. "The History teacher likes me, she'll maybe-probably give me an extension." Even he could tell that he was spewing bullshit. Ms Ningguang most definitely did not like him, and there was no way in fuck she was giving him an extension for a paper that the class was given two weeks to work on.

"Whatever you say, dude." Scaramouche grimaced. "Good luck, I've got a bus to catch."

Childe heard the door slam. His roommate was definitely pissed off. He would be too, if being forced to share a room with Dottore was a very real possibility.

With a sigh, the ginger grabbed his schoolbag, shoving his laptop into it. He would just have to ask for some extra-credit work.

---

The minute Childe stepped off the bus he was greeted by a very kind greeting of 'you look like shit' from his lockermate, Chongyun.

"Gee, thanks." The ginger replied dryly. "The fuck were you waiting for me?"

"Well, I need to interview some seniors for my project and I thought, who better than the Snezhnayan exchange student, but I'm guessing that you aren't in the mood." The sophomore trailed off.

"You guessed right." Childe snapped, making the younger student flinch. "Sorry, sorry - Long night, as you pointed out earlier. You should go interview Xiangling or Hu Tao. They'd be more than happy to help out."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks anyways. Hope you have a good day." The sophomore said, darting away. Childe tried to push away the pang of guilt that arose from snapping at his innocent lockermate.

He had around 10 minutes before class, so he decided to make his way to the washroom to splash some water on his face and maybe make some more progress on his paper.

"You'll be fine," He muttered into the mirror, trying to ignore the very obvious eyebags that had taken up residence on his face. "What's the worst that can happen, you get shipped back to Snezhnaya, Teucer is disappointed - And your mom too, but mostly Teucer -" He cut himself off. Maybe that wasn't the best thought to spiral into.

"Are you alright?" A baritone voice asked, making Childe jolt. He whipped around. There was a man with shoulder-length brown hair with amber tips tied up into a ponytail staring at him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Childe blurted out.

"Someone willing to listen to you." The man said patiently. "If you'd like to talk."

"Do you go to this school? I've never seen you before." Childe said warily.

The man let out a small chuckle. "Something like that. If you feel uncomfortable you are by no means forced to share with me - I merely thought I would offer."

Childe hesitated. He did have a lot on his chest - And he just shouted at a fucking sophomore trying to interview him for a school project for fuck's sake. Talking to a random bathroom stranger about his problems was a better coping mechanism than screaming at his lockermate. And besides - Said bathroom stranger was really fucking hot.

"I'm an exchange student from Snezhnaya which means I need to keep my grades above a B or I'll be removed from the Harbingers - The exchange program I'm in - And I forgot about a history assignment because I didn't want to research the fucking Stove God and I have professor Ningguang as my History teacher and she doesn't like me because I never pay attention and I always sass her and at one point I may or may not have started a sudo-protest because no-one wanted to do an assignment so if I hadn't done it someone else would've but the point is, I'm going to fail the class and be shipped back to Liyue and my 8 year old brother is going to be disappointed in me so, uh.. Yeah." Childe finished, staring at his feet. Why the fuck did he just tell all that to some random dude he met in the fucking bathroom. He glanced up at the man, expecting judgement, but he was surprised when instead he found amusement.

"That's quite a story."

"Yeah, no shit."

The man paused for a moment. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance."

Childe snorted. "Unless you have a fully written history paper about Massachusetts the Stove God, I doubt it."

The man raised an eyebrow. "I take it you don't know who I am, then."

"Did I not make that clear when I asked 'who the fuck are you' when you snuck up behind me?"

"I thought you were merely being crass."

Childe crossed his arms. "Well, I wasn't. I actually don't know who the fuck you are, believe it or not. Are you some kind of homework genie?"

The man let out a chuckle, but shook his head. "My name is Zhongli. I am a ghost that lives in the walls of Morax High."

"It's Liyue High." Childe interrupted, his brow furrowed. "And how stupid do you think I am? What, you heard about the 'ghost in the walls' rumour and decided to fuck with an innocent student?" The ginger scoffed. "There I was trying to be genuine, telling you my problems and shit, and you go and pull the 'I am a ghost' card."

The man - 'Zhongli' if that even was his name - Sighed. "Yes, I feared I would receive that reaction. Would you allow me to prove myself to you?"

"Sure, why not. Let the bathroom stranger prove that he's a ghost. This ought to be good."

Zhongli then proceeded to fucking walk through Childe.

The ginger whirled around to gape at Zhongli, who was now behind him. Because he fucking walked through him. Like a ghost. Which he was claiming to be. And - Holy fuck he wasn't lying. He's a ghost. Childe just met a ghost.

"Was that adequate?" The brunette simply stated, raising an eyebrow.

"I - Uh - Y - Yeah - You said you could help me?" Childe stammered out. Hey, if there was a bathroom ghost offering to help you not get deported back to Snezhnaya, you say yes. Especially if the ghost is handsome.

"I did. I just so happen to sit in on quite a few of Professor Ningguang's lessons, and I have completed this essay multiple times." He pulled a USB drive from his pocket and handed it to a rather dumbfounded Childe. "This has a copy of a perfectly written paper - Proofread and everything - That you may submit to your class. In return, I only ask that you return here again to speak with me. You need only say my name. As you may imagine, I do not have much to occupy my time, so please feel free to call on me any time you please as long as you are on school property."

"Why?" Childe stammered out. Zhongli raised an eyebrow. "I mean - Why me? Why do you want to talk to me? I've heard the rumours, people don't usually talk with you longer than a few moments and then they never see you again, and they certainly don't get fucking copies of papers from you, so why me? What makes me different?"

Zhongly merely shrugged. "I am not sure. I find you quite intriguing, and wish to spend more time with you. And yes, it is true, I have never done this before. You are by no means required to call upon me again. Regardless, you may keep the paper. But I would like it very much if you did."

"I - I'll keep that in mind." Childe swallowed thickly. "I've - Uh - Got to get to class. I'll 'call on you' at some point - You're really interesting, and, uh, kinda hot, too, so yeah - I've got to go now bye!" Childe hurried out, heat rushing to his cheeks. He just called the bathroom ghost hot. He needed mental help. He quickly turned in the paper that Zhongli had supplied him, not bothering to go over it to check for errors.

----

Childe zoned out during class and teetered dangerously close to falling asleep a few times. Ms Ningguang was teaching them about the 'God of War' - Morax. Hey, that was what Zhongli called the high school, wasn't it - Morax High.

"Morax often liked to wander amongst Liyue posing as a regular person. This was, in fact, how he met his demise. While in a persona that he often used he, weakened by his temporary mortal form, was ambushed by thieves and slaughtered. He often went by the name Zhongli."

Childe's brain fucking stopped. What. The fuck. He scrambled to flip to the textbook illustration of Morax. Staring back at him was a brunette man, a bit taller than Childe. His hair had amber tips, and his knowing eyes were all too familiar.

----

Zhongli was feeling rather rattled after the interesting conversation that he had with the rather peculiar Snezhnayan transfer. He wasn't sure what had brought him to offer a listening ear to the ginger, but he felt an odd attraction towards him. The ghost found him interesting, challenging, and, sure, attractive. But giving him the answers to a paper?

He paced along the roof, making sure to remain invisible as not to garner unwanted attention. Giving the boy - Childe - his name and the means to call him, as well? That wasn't something Zhongli did. Ever.

And why did he have this giddy feeling in his stomach? He didn't like it. He hadn't felt like this since he died. Since Guizhong. Since Liyue.

He was a ghost. He was dead. He knew that. Childe had no reason to ever want to speak with him. It was extremely unlikely that he would make good on his promise to call on Zhongli. But the ghost couldn't help but hope.

As the weeks went bye, however, that hope slowly began to fade. Zhongli roamed around the school as usual, keeping an eye on the ginger student that had caught his eye. But then - The letter appeared, marked by a call of Zhongli's name and left in the same bathroom where they had first met.

'Zhongli,

This is Childe. I wanted to speak with you, but at the same time I didn't because I'm really fucking awkward and I think you're really fucking cool but I found something else about you that I just want you to confirm or deny. Are you Morax, the God of War?'

Zhongli's heart dropped. How the Snezhnayan had found his identity out, he had no clue, but he knew the smart thing to do - Completely disappear off the student's radar. He definitely shouldn't write back. That would be downright irresponsible. Stupid, even. Completely idiotic.

'Childe,

Yes, I am Morax, the God of War. How you came to possess that information is beyond me, but I see no point in hiding it.

Zhongli.'

The ghost waited anxiously for the ginger student's reply. Thankfully, the gap between interactions didn't last nearly as long, and a letter appeared in the bathroom the very next day with a call of Zhongli's name.

'Zhongli,

Holy fucking shit that's insane. You're an actual God. That's terrifying but also sorta hot as well. I'm assuming you want me to keep all this stuff secret so I won't tell anyone. By the way, I called you hot when we first met and nearly fucking died of embarrassment and then wrote that you were hot here so uh yeah, I think you're hot. Just wanted to say that. Also could we maybe speak like this for a while cuz I'm better at flirting over writing because awkward. And yeah I'd like to flirt with you. If that's okay.'

Zhongli reread the letter once, then twice. Then he read it a third time. Childe, the ginger student he had been borderline obsessing with for weeks, found him attractive? This was far more than the ghost could have ever hoped for.

'Childe,

You have no reason to be terrified of me. I lost my powers when I died. And even if I did possess them, I would not use them to harm you. I also find you attractive - 'Cute', even. And I am completely alright with continuing to send letters back and forth. You are the first person to show an interest in me since the 1700s. I am willing to take this 'flirting' however slow you would like.

Yours, Zhongli.'

This pattern went on for a month. Childe would bring a letter to the bathroom in the morning, marked with a call of Zhongli's name. Zhongli would respond by lunch, during which Childe would make his way to the washroom and grab the note. Zhongli never got to see the ginger's response to his attempts at flirting, as Childe chose to read the letters at home. But Zhongli always saw the grin that spread across Childe's face when he saw the folded up piece of paper at lunch.

But then one day, when Zhongli was walking through the cafeteria at lunch, he saw Childe's arm around another man's shoulder and felt jealousy shoot through his entire being. It hurt.. So much.. More than it had any right to. They had only been together - Or obviously not together, he supposed, if Childe was doing this - For a month and a bit.. But it still felt like Zhongli had died all over again.

The next day, the ghost couldn't bring himself to read the letter. He didn't write a response, either, the thought of confronting his sudo-boyfriend more terrifying than an exorcism. He felt so stupid. So gullible.. So betrayed.

A week or so passed of this. Zhongli stopped listening in on classes and tried to avoid Childe at any costs - Not that the ginger would know that he was nearby, anyways. But every time he caught a glimpse of him, the pangs of hurt came back, and Zhongli saw his arm around the other man all over again.

After yet another week of this, Zhongli was doing his usual routine of moping on the roof feeling sorry for himself when he felt himself being pulled across the building. He was met with a puffy-eyed Snezhnayan in the men's changing room.

"Why?" The ginger said in a hollow voice. "We were getting along so well - And you're the first boyfriend I've ever had - The first person I've ever actually liked, too, so why did you just stop replying?" Ah, so he did consider then boyfriends.

"You clearly did not value our relationship as much as I did."

"What could possibly have made you think that?"

"You with your arm around that other man in the cafeteria two Mondays ago." Zhongli stated plainly.

Childe's brow furrowed. "Y - You mean Scaramouche? He's my roommate - He's my friend, and he's straight. Heterosexual. Interested in girls, and girls exclusively. I like you, not fucking Scaramouche, but if this is how you're going to treat our relationship, I don't think I want to be part of it."

Zhongli's eyes widened and he materialized his hand to grab Childe's wrist, but the ginger pulled away, glaring at the ghost furiously.

"Here I was thinking I did something wrong - Something seriously wrong - But no, you got all jealous because I put my arm around my straight friend's shoulder on open house day. This is fucking crazy. You realize that, right, Zhongli? That this is fucking crazy?"

How could Zhongli have been so stupid? This wasn't the 19th century, people could put their arms around each other's shoulders platonically. He was an idiot. He may have just ruined the only chance at a relationship he would ever have. "I'm so sorry -"

Childe scoffed and put up a hand. "Save it."

Zhongli grabbed him, his thoughts swimming, and slammed his lips against his. Childe froze, and Zhongli noticed that he didn't kiss back.

The ginger pulled away and let out a hollow laugh. "This is how you apologize? You ruin our first kiss? I'm done. I can't do this any more, Zhongli. You ruined this.." He shook his head, disappointed, then walked out of the changing room.

Zhongli felt broken. His chest hurt horribly, and he felt like a terrible person. He had just ruined everything with a man he loved.. Loved. He loved Childe. And now he would never get the chance to show him that.

#angst #hurt no comfort #hnc #zhongchi #childe x zhongli #genshin chili #chili #zhongli #childe #zhongli x childe #fluff #fluff and angst #but mostly angst #omg this is so trash im sorry for writing this

[lovedumbandbroke]

A concept in my head that been rolling around a lot:

Hanahaki, but instead of it being triggered by unrequited love, it's triggered because all the love you have for a person turns inwards because you're too afraid to show it.

So it kills you, not because someone doesn't love you back, but because you don't let it out and all that love you have stored, that could grow into something beautiful, turns on you and turns your insides beautiful.

Love is growth, and without any place for it to grow outside, it grows in. If you confess, reciprocated or not, the disease goes away because it's no longer trapped. It gives self-destruction a new meaning.

#hanahaki disease #spilled ink #writing prompt #hanahaki au #angst with a happy ending #mostly imagining my haikyuu ships tbh #iwaoi #sakuatsu #kenhina #dazatsu

[shepscapades]

I think I need to start putting more Red vs. Blue references in dbhc actually

#dbhc #dbhc art #dbhc scar #goodtimeswithscar #dbhc doc #docm77 #art escapades #hermitcraft #started re-watching it with tuna and besides being stupidly hilarious it’s also got so much good robo angst #I could use this for evil I think #BUT ALSO FOR SILLIES MOSTLY #LIKE THIS STUPID QUOTE #this doodle took no time but it made us laugh so hard DFJBXFGBK so. I had to share #I’ll just start sprinkling in rvb references no one will ever know #unless you recognize them in which case #ily

[greentrickster]

Begging the Hazbin fandom to go read some wiki articles on garden of Eden-era biblical lore. Not because the Hazbin fandom's doing a bad job or uncreative or anything so much as because apparently some of the preexisting lore is absolutely buckwild.

Like, I gave the wikipedia entry on Adam a poke, just 'cause curious, not at all expecting a "Lol yeah, he and Eve both lived for almost a thousand years after getting kicked out of Eden, and for the first hundred and thirty they just fucked off to separate sections of the world because they were mad at each other and both had a lot of sex with demons before getting back together, having Cain and Abel, and then presumably getting to question whether they shouldn't have just stuck with the demon sex when their firstborn killed their second-born."

It just feels like there's apparently a lot of stuff the Hazbin fandom could have a lot of fun with, you know?

#hazbin hotel #biblical lore #listen if I have to know this then so do you #also eden era biblical lore is kinda majorly depressing #meaning it's perfect for all you whump and angst lovers in this fandom #it's not phrased exactly how I phrased it in the wiki. mostly because this is a summary of a several sections of a VERY long article

[proxycrit]

Part 1 / Part 2

Emmet remembers when he and Ingo first brought Elesa to explore Celestial Tower, back when they were fourteen and thought they were immortal.

“Allegedly, the bell chime will bring ghosts home”, ingo had told emmet with the pompous knowing energy of a child who read way too much brochures. “It’s culturally significant! We must ring it.”

“Hmmm,” emmet had responded suspiciously. “Brother. The bell is at the top of the tower.” The implication stands: Ingo, there are thirty flights of stairs between here and the top, and no elevator to speak of.

Don’t be a coward, Litwick had told Emmet with the blaise tone of somebody who’s going to be piggy backing off of somebody else. Go ring the bell. Tynamo, sensing a litten fight, floated towards a loitering blitzle.

Ingo turns his lilipup eyes on Elesa, who’s squinting at the carved stone faces of the front door.

“Elesa? What do you think?”

Elesa thinks. She shrugs. “We already made our way here,” she said in accented galarian. “Might as well make it the rest of the way. Ganbatte!”

Emmet sighs. “This is a mistake,” he tells the two in exhaustive patience, but lets himself be dragged into the building.

Last time the twins were here, Ingo caught litwick— but not before she managed to nab a good chunk of Emmet’s soul. It’s not terrible; he felt fatigued for a week and bounced back pretty quickly, but it was the principle of the whole situation— celestial tower’s a pain in the ass and Emmet will stand by that until the day he dies.

Like right now.

The map isn’t working. Emmet checked it once. He’s checked it twice. He’s taken out his pen and written on it, which he would usually never do but desperate times call for desperate measures. The compass he brought spins useless circles. It’s like chargestone cave up here, but worse because instead if electric pokemon it’s all ghosts.

“We’re lost, yyup yup!” He announced to the crew. “I vote we eat Ingo first.”

“I love you too,” Ingo told Emmet placidly. “But we all know between the two of us, you’re the tastier one.” Litwick gives Emmet a thumbs up. Emmet gasps in mock affront.

“Elesa, help!”

Elesa gives the two of them a wary look. It took two floors for her to realize this is not just a weird temple with strange rocks, but a full out graveyard. She’s not very happy about that development.

“Don’t drag me into this,” she tells them. “Teme wa urusaii.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Ingo reports back.

Emmet, who’s cheerfully struggles with Galarian on a good day, simply gives her a thumbs up.

The three painstakingly crawl their way up. And up. If all else fails, Emmet told himself, at least they can orient themselves towards high ground.

“We’re like pidoves,” Ingo gasps. He has fallen behind them on the stairs, with Emmet taking the lead through sheer spite despite his legs going numb on floor twenty two. “We, hah, we are attracted by the magnet of the bell, like, like probopass-“

“I am emmet! You are not making, sense!” Emmet called back. Elesa, who’s stuck between them and looking two steps from perpetual collapse, giggles.

“No, no hear me out, Ingo wheezes. “What if the bell’s a magnetic pole? And that’s why your compass doesn’t wo, woo, hahh, work.”

Emmet stops to rest, just because Ingo is using precious breathing air to infodump. Elesa gratefully slumps against the railing. Tynamo and litwick, lazy in their still small size, have settled on a weary blitzle and look very smug doing so. (Emmet is not jealous, he tells himself. Emmet is also lying.)

“The bell’s important,” Ingo had repeated.

“Okay,” Elesa responds. “If it’s important to you, then it’s important to us.”

And Emmet finds that he agrees with Elesa. Partially because they crawled up twenty fucking three flights of stairs, but also because Ingo thinks this is important, so it is.

And here’s the thing—

— emmet doesn’t remember much after that.

The rest of that trip was a blur of exhausted groaning and burning legs, and by the time the trio managed to breach floor thirty, people’s brains have all but dribbled out their ears. Emmet remembers being disgustingly sweaty. He remembers blitzle almost tripping to death and litwick’s swearing. He remembers tynamo sticking to his neck like a damp towel. He remembers Ingo’s excited sneasel smile, and the way the sunset bounced off of Elesa’s hair.

He remembers the brassy ring of the Celestial bell. It sounded like victory.

But it was Elesa’s cackle turned scream as Ingo swiped cold hands down her neck that sounded like home.

—-

So when the conductor at thirty one, lost and disoriented in the Impossible Place, heard the sound of a familiar bell, ringing over and over and over-

-the sound of laughter-

-EMMET! Elesa cried-

-like a homing pidove, the conductor, thinks nonsensically as something in him perks up.

(Emmet had always liked winning, more than anything else, and the sound of victory calls him home.)

—

Elesa catches lightning in a bottle. Elesa, arms outstretched, finds purchase in her brother, and does not let go.

Emmet is so, so cold, Elesa thinks as the wind steals air from her lungs. (That’s okay. She’s already breathless from a terrible business called hope.)

Emmet stares back. His hands flap against Elesa’s jacket. Elesa desperately drinks in his wan face and too wide eyes and his frost bitten lips. In a tiny, meek voice, almost lost to the wind, he asks:

“Are you real?”

Elesa lets out an ugly sob. Her tears whip away in the wind as they fall. Emmet’s frightened countenance turns immediately to alarm. His shaky grasp becomes a solid grip as they spin through the air, cushioned by chandelure’s psychic.

“I think so??” Elesa warbles. She sees Emmet’s eyes dart to her mouth. He’s reading mirroring her, she realizes with giddy delight— it’s such an Emmet thing to do, to read lips, and-

“I am Emmet,” Emmet breathes. His eyes have started to water. “Yyou are Elesa- Oh dragons, Elesa!?“

Elesa reaches. Hesitates.

Emmet grabs elesa by the lapels and crushes her tight against him. Elesa holds on, and the grief and relief in her accumulates into a wet sopping mess. She’s ruining his jacket, she mourns, but its okay because he’s dripping all over hers.

She can’t hear what he’s saying into her shoulder, can’t read what he says, but everything’s okay because every part of her is chiming

You came back

You’re here

I’m not alone anymore.

Around them, the air distorts as Chandelure’s psychic wavers, flutters, and solidifies. Gravity reverses its call as they settle gently on the ground, dust billowing in all directions.

The ghost pokemon drops next to them, shaking so hard the musical clang of glass makes Elesa flinch.

You fucks, Chandelure gasps. DON’T GO LEAPING OFF BUILDINGS, I AM NOT YOUR EMERGENCY PARACHUTE.

“I’m sorry,” Elesa gasps, still giddy from the adrenaline.

AND YOU! Chandelure howls, whirling on Emmet, who’s still staring at the ghost with huge eyes. He’s gripping on to solid ground with the energy of a man who realized he could have been a splat on the ground.

YOU LEFT!

Emmet winces.

You- You left us, you left me-

Ah, ah no, Elesa thinks as golden globules of light shed from Chandelure. This is what a ghost looks like crying.

Emmet holds out his arms. Chandelure drifts into his embrace, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

You left me, the ghost pokemon whispers. How dare you. How could you.

“I didn’t mean to,” Emmet whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Stop doing this to me, Chandelure demands. Golden brine joins human tears, like drops of sun trapped in wet glass. Stop going where I can not follow.

And Emmet holds his tongue, because he knows he can not promise staying. Not while Ingo and Eelektross are still in Hisui.

(In the back of Emmet’s hurt and shattered mind is a spark. Synapses connect. The cold breach of the Distortion does nothing to drown out the sudden flare of hope in Emmet’s chest, so great he can not breathe, so strong he can not feel, because there’s a path. A difficult, painful path through the Space that Can Not Be, but a path all the same.)

“Elesa, Chandelure-“ Emmet’s voice breaks. He wants to tell them about Eelektross. He wants to tell them about the terrible past that is Hisui. He wants to explain how the last five months were filled with horror and wonder and fear and hope.

Hope, he thinks. So he says this:

“I know how to get Ingo home.”

NOTES:

AAAAAND THAT’S ALL FOR THIS DRABBLE. ITS OUT NOW. I CAN FINALLY GO BACK TO POSTING HAPPY SHENANIGANS! (Now you know the shape of their story.)

Thanks for reading this monster of a post!

#salvaging the ship of theseus #submas au #submas #ONCE AGAIN. MAKING THIS EVERYBODYS PROBLEM #hey look i did a funny little callback #remember the celestial tower as a Fun Time? #im about to make it BITTERSWEET. #emmet #elesa #chandelure #ingo #critterbitter screams into the void #critdraws #anyways uHh pls just know stsot is made from my worldbuilding notes #i dont know the shape of its ending yet and things are bound to change (which is why its on this acc instead of critterbitter! #feel free to postulate in the comments tho! i have other drabbles but drawing and writing hard) #((mostly? ingo taking care of the sneaslets. getting harassed by lady sneasler. confusing the local wildlife.)) #submas angst #with hopeful end? #submas fanfiction #fanfic #Spotify

[angee1011]

I love pjo fandom because we are watching this show and people are like “wow these kids’ parents sure do suck”

And we are just like “✨yes they do✨ isn’t it great ✨”

#pjo series #pjo tv show #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #I mean this strictly in haha isn’t fun to pick apart the narrative #kind of way #we do love our characters having Trauma #it’s adds angst and other good things #obv I’m #writing this having just watched ep 4 #yes I am mostly talking about Nico di Angelo #who else takes up 99.99% of my thoughts??????

[creatrixanimi]

I’ve been thinking about an angsty AU where chandelure gets injured when Ingo goes missing (was taken)

#submas #subway master emmet #natural harmonia gropius #chandelure #submas angst #subway boss emmet #This was mostly bc I think stained glass scars would be interesting but I accidentally gave the pretty ghost lamp survivor’s guilt (oops) #art #also I’m surprised by how little n is utilized in investigation in arceus aus considering he could like. talk to the witnesses #I don’t know if he would be particularly useful in this au to get ingo back but he could at least help out w communication

[rosieofcorona]

A Light To Break All Shadows

Just a fluffy little Halsin x Tav fic to keep the darkness at bay. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading! 💕

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Tav is eyeing Halsin suspiciously from the opposite end of Art’s bedside, where he’s been keeping watch over the sick man for days. At least, Halsin thinks it’s been days– perhaps three (or maybe four?) at the most. It is difficult to keep track in the Shadowlands.

At any rate, he cannot answer her immediately, which means his answer is insufficient.

“If you have to think about it,” Tav continues, “It’s been too long.”

She has a point.

He is exhausted, as they all are, but cannot bring himself to rest. They are so close– he is so close– to finding the child that will save them, to ending the hundred-year darkness, to restoring light and balance to the land. 

And Art Cullagh, ill as he is, is the key that will unlock their victory, so Halsin feels as though he must protect him every moment, must stay by his side in case he should wake, or take a turn. 

For days, he has persisted, spurred on by his stamina and willpower. For days, he has waited and watched. Now the idea of sleep falls on him like a spell. 

“It is my duty.” He protests. “I will see this through.” “You will,” she agrees, “When you wake. These people will need you in the days to come. And they will need you to be rested.”

She is playing to his sense of responsibility, he knows, but he is too tired to argue. Reluctantly, he nods his agreement. 

When he rises from his chair, it seems that all his centuries of existence catch up to him at once, his joints and muscles burning. He feels old and sore and weary as he drags himself toward an empty bed.

“Go on,” Tav commands gently. She feels like a mother nudging a child off to sleep. “Even the greatest leaders need rest.”

“Then you ought to rest yourself.”

She laughs at that, though Halsin means it. He knows so few who are so capable, so resilient, so kind. She has already accomplished so many things that he could not, not in hundreds of years of practice.

“You flatter me,” Tav smiles, but Halsin shakes his head. 

“You are extraordinary.” 

His gaze is on her when he says it, on her eyes and mouth and hands, the way her armor cleaves to her, the way her weapon rests against her hip. In another place, another time, another life, he would have had her already, would have known her inside and out if she asked him to. 

And she had asked him to, once, before they came here. He remembers. At the time he had denied her as gently as he could, in the knowledge that what was growing between them, if cultivated, could later prove a distraction, a weakness. 

But gods, he had wanted her then. He wants her still. 

Yet such urges, much like sleep, must be suppressed. At least for now.

Tav stares back at him with wide eyes until she feels a flush come over her cheeks. She turns her face away, just slightly, so that Halsin will not see. 

“Well.” She clears her throat, and redirects. “I’ll rest before we go scouting tomorrow. And I’ll watch Art while you sleep.” 

“As you say.” 

**********

In his dreams, he is back in the Shadowfell, that sunless, cursed place. 

At his feet are bodies, Harper and druid and shade alike. He knows their faces, their names, their stories. Here is Atlan, a boy from his own grove, no more than eighteen years of age. Halsin had cured him once of pox, had later mentored him in the healing arts. 

And here, Jehan the Harper, who had just received word that his wife was expecting. Twins, he’d announced, over a round of drinks at Last Light. 

And Moranna, the Selunite priestess who had blessed them again and again on their journey, had prayed over them and shielded them to the best of her ability. 

All lost to the shadows, corrupted beyond recognition. All dead, cut down by his hand. 

Halsin does his best to avoid stepping on them as he presses onward, each step a battle of its own. The weight of darkness seems to crush him, seems to drain the very life out of his body. 

His god is nowhere here. 

There comes a voice through the black night, distant, disembodied. Halsin, the shadows whisper, and whisper again, closer. Halsin. 

Wildly he turns and swings his glaive, hitting nothing, the panic rising in his throat, and–

“Halsin!” Tav exclaims, blocking a swing of his fist with her forearm. 

She is sitting at the edge of his bed looking concerned, frightened even. His skin is slicked with sweat, his breathing heavy, his body tangled in the bed linens. 

Immediately, a white-hot shame rushes over him, that he should be the one to cause her fear. 

That he should strike at her, even unconsciously, his savior, his ally. His friend, though that is too weak a word for the feeling that grows within him, wraps around his heart like wild ivy. 

“Forgive me,” he pants, “I was–” 

I was lost in the darkness, he means to say, I was frightened and alone, but the words stick in his throat like flies in honey.

Yet Tav seems to know already, a tenderness softening the furrows of her brow. Not pity, he notes. Understanding. 

She has seen equivalent horrors, has seen friends fall and foes flourish and still, and still, keeps fighting toward goodness, toward light. He aches with the thought that she might have such nightmares, that she might know firsthand how he feels now. 

But she soothes him, reaches out to wipe the sweat from his brow, her touch as light and cool as an evening breeze. 

“It’s alright,” she promises. “You don’t have to explain. You are safe here.”

Halsin lets out a breath he’s been holding for too long. It has been many years since he was last comforted, truly comforted. He is so accustomed to doing the comforting that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end. 

Tenderness is no stranger to him– many of his lovers have been gentle, have been sweet– but none have ever known his burdens, none have carried them, taken them on as their own. Here is one who has, who does, who will, if he will let her. 

He takes Tav’s hand in his and guides it, flattens her palm over the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, breathing deeply, willing it to slow. He wants to say, Thank you, then, I love you, but it’s too soon, he thinks, too desperate, no matter how true. 

“Thank you,” Halsin allows, and swallows the rest. 

Tav smiles at him then, a soft, bright thing, like a single star in the night sky. The true last light in the Shadowlands. 

“Shall I stay with you?”

“Art–,” Halsin starts, but she shakes her head calmly, knowingly. “He’s sleeping soundly. Seems his bad dreams have come to visit you.”

“I do not wish to burden you with something so trivial.”

“You could not burden me,” Tav says quietly. “But I will leave, if you prefer.” 

Her thumb strokes over his chest, her hand still pressed against him. His pulse quickens again at so intimate, so innocent a touch. Halsin wonders if she can feel it.

“I prefer your presence, always. But you need your own rest.” 

“Very well.” 

Her palm slips from him as she rises to her feet, and he thinks for a moment that he’s made a mistake, has waved off her kindness, dismissed her.

Rather, she motions for him to move over and climbs slowly, wordlessly into the bed next to him. He finds himself lifting the sheets for her, inviting her in without hesitation. 

She’s changed, he realizes as she comes close, her armor cast aside for the day. Her nightclothes make her look, make her feel smaller, softer. He wants so badly to slip his hands beneath the fabric, to see how soft she is beneath. 

“Is this alright?” Tav whispers, looking earnestly into his eyes. Her fingertips flit over his cheek, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. “Are you alright?”

The bed is small and Halsin is not, and she is pressed against him like a flower between the pages of a book. He can only nod. 

“I will rest here then, with you.”

In the gentlest act he can or will ever remember, she leans forward and kisses his eyes as if bestowing a blessing upon them, a ward against the darkness.

**********

Halsin wakes again in near-total silence, save the gentle inhale-exhale of Tav’s breathing beside him. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and for the first time in a long time, doesn’t mind. 

Instead, he is aware of how peaceful he feels in this moment, sheltered from the dangers beyond the inn, aware that at one point or another he had let go of his worry and settled deep into dreaming. The earlier tension in his muscles has melted into a tired ache, as if he is returning from a very long walk in the Grove. 

And she is here, wrapped in his arms. A light to break all shadows.

He can’t be sure when it happened. The shift had been imperceptible, like the feeling of falling asleep, or falling in love.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #halsin #halsin x tav #my fic #halsin x reader #halsin x fem! tav #fluff #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #but mostly just so soft #like it was a delight to write something so sweet #my writing #bg3 fanfiction #halsin romance #bg3 halsin #halsin fanfic

[harveylikestoart]

Does he think about his mother

#harvey’s arts and stuff #srtuc #samurai rabbit #samurai rabbit: the usagi chronicles #yuichi usagi #usagi yuichi #insert mama yuichi #if they had me in charge… i would’ve given so much angst #oh yeah I was listening to O Superman by Laurie Anderson for this #I DONT KNOW IF YUICHI’S AUNT IS ON HIS MA OR DADS SIDE BUT #I mostly tried doing a similar hair thing for her to aunties #like the sides and having some form of fringe

[spooky-activity]

Practicing my comic paneling and action poses with some Firefly/Stelle angst. Set immediately after the end of patch 2.2, where we find out Firefly is still alive!

+ bonus

#my art #mine #honkai star rail #stellefly #hsr spoilers #hsr firefly #hsr stelle #i love me some good misunderstandings resulting in some tasty angst #did this mostly for a friend who is a huge fan of the ship #but the idea popped into my head and wouldnt leave so it was partially for me too #i do love me some angsty yuri #for those who don’t know honkai star rail Sparkle is a character who can shapeshift #and she’s been running around impersonating people in the most recent patches #so stelle has good reason to be paranoid #and she SAW firefly die so she has no reason to believe she’s not actually dead #my favorite part of this is stelle’s face in the second to last pannel :U #my second favorite part of this is her gargoyle perch on the lance