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mostlydeadallday · 3 months

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Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVII | Fear and Resolve

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, discussion of self-harm, intrusive thoughts, abuse, discussion of suicide AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVI | Fear and Resolve First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel smooths things over. Hornet dreads the inevitable.

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There was nothing Quirrel could do but wait.

Hornet had placed herself between him and her sibling, spreading out her cloak to block him from their sight, and he could not dispute the wisdom of this choice. The possibility that the sight of him would make anything better was so distant as to be absent altogether.

They were terrified. Terrified of him.

This was so far outside of what he had expected that he was momentarily paralyzed by the feeling welling up within him. It was not a pleasant one, shock and hurt and heart-twisting pity all melted into one, and it was a long, turbulent moment before it drained away. This would not help—not him, or Hollow, or anyone.

Terror might not be the whole of it, but it must be contributing. Their very first reaction to him had been fear, fear that had only grown stronger when Hornet introduced him as a scholar, and they’d objected vehemently to his approach while in a vulnerable position. There was a pattern there, and an ugly one.

In hindsight, perhaps observing their pulse being taken was a little intimate for a second meeting—although they had endured his scrutiny of their wounds from a much closer distance. Hornet seemed as stunned as he was by their reaction. By her account, she had handled them much more harshly before he arrived, with very little indication that they might wish otherwise.

They had seemed so willing, stretched out across her lap, tilting their horns back and baring their soft throat, but he’d barely had time to step closer before they snatched their head out of reach.

There might be hope in the fact that they had chosen to shrink back, rather than strike out. Hope that he would be safe enough around them to attempt to convey that he was no threat. That, given enough time, they might learn that he wished only to help.

Hornet had not asked him to leave, even when Hollow spiraled into panic—although, granted, she had good reason to be distracted—so he settled in to wait.

He had nothing to go by but the sound of their breath, harsh and irregular at first but smoothing out gradually now, and the tone of Hornet’s voice as she spoke to them, stringing together more words than he had heard from her yet. She assured them they had done no wrong, that they did not need to be afraid, that no one had cause to hurt them. And when she reached the end of this list of promises, she began again, repeating them over in the same tight, level voice, until her sibling started to finally, visibly relax, the awful rattle in their throat dwindling to a breezy hiss and then dying out altogether.

It took long enough that his shell began to ache, that he unfolded and rearranged his limbs more times than he cared to recall. The fire waned and went out. Hornet’s voice grew rough, cracked and ashen. But all the while Hollow’s shaking diminished, their desperate grip on her hand loosening inch by inch.

Until, finally, Hornet went quiet and reached forward, tentative. Then—having come to some decision with what she found—she leaned down and rested her head between their horns, the taut slope of her shoulders falling slack.

Quirrel looked away, overcome by an odd sort of embarrassment. He thought Hornet might regret, later, being so unguarded in front of him—doubly so if he interrupted her now, when she almost seemed to have forgotten that he was there.

What he wanted was not important, not in the least, but he wished that he could apologize. A vague nausea settled in his stomach at the thought of causing so much distress, unavoidable though it seemed. Perhaps if he had been more careful, not so caught up in his own curiosity, more attentive to their mood, perhaps—

Ah, but that was pointless, mere wishful thinking. He knew better than most that grief, guilt, and fear were unpredictable, that memory came in shattered shards more often than a colorful pane.

This same guilt was something he had recognized in Hornet. She would sheathe her claws for her sibling, but turn them upon her own shell at a moment’s notice, tearing into herself for failing to anticipate the impossible.

“I should have known,” she had said. “I should have seen it.”

He wondered if there was anything he could say that would help. Anything that she would not reject, for implying that she deserved forgiveness.

For now, he was quiet, watching as unobtrusively as he knew how, as Hornet stroked her sibling’s face, humming low and tuneless, occasionally whispering something he could not make out. From what he could see, Hollow was all but leaning into the contact, every line of their body achingly drawn toward the point at which Hornet’s forehead rested on their own.

It hurt to see, hurt to know even the little that he did. That this was possibly one of the first times in their life they had shown their need for this, desperate as it was.

It was perhaps five minutes before Hornet raised her head, still hunched close over her sibling, still holding their face between her hands. Stiffly, she turned to glance at him. “Would you bring me some water, please?”

“Of course.”

He was careful to move slowly, to make as little noise as possible. When he returned from the kitchen, he strayed close to the Hollow Knight for only as long as it took to hand Hornet the cup, without looking down at them or paying them any attention whatsoever. He remembered too well the wretched grating of their sobs, sounds of agony forced through a throat that had never been intended to make any sound whatsoever.

Task finished, he returned to the still-warm hearth, affording the pale siblings some semblance of privacy.

Hornet nursed the cup for a long time, staring into the empty shadows in the corners of the room. One hand still lay between Hollow’s horns, idly tracing the deep crack where their mask split unevenly in two. The rain filled the silence, a silence gone so long that it had ceased to be awkward and become merely unavoidable.

Quirrel stared down at his own handwriting. Those words and shapes really ought to make sense. Too many thoughts crowded in between, too much fog on the lens. He had plenty to pass the time, but instead he found himself picking up a sheet of smudged paper and writing out a single sentence across the top.

Is it always this bad?

He passed the paper and pencil to Hornet, who stared at him for longer than she really needed to, looking for something he could not fathom, before glancing down to read what he had written.

She stared at him again when she finished. He met her gaze levelly. She could refuse to reply, but he had a feeling that she would not. With the way she had poured out the entire story the night before, albeit not without prompting, he suspected that she needed to speak of this, however much she might wish otherwise.

Sure enough, she set down the empty cup and scratched out one short sentence before she slid the paper back to him.

Her handwriting was a scrawl. Perhaps it should surprise him that his own was still so neat, after having gone so long neglecting it. But those revelations were distant, out of focus behind the sharp, cutting lines of Hornet’s script.

Sometimes it’s worse.

Worse. Worse than cowering before their own sister, worse than near-silent sobbing that shook their whole body? Worse than mutely crying out in pain greater than they had ever been built to express?

He would be hard-pressed to imagine a terror more complete than what he had already witnessed. But he recalled the fraught conversation in lantern-light the night before, remembered Hornet’s claws clamping down on her own arms, her voice catching as she told him that Hollow was inclined to harm themselves if she was not quick enough to stop them.

Had anyone tried to stop them when they carved their own chest open?

Hornet did not look at him as he lowered the paper, but the hand on her sibling’s face fell still for a moment before she returned to petting them, shakily, her breathing gone harsh and tight in the meantime.

Quirrel unclenched his jaws, deliberately. Her insistent grip on their hand made a dreadful sort of sense, now.

As did her exhaustion, and her ragged appearance. If she had been fighting this battle for a week, alone, uncertain each night if her sibling would even be alive come morning, waiting for every action to be the one that sprung a hidden tripline… well. It was no wonder she had come to him looking like she’d been caught in one of her own traps.

He knew reassurance would not likely be taken well, but he could not help offering.

You’re doing well with them, he wrote. They trust you.

As much as they could, he thought. For a sapient creature used as a tool, for a living being denied even the dignity of a name. Hollow, she still said, having nothing else to call them by.

Some missteps are inevitable, he began, and then stopped. The attempt seemed weak already, against the opposition he expected.

All he could do was try. As with Hollow, she deserved that much, at least.

Their mind is likely as scarred as their body. You cannot hope to heal either without causing further pain.

Hornet was already staring balefully at the paper before he even handed it over, which did not help his attempt at eloquence in the slightest. He tried not to fidget with his pencil while she read, or after she finished, when she laid the paper on the floor and did not move to reply. The silence was almost worse than the argument that he’d expected, especially when the back of her collar began to prickle.

Stymied, he went back to the assorted sheets in front of him, deciding to copy Hornet’s sketched signs rather than sort out his notes. His mind was full of further attempts to reach her, encouragement that she would not accept and one-sided debates that they would never have. He knew better than to try to think through all that noise.

It was the better part of an hour before—

“Would you pass me those vengeflies?”

He muffled a surprised grunt, dropping his pencil and then scrambling to snatch it up before it rolled into the hot ashes.

Her voice dragged him out of the reverie he had sunk into—which, when he stared at the page, came into focus as a list of vocabulary for further communication of intangible concepts, alongside a new set of hand-signs to match.

Hornet did not comment on his obvious lapse in attention, nor did she say anything besides a mumbled thanks as he handed her what she’d asked for, as well as a fresh cup of water.

She reached up to touch his wrist as he turned away, and, startled again, he couldn’t quite swallow the noise in his throat. It was perhaps forgivable to be on edge, given earlier events, but he still expected a biting comment, a stern glance—something.

Instead, she stiffly lowered her hand, as if she couldn’t quite believe she had reached out. Her fangs worked, chewing over a concept that evidently vexed her.

In the end, she said nothing, only grasped one of the vengeflies between her fists and wrenched it in two, then held out a cracked abdomen that sluggishly dripped hemolymph from its severed segments.

Quirrel blanked. He’d eaten that morning: stunted fruit from the greenhouse he’d found, belfly eggs scooped out of a nest he’d baited the parent from. Freshly dismembered vengefly would not be his first choice of meal, even if he was hungry. He had caught them for Hornet.

And that was what gave him pause, what stopped him from politely, but immediately, refusing. She must know he had foraged for himself earlier; it had been one of the principal reasons to send him out into the City. There was another reason behind this, and an important one.

Deepnest tradition? Reciprocating his gesture of goodwill in bringing her prey the day before? Offer dinner to the hunter, he had heard, but nothing in his piecemeal memory suggested what he should do if the hunter offered it back.

Or this could be something simpler. An invitation. An apology. An attempt at bridging the gap they both sensed between them. And—he realized, as he reached to accept it—a visible gesture of friendship. Not merely for his benefit, but for the vessel who lay, exhausted and silent, but watchful, ever watchful, beside them.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Hornet was already eating the other half of the vengefly, thin shell and all. She tapped the stone with one claw, sending a meaningful glance at the floor beneath his feet, so with a slow nod, he sat, keeping a decent distance from Hollow, but angling himself so that he faced both siblings.

Hollow did not move, eyes half-lidded, the restless void beneath their mask partly sheathed by an opaque scale of opalescent black.

Should he speak to them? Attempt to reassure them in his own words? He could hardly improve on what Hornet had accomplished, yet he felt it might be helpful if they heard it from him, too.

He met their gaze, flicking his antennae downward in a pacifying gesture that likely meant nothing to them. “I do apologize for having startled you, my friend. It was not my intent.”

Nothing in their aspect changed, not a single claw stirring, except that the scale across their eye slid back, retracting beneath the mask and widening their gaze to survey him fully.

Unsettling, but intriguing nonetheless. Eyelids of any sort were rare enough in Hallownest’s species; for both siblings to share them, the trait had likely been present in their sire. Practical knowledge of wyrms was so scant as to be useless, though legends of their might ran through the kingdom’s history like a gleaming vein of ore. Some were likely fabricated, as a tool to garner worship and obedience, but the common themes were easy enough to trace, if one had the experience to chip away the excess.

None of them, however, lingered on the details, the small discrepancies of form and habit that he might begin to piece together now. A thrill of discovery raced through him, interrupted only by Hornet coughing sharply.

His gaze snapped to her face. She shook her head, once, before she laid her hand atop her sibling’s mask and returned to her meal.

“These are well cleaned,” she said, and he was briefly baffled at the compliment before he realized it was an attempt to redirect not only his attention, but Hollow’s. “You must have… hunted many strange things in your travels.”

Ah, she already knew him too well. “I have indeed,” he said, rocking back a little and staring upward in recollection, willing to let her lead him astray. “I remember one particular creature—a delicious one, mind you, or I would not have taken the trouble—that was in the habit of arranging canes of briars to defend its burrow…”

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As Quirrel launched into a hunting tale, Hornet listened with half her attention, devoting the remainder to her meal—and to her sibling, who had not so much as stirred since she invited Quirrel to join them. She was not fool enough to assume this was disinterest. They were watching him, as intently as they had when he first arrived. Whether for signs that he would turn upon her, or clues as to his true motives, or merely out of self-preservation, she could not say.

She couldn’t deny that she wished she knew his motives, too, but staring would not wring them out of him. Unfortunately.

The guilt of having frightened them so badly gnawed at her. She knew it was pointless to regret it, that she was only tearing her own shell by struggling, but instincts were unforgiving things.

She could no more forgive herself than she could change her black shell to white or stifle her hunger at the taste of fresh meat. She was not built for it.

Hollow, at least, did not panic again at his presence. That had been a risk, and she knew it, but it was one she couldn’t afford not to take. She needed to know if they would refuse to let Quirrel help her, preferably before something bad happened.

Something in her had felt relief when Hollow finally panicked. Something in her had known this was too good to be true.

The thought of trusting in this coincidence, of coming to rely on someone she had nearly never met, sent a pang of fear through her gut. The world was not kind enough to send her blessings unlooked for. Life did not give without taking, and taking, and taking.

But hadn’t she had her share already? After everything, could she not steal a moment to breathe? Did she not deserve it?

Deserved or undeserved had never changed her circumstances before.

Perhaps that was why this moment, this uncanny peace after the storm, felt so much like a dream.

Quirrel’s hunting tale had devolved into an academic lecture by the time she returned to herself. She hadn’t stopped stroking Hollow’s mask, even far away as she’d been: skirting round the crack above their eye, brushing down over their brow and back up again, circling her fingertips in the shallow well between their horns. They were calm, or at least too tired to panic, and the motion in their gaze had taken on the slow, languid quality she associated with drowsiness. Despite that, their eyes refused to close, their wide stare fixed on the cricket as if he might suddenly disappear.

Something eased inside her, unexpectedly soft. The thought of her sibling staring blankly out at the room like a tired grub too stubborn to sleep roused an uncanny fondness, an aching warmth she had never thought to feel again.

And another thought, just as quickly, smothered it.

The heft of that scalpel in her hand. Gleaming point and silver edges, small and sharp and bright, too bright, set against black velvet, against her sibling’s skin, against the already-tattered ruin of their shell.

Tomorrow, she had said, and she had rarely wished so hard for a day to never dawn.

They were in so much pain, had endured more than she could imagine, and to be the one to perpetuate it, to make them suffer more, even for the sake of healing them—

Quirrel could not do it, though she knew that he would have volunteered. It seemed there was very little he would not do if she asked, but they would never let him; if they had objected to him merely being nearby while she took their pulse, she shuddered to think what they would do if he tried to take a knife to their shell. It had to be her, they trusted her, and the very notion made her sick.

It had to be her.

And it had to be done.

When had she ever shied away from her duty, ugly as it was? How could she be squeamish now, when she was only adding yet another entry to the list of things she could never atone for?

She needed a plan.

Fragile as it was, this tired, wary submission was likely the best that she would get from Hollow. So far, they did not object to Quirrel’s presence alone, only the particular action of approaching them with their throat bared.

This was just another way that she had failed them, another way she had stripped their agency away: assuming that their compliance was consent, that their willingness to go where she led was borne of anything but fear.

But—

They trust you, Quirrel had written.

They spoke when she asked them to. They were still when she ordered it. They crawled to her side to protect her from the rain. They pushed against her hands, begged for her touch like they would for nothing else, melted into her arms when she held them…

No. That was something more than trust. That was devotion, devotion she had done nothing to earn.

Their loyalty to the Pale King had been absolute. She had never seen them so much as hesitate when acting upon his orders. He had loved them, she thought. But that love had been a cold and barren thing, without a single kind touch or tender word, at least as far as she had seen.

Had they shifted that allegiance to her? Had she somehow earned the same pure, unquestioning fealty they’d given their father, simply by the act of saving their life?

She did not want it. She wanted nothing to do with it. That they would regard her with the same reverence that they regarded the god who’d bound their shade to their shell, who’d failed to see that they were anything but a well-forged tool—

She wanted to believe better of herself. She wanted to believe better of them.

How could they find it in themselves to trust her? To surrender to her so utterly, when she had been nothing more than the latest weapon used to hurt them?

She could not ask. She could only continue to use it, ruthless as it was to leverage something they seemed so desperate for.

Quirrel had fallen silent, somewhere in the space between her thoughts, and was now picking at the vengefly she’d offered him, neatly removing the shell bands from the exterior until he could tip his mask back and consume it in several neat, precise bites.

Hornet watched him blankly, shuffling possibilities like playing cards. The surgical tools would need to be tested, sharpened, heated in the hearth, and she had to brief Quirrel on what to do if Hollow began to panic—she might not always be in time to push him out of the way.

Having a mortal under her protection changed things. She could not expect Hollow not to react to the pain, and she had no way to diminish it, no numbing herbs or tinctures, and no assurances that they would even be effective on a vessel. Likewise, she could not count on Hollow to tell her if it became too much to bear—they had told her plainly that they did not know if they could.

She would have to tie them down.

Though she had not intended to visibly flinch at the thought, she was not entirely successful in stifling it. Quirrel shot her a questioning look.

“Nothing,” she muttered, ignoring the fact that she knew she could not fool him. Hopefully, he would take it as a warning not to pry.

Whether Hollow made use of it or not, she would offer them a way to signal to her, even after she had secured them. A way to communicate without compromising her safety, or Quirrel’s. If that was the only difference from the pain they had endured until now—the ability to ask for it to stop—then so be it. She would be as cruel as she needed to be, and not a bit more.

Whatever must be done to save them. Whatever she must do to earn them this chance at a life.

She owed it to all of the siblings who, thanks to her, would never have one.

○

Hornet sat in silence for long enough that Quirrel began to worry.

He took scant comfort in the restless motion of her hand, caressing Hollow’s mask with the same distant distraction that she might pick at her cloak seams or chew her own claws. Still, it had its intended effect, as Hollow drifted further and further from their tense vigil, like a leaf atop a lake, floating away so slowly that they never seemed to notice it at all.

It was one more indication of their poor condition, he guessed, that they nodded off so often and so easily. An attempt to conserve and rebuild energy when there was little to be had. He’d seen it most often in those recovering from serious illness, or those who would never recover at all.

And it gave him pause to contemplate how tense they must be, that they began to doze the very moment they relaxed. They likely needed more sleep than they were getting, but were wound too tightly to allow themselves to rest.

Both he and Hornet noticed the moment their eyelids dropped. Their head sagged slightly to the side to rest against her thigh, claws going lax where their hand lay upturned in her lap. Quirrel, wrestling down a sudden lump in his throat, had not been about to move, but Hornet shot him a dagger-edged glance anyway.

He nodded, still, to reassure her. Far be it from him to interrupt what little peace they’d managed to steal. Between Hornet’s questions, his poking and prodding, and the panic both had provoked, it was no wonder they were exhausted.

Privately, he acknowledged that they had cause to be far more than that. He had tried to be hopeful about their chances of recovery, though. Judging from the scars of what they had already survived, they were nearly impossible to kill.

He doubted they would be grateful for that.

When a quarter hour had passed with no sign of the vessel stirring, Hornet sighed silently and nodded back at him. He rose, intending to go back to the hearth and continue his work, when his gaze landed on the blanket at the end of the bed, where he had pulled it down to examine the injuries to Hollow’s legs.

He caught Hornet’s eye, leaned down, and touched it. When she did not object, he pulled it up over them, hiding the splits and notches in their chitin, the cracked claws and broken spurs and stamped imprints of soul-spells. They looked almost peaceful, with their face tucked against their sister’s side, all the tension and mistrust dissolved away into slumber. With some of their scars out of sight beneath the blanket, its forgiving lines smoothing out their edges.

If, the night before, he had been enthralled by the mystery of them, that was only the half of it now. Glimpsing the truth behind that imperfect mask, the depth of both their fear and resolve, their wariness of him and the blind devotion they placed in their sister, had only snared him further.

He wanted to help. He wanted to do whatever he could, for someone who’d been wronged so badly, someone who had no reason to expect anything from the world but pain.

Although the world, it seemed, still had more pain to give.

○

He hunched over his work for another hour or two before Hornet shifted. He turned his head to watch as she slowly, carefully extricated herself, lifting Hollow’s hand and laying it beside them on the mattress, supporting their head to be sure it did not fall when she edged aside. They looked nearly doll-like, offering no response or resistance whatsoever, not even stirring when Hornet gingerly removed her weight from the bed. Whether that was their natural state or a result of pure exhaustion, Quirrel could not deny that it worked in everyone’s favor.

Hornet didn’t speak, merely grabbed the lantern and jerked her head toward the kitchen. Stuffing down a gathering dread, he picked up his work and followed her.

He'd have to reveal, soon, what he suspected.

She dropped into the same chair she had taken the night before, leaving him to occupy the other end of the table. It was passing strange to even have this much of a routine, when he had so rarely stayed more than one night in a place for most of his memory.

“Tell me,” Hornet demanded. “You’re thinking something, I can hear it.”

“I wasn’t aware my thoughts were so loud,” he said, and winced. She was not in the mood for teasing, even less so than was usual, and he moved on quickly, hoping she would overlook it. “I would prefer to have more time to observe them, but…” He paused a moment, tapping his fingers on the counter, as he collected thoughts scattered by that afternoon’s upset. “I can be fairly sure that some of their physical symptoms—the dizziness, exhaustion, shortness of breath—are due in part to a severe lack of blood volume.”

Hornet half-laughed: a brittle, ugly sound. She still had not stopped moving, even now that she no longer had Hollow’s mask to touch; one knee was bouncing, and she kept flicking the end of her clawed thumb with her forefinger, an endless tick-tick-tick that seemed to bounce like hailstones off the windows. “That’s no surprise.”

“I suspected it would not be.” Quirrel halted again, unsure if he could convey this next revelation with anything like the delicacy it deserved. He waited long enough that she turned her head to glare at him, and he gave up on the effort, reasoning that if she had lived this long in what amounted to a kingdom-wide catastrophe, she could handle a little bluntness. “You said that, after leaving the temple, you found their nail and brought it back with you?”

A curt nod.

“Can you recall its shape?”

The look she was giving him sharpened into suspicion. “It was a one-handed longnail. Sloped guard, no pommel. Diamond grind. Why?”

There was no easy way to say this. He let out a hoarse sigh, halfway to a groan of frustration, of dread. “Hornet, I… suspect…” No, it was stronger than suspicion, he knew, somehow, in a way that defied reason, a way that could only be his own experience whispering in the back of his mind.

He knew what it was to outlive one’s purpose. He knew what it was to wish for a fitting end.

So he met her eyes, steady, and let her see his certainty. “At least some of their wounds are self-inflicted.”

The information took a moment to sink in, staining her expression with a slow-spreading horror like blood seeping into bandages.

She hadn’t known, then. He hadn’t been sure. He watched her wrestle with the knowledge, her hand clenching tight on the counter’s edge.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I… could not think of another way to tell you.”

Hornet’s eyes were open wide beneath her mask. Her whole body had gone frightfully still. Quirrel felt a chill on his shell, climbing higher, like a snowbank closing over his head.

It should not matter to him what she said next. Not as much as it did. She was adrift, overwhelmed, burdened with more grief and misery than he could imagine, and he would not blame her for refusing to shoulder more.

But something in him hoped to hear—

“What do I do?” she whispered. “What am I—” One hand lifted, then fell back to the counter. She looked away, chelicerae clenched tight enough to tremble. “What should I say to them?”

His fingers were digging into his empty palms, he realized. He let go, tried to lean back, tried to relax. “I wish there was an easy answer to that,” he said, as softly as he could. “I wish that I could tell you.”

She scoffed, but it sounded small, broken. “The answers are never easy.”

“Perhaps not.” He hesitated, scraping his mandibles together, watching her. He risked causing her to withdraw if he continued. He risked losing what little ground he’d gained, but—

He thought of Hollow’s claws, the wicked-sharp scythes of them. He thought of the terror in their eyes.

They were capable of it. Whether they could truly die made little difference if they damaged themselves badly enough that magic could not heal them.

“Be mindful of what you say to them. And what you don’t say,” he said finally. “They rely on you. Your word matters to them, likely more than you know. You may need to prepare for this to be… more difficult than you thought.”

Hornet had started to fidget again while he spoke. Pulling away again, away from the shock, away from the numbing dread of it. And there was nothing he could do but watch her go. He could not give her the bravery to confront it, even had he had an excess of it himself.

She would need to face it, but it was not his place to dictate when. Hollow did not seem to actively be a danger to themselves; he had very little else to suggest besides what she was already trying to do.

“We should plan for tomorrow,” he offered.

She nodded, once, and he watched her pull herself together, grasping at what threads she could reach. It was almost amusing—darkly so—that the concept of planning for surgery was more bearable than what they’d just been discussing.

But only just. She seemed off-balance, her voice choked back, her hands tightening back into fists on the counter as she began to speak.

“I… I will need to tie them down.”

Quirrel’s stomach turned. It was the right decision, he knew at once. But—understandably—she did not seem pleased at having come to it.

“I should have them test their strength against my silk, though I believe I can spin it thick enough. I can also place anchors wherever they are needed.”

“Will they be able to take it?” he interrupted. “You said that they were bound in the temple—”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, hard. “I don’t see that we have a choice. I also intend to offer them a way to ask for respite, but after today I doubt they will take it.” One hand ran up her horn, too quickly, as if brushing something away. “Perhaps if I can work slower than before, or stop at regular intervals. Or perhaps they will tell me if I ask outright. I-I do not know.”

“Hornet—”

“And you should not touch them, if at all possible. They don’t—” A break in her voice, hastily smoothed over. “They might panic. I hope that they’ll allow you to be near enough to help me. But if they do not, you must step back. I do not need two injured bugs to care for.”

“I will. Of course.” He held both hands out, alarmed at her breakneck pace. “But Hornet—”

“Perhaps you should be watching for their signs, too.” She would not look him in the eye. “I may not—last time, I—it was difficult—”

Quirrel raised his voice. “I may have been mistaken.”

Hornet’s eyes snapped to him. Wide. Hunted. “Mistaken?”

He leaned forward again, holding her gaze. “You need not do this now.” Then, when she opened her mouth to protest, he reached out toward her, heading her off. “You… perhaps you should leave.”

The room fell silent.

Hornet gaped at him. Quite literally, in fact: he could see her fangs hanging open, crooked.

“Now.” Before she could decide what to say, he continued, calmly. “While your sibling sleeps.”

“I am not leaving,” she said. Flat. Blank.

“Just for a few hours.” He sat forward, laying his hands on the table. “Pardon my forwardness, but it might help if you could—”

“I will not leave,” she repeated, her fangs flashing—more out of displeasure than open threat, he thought, but his instincts still thrilled with unease. Her voice had risen enough that he glanced nervously at the doorway, though he detected no sign that Hollow had heard.

“Very well.” He sat back, putting more distance between them, for her comfort as well as his own. “Tell me you will sleep, then. You need it as much as they do.”

He knew she wouldn’t. Not when she was practically vibrating at the other end of the table, looking as if she needed to take something apart. Hopefully not him, though he was the nearest possibility.

“I apologize.” He ducked his head. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t.” The word was a cut stone, gritty and sharp, dragged up from deep within her. He remembered, too late, the open depths of guilt that she had plumbed the night before, the fresh scratches glaring chalk-white in the marble countertop.

“I suppose I cannot convince you to discuss this in the morning.” He did not look up as he said it.

“While they are awake? While they can hear me planning their own surgery?” Her voice was as rigid, as biting, as a nail’s edge. He could hear the dismissal in it. “Test the tools that you brought. Sharpen and oil them.” She finally broke off the disturbing stare in favor of directing it at the countertop, with roughly the same intensity. “You should go find more shellwood. We have little to spare.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know. Yes.” She grasped the key at her neck, then let her fist loosen. “Do not tarry. I’ll keep watch and leave the door unlocked.”

“You’ll—ah. So I won’t wake them with my knocking?”

A terse nod. She held a hand out, with a pointed look at the papers he had pushed aside. He slid them across the table, ignoring the part of him that wanted to bristle—if not as visibly as she could, at least in spirit. He had developed these notes for her; there was no sense in not handing them over.

She glanced them over hurriedly, then pulled out an empty sheet. The stare she directed at the blank page seemed fit to burn a hole in it. Better at it than at him, at least.

It was clear he was no longer welcome, but he lingered under the pretext of slowly emptying the rest of his satchel onto the counter. By the time he left, she had not written a single word, claws clenched gracelessly around the pencil, fangs working under her mask, a faint, scraping click, click that set his shell on edge.

He had not thought it would be a relief to step back out into the rain so soon.

○

When he returned, dripping wet, exhausted, dark had fallen in the caverns. The house was as cold and lightless as ever, and even the smoldering wick of his frustration had burned out in the deluge.

He stacked the shellwood in the entryway, quietly, building a wall of broken crates and table legs. It would need to be rearranged to dry properly, but that could wait until the morning.

After locking the door, he reentered the kitchen, steps dragging despite himself. The day had caught up with him; although he had walked further and worked harder, the turmoil had drained his energy like nothing else could.

“We should have enough fuel now to last several days,” he told Hornet, laying a few extra sticks beside the stove to start a pot of tea in the morning, if there was time. “I will sharpen tools tomorrow. That work is better done in brighter light.”

Hornet, still hunched over her paper, staring at a few scratchy sentences and even more crossed-out lines, hummed distantly in acknowledgement. Not so much upset, now, as defeated. Worn down, the same as he felt.

Quirrel resisted the urge to touch her, to lay a hand on her shoulder in attempted solace. Strange that that impulse remained after spending so much time alone.

He did pause nearby, though, and she looked up, eyes flashing dully. She knew what he wanted to ask her, he could see it—and she shook her head. “I need to think of what to tell them. I need—”

Her hand clenched. Breath hissed in her throat, strangled.

He understood. It was unthinkable to go into this unprepared, and yet there was never enough that one could possibly do to prepare for it. He understood.

Much as he wished he didn’t.

“I need to think,” she finished, lamely, in a stifled growl. Stifled for his benefit, he guessed, but he was too tired to appreciate it.

He bowed his head. “I will leave you to it, then.”

The halting scratch of lead on paper followed him out of the kitchen and up the long, dark staircase.

○

Hornet knew she was dreaming.

She knew she had left herself behind, slumped over the cold countertop, a pile of paper, and a handful of useless sentences. She knew her hand should be gripping a pencil, not empty at her side.

But more than that, she knew because this place only now existed in dreams.

If she had her choice, she would never return here, not even in her sleep. If she had a choice, she would never see her face reflected in these cold white walls again, would never battle the ache in her head from their stark, chilly glow. She would nevermore walk these halls or inhale the perfume of the Root’s flowers, trailing from the fragile, lustrous blooms that were somehow even more colorless than the marble.

She had so many dreams about this place. More than she ever had about her home, or anywhere else in Hallownest. It was as though its disappearance from the physical world had rooted it more firmly in her mind, as though her very distaste for the place was what allowed it to plague her in her sleep.

Hornet clenched her fists and stared down the halls of the White Palace.

It was empty, this time. Not always. Often the corridors were crowded with retainers and nobles, all staring, all whispering, sometimes with a golden-white gleam in every pair of eyes, sometimes with the garbled hissing of throats scorched by welling light.

But now it was empty, truly empty of everything but her. And the only things that looked on were the walls themselves, their blank white faces turned towards her in an expanse of impossible angles, glowing so brightly that she almost expected her chitin to bleach pale under the force of it.

She took a step, her tarsals falling silent, muffled, on the stone, when she knew they should have made a sound. She did not know where to go, what she was meant to accomplish, and the familiar crawling claws of tension and shame touched the back of her neck. There must be some purpose for her here—something she had to do—

At first the sound seemed foreign. Stifled in the same way her claws had been, nearly too far away to hear, whispered back and forth by the tilted planes of the walls until it reached her. And even when she did hear it, she did not immediately know it for what it was.

It went on, and on, growing louder and more strident, until it cracked the haze around her mind and spilled over her like floodwaters.

Screaming.

Not a scream she had ever heard. Not a scream that existed in the normal reaches of the world. It should not exist. It was not a sound that could be made. It was impossible.

A horrible, rasping, aching shriek, tearing through the air like a serrated blade. There were echoes within it, voices upon voices, each one breaking and shredding apart with the violence of that cry, a cry that was destroying the thing that made it and could not be stopped all the same. It rebounded from the unforgiving walls, begging, seeking, searching for relief it would never find.

And she knew, with the same impossible logic that allowed that scream to exist, where it came from.

She began to run.

It was Hollow. It was Hollow screaming like that, like they were being torn apart body, soul, and shade, and she knew by the desperate pitch of their pain that she was already too late; whatever had been done to them was something she could never undo. It was a hopeless cry, a plea not for help, but for mercy—for a killing blow to end suffering so great that, even with reserves of strength and resolve that far surpassed her own, they could no longer bear it.

Her feet pounded on the stone, arms pumping, her cloak a garish flash of red in every compound facet of the walls. The palace was a fractured prism, a maze of mirrors, and every panting breath and skidding turn meant less than nothing, but she could not stop. Not with that scream ringing through the air; not with her sibling howling, wailing, with utter abandon, in agony so complete they had not stopped to breathe.

The sound hurt to hear—her head was throbbing, her fangs clenched together, jarring with each footfall—but it must hurt even more to make. Every instant that the cry went on, she could hear it tearing farther into them, a terrible, unnatural sound forced through a throat that had been built to hold only silence.

She nearly missed the door that had appeared, as featureless as the walls, between one turn and another. Far down the corridor, almost unreachable, but that must be where they were, it must be.

Hornet stumbled, righted herself, pelted toward it.

As she did, the scream broke. Cracked apart, into sobs, into whimpering cries so lost and so desolate that an answering sob rose in her own throat, hot and aching, pain calling to pain across the emptiness.

She was close now. Close enough for them to hear her, almost, and their name was in the shadow of every heaving exhale, stamped into every beat of her heart. She could not call out to them, could barely breathe, her limbs threatening to fold beneath her like a doll’s joints, but she was coming. She was almost—almost—

Hornet flung herself at the door. Scrabbled at the knob, with unfeeling hands and claws grown heavy, clumsy. There was silence behind it now, more dreadful even than the screaming had been, and she had to—she had to get in—

The door opened, spilling light into the room.

She turned to face it.

The knife in her hand dripped black, black, black.

“Hornet?”

Something touched her. A hand. Grabbing at her wrist. At the arm that held the knife. She squeezed, felt chitin creak.

“Hornet. It’s only—it’s me. Hornet!”

She woke up.

Quirrel’s face was inches from her own. She held his arm in one fist, her knuckles burning from the pressure of her grip, and his other hand was clamped over her own, fingers wedged into every gap he could find, in an attempt to pry her free.

And—oh, she was shaking all over, as if she really had been running, her heart pumping, her breath coming in long, quivering heaves, as effortful as dragging her whole weight higher, hand over hand.

The cricket was frozen in place, antennae pinned back, tugging at her hand with an increasingly desperate grasp.

With a shudder, she let go.

Quirrel fell back, clutching his wrist. She hunched over, in an attempt to spare her burning lungs, and stared at the space between his fingers, then at her own claws, half-expecting blood, half-expecting a void-drenched scalpel.

Neither.

“I’m sorry,” Quirrel said, catching his breath before she could. “Terribly sorry. I—you wouldn’t stir, and—”

He cut off.

She turned towards him, too rattled to even glare, but dreading, dreading, with all the clinging weight of the nightmare still pressing against her.

He swallowed, spoke again more quietly.

“Your sibling is awake.”

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeshade Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

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bellaxgiornata · 9 months

Text

Safe Haven [Chapter Fifteen]

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.6k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains violence, drug use, domestic abuse, smut, hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, friends to lovers

a/n: Finally y'all get that meeting with the Serpents and a protective and angry Mikey in this chapter. Feedback is always appreciated!

Tag list: @loveroftoomanyfandoms @farfromstrange @rotscinema @1988-fiend @shouldbestudying41 @shiorimakibawrites @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattmurdocksstarlight @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @mattkinsella @ms-murdockswift @theetherealbloom @24hflower @mattmurdocksscars @schneeflocky @the-nursery @lionalsowrites @harperdoodle @kmc1989

Fingers wrapped around the handle of the gun still concealed in your parka's pocket, the cold metal of it in your hand felt like a comfort as you ascended the large hill just on the outskirts of Dublin. A quick glance over your shoulder allowed you to see the glowing lights of the city just behind you. Somehow that also felt comforting right now.

Dotser had dropped you off just a bit away from the base of the hill where the meeting was taking place in an attempt to remain hidden so the Serpents didn’t know you hadn’t actually come alone. Which had surprisingly taken more coaxing on your part to get him to listen to you than expected–apparently Birdy had made it clear nothing was supposed to happen to you under his care. So he’d argued with you about going up there alone and inevitably had you late for this meeting, but as you finally reached the top of the large hill, there was admittedly a part of you that felt better knowing he was nearby–even if you knew he was too far to truly help. Because even you weren’t stupid enough to think that you weren’t on your own handling whatever happened next here.

“Wondered if ya would show.”

You froze at the accented voice, your hand curling tighter around the gun in your pocket as your heart jumped in your chest. Trying your hardest to remain calm, your eyes focused on the figure emerging from around the single, lone motorcycle parked in the open field. The moonlight glinted off of something in the man’s hand as you saw him swiftly raise it from his side. By the time the realization that he had a gun had dawned on you, it was already too late. The weapon was trained on you, right on your chest. You felt fear flood your veins, your mouth suddenly dry.

But he was alone. And judging by the few patches on his cut–the leather vest all MC members wore–he didn’t appear to rank in the charter. That was possibly the only good news right now.

“You didn’t give me much choice,” you replied.

Your eyes followed his movements carefully, watching as he gradually approached you. He was studying you closely in return, his eyes clearly surveying you from top to bottom. You only hoped you could continue to keep the gun in your pocket concealed from him. You didn’t want to know what he would do if he noticed it.

“Hands out o’ your pockets,” he ordered, gesturing his gun at you. “And slowly. Don’ try anythin’ with me.”

Inhaling a deep, quivering breath, your hand gradually released its hold on the gun in your pocket. You felt like you could hear the pounding of your heart in your ears as your hands very slowly slipped out of your jacket, the chill of the night hitting them instantly. Even if you could still feel the heft of the gun noticeably weighing your jacket down, it felt vastly less comforting with your finger so far from the trigger.

The man continued to approach you, casually closing the distance between the pair of you like a snake stalking its prey. He was sizing you up, his gun still firmly pointed at your chest. You fought the urge to cower or look away from him–you didn’t want to give him any further of an advantage against you. Didn't want to show him the fear you felt.

When his eyes eventually landed back on your face, he spoke your name. Your actual name, not the fake one you’d been using here. Jaw clenching at the sound of it, you fought hard to keep your composure. If he knew your name, you suddenly had a lot of questions that needed answers. How had he found out? Had he alerted Victor yet? Why was he asking you to meet him? Especially considering he was alone and seemed to be operating outside of the MC.

You had questions and you needed answers if you wanted to stay alive, but the only way to get them would be to keep a level head. It wasn’t like you hadn’t dealt with trigger-happy outlaw bikers before. You could handle this. You had to.

“That’s who ya are, yeah?” he asked.

“Yes,” you answered.

He nodded, coming to a stop just in front of you. He pressed the barrel of his gun into your chest, shoving the end of it sharply into your sternum. You only straightened your back and held his stare in response, even if internally you were terrified of what he might do. You knew he was trying to intimidate you, and truthfully it was working, but if you let it show, then he had the upper hand. And you couldn’t have that.

"Ya are Michael Kinsella's bitch, yeah?" the man asked.

Unable to hide your confusion and shock at his unexpected question, your brows rose high onto your forehead, a frown settling along your lips. How could he have known you had been somewhat seeing Michael? And what the hell would the Serpents want with him?

You needed to tread carefully.

"What're–"

The Serpent shoved the gun harder into your chest, cutting you off immediately as he lowered his face to yours. You swallowed hard, fighting to keep the tremble from your lips.

"That was a yes or a no question," he growled. "Are ya fuckin' the Kinsella or no?"

Technically you weren't fucking him yet, but you didn't think he cared about technicalities. It seemed like he already knew the answer, too, especially considering he must've known you lived right next door to Michael since he’d slipped something into your sister’s letterbox for you to find.

"Yes," you answered.

"Thought as much when I saw ya both walkin' around the city together," he said with a nod.

Your mind raced, trying hard to piece everything together. There were only two times you and Michael had gone walking anywhere together, which meant…

"It was you," you stated, the realization hitting you. "You were the one tailing us. In the hoodie."

"Figured ya saw me," he replied. "Wasn't supposed to be there or I'd have taken my shot at him. But I was curious 'bout ya when I saw ya with him," he continued. "Thought I might find out who the bitch was that Michael Kinsella was seein'. See if ya could be the bait to lure him out."

Your lips parted in surprise at his words, panic building even further inside of you. Was he trying to use you for bait to lure Michael out to kill him right now? Had you unknowingly just walked into something?

"Yeah, ya see, that was my first thought," he continued, grinning when he saw the look of fear on your face. "But then I looked into ya. Saw who ya really are."

He barked out a harsh laugh, the noise causing you to flinch. The faint glow from the moon above and the city lights behind you cast just enough light onto his face allowing you to see the dark, shadowy expression there. He looked more dangerous now than he had a few minutes ago.

"The Mother charter's missin’ cunt," he said with a sharp laugh. "Right here in Dublin. Imagine my surprise when I found that out. Runnin' from Victor? The Viper ? Ahh, 's’just too good."

"What do you want?" you asked him.

His smile faltered at your question, his eyes narrowing threateningly back at you. The man's lip curled up into a sneer as he pressed the barrel of the gun more firmly into your chest.

"I want ya to give me Michael in exchange for keepin’ your secret," he snapped back. "For now, at least. Might be useful for me to hang onto for a bit."

"Why do you want him?" you asked carefully.

The Serpent barked out another sharp laugh. You stood there entirely still, incredibly aware of the gun bruising the space along your sternum.

“Ya fuckin’ daft?” he asked. “Eamon wants them all dead–especially Michael. He put out a special bounty for The Magician.”

Your frown deepened at the nickname you’d unearthed for Michael when you’d been digging up dirt on the Kinsellas the other week. But what the Serpent said had made sense. Birdy had told you the Cork charter might be looking to get into smuggling and dealing, and apparently Eamon was the main supplier in Ireland. They wanted an in, and Eamon wanted the Kinsella’s dead. It was a perfect opportunity, really.

Eyes dropping down to the front of the man’s cut, you noticed he had a single patch. The singular patch every Serpent member had. It meant he wasn’t a prospect, but he wasn’t necessarily someone that mattered. Gradually your eyes slid back up to his face, your mind piecing things together quickly.

“You’re here on your own,” you said slowly. “Hoping to take Michael Kinsella for yourself to please your President. You want rank.”

“Doesn’ fuckin’ matter, does it?” he shot back.

“It means they don’t know who I am, do they?” you asked him, feeling a little bolder the more you spoke. “None of the others know I’m here, because if they did, they’d have already alerted Victor. And you haven’t told Victor I’m here because then you’d lose your chance of making a name for yourself with the Serpents. Because wouldn’t you look like hot shit taking out Michael Kinsella and in turn winning the Serpents Ireland’s biggest supplier?”

Something flickered across the man’s face in the dark, his back straightening. “Think ya have it all figured out, d’ya?” he growled.

You opened your mouth to speak, but before a single word came out, the Serpent lifted the gun from where he’d had it pressed against your chest. With a solid thwack he slammed the butt of the gun upside your temple. White flashed across your eyes as you cried out, searing pain shooting through your head. Your body crumpled in half as you stumbled a few steps backwards. Eyelids fluttering, you tried to regain your balance, struggling not to fall on your knees before him.

“I’m not fuckin’ playin’ here,” he warned. “I’ll give ya a couple o’ days, but I want ya to bring me Michael.”

He pulled something out of his coat pocket and threw it at you. The object hit you in the shin, bouncing off of you and falling into the grass before you. You groaned, a hand flying to your head where he’d struck you. Immediately you winced, pain shooting through your skull. Something warm and wet met your fingertips–you had to have been bleeding.

Sluggishly your gaze dropped down to what he’d tossed at you. It looked like a small flip phone.

“Ya get Michael alone somewhere, ya text me on that burner phone,” he ordered. “If ya don’, I tell Victor and all the other Serpents in Cork that you’re here. If I smell a trap, I tell Victor and all the other Serpents in Cork that you’re here. If ya try to pull anythin’ with me–try to disappear on me?”

His hand darted out, gripping a fistful of your hair and yanking your head upwards, forcing your eyes to meet his as you yelped in surprise. A dangerous smile was spread across his lips.

“I think ya fuckin’ know what I’ll do,” he told you. “Ya got three days, and that’s me bein’ generous. Don’ fuck it up.”

Forcefully he flung you to the ground, his grip releasing your hair as he did. Your hands scrambled out in front of you, trying to catch yourself as you fell forward onto the grass. Heart violently thundering in your chest, you stayed like that on all fours as you heard the sound of the lone motorcycle rumble to life. Your eyes closed when you heard him rev the engine, fingers curling around the blades of grass.

A few moments later, you heard the bike tear off with a roar, the noise steadily disappearing into the night. When silence finally met your ears, you collapsed to the ground, tears burning at your eyes and racing down your cheeks. No longer needing to try to look brave, you let yourself cry in the grass.

What a fucking mess you’d wound up in now. You had three days to deliver Michael to that nameless Serpent. Which of course meant he was going to kill him, though obviously there was no way you were going to let that happen. But clearly anything deviating from that–if you ran, or if the three days were up, or you had the Kinsellas’ try to take the Serpent out–you’d have the entire Cork charter after you along with Victor on his way to Dublin. And that meant you’d be putting Megan in danger. And Michael. Possibly Birdy and the others.

What the hell were you supposed to do? You would never give up Michael, but you didn’t want to be thrown to Victor, either. He’d only hurt you before he inevitably killed you. And he’d probably find a way to drag it out and make you wish he’d get it over with. That thought alone had you curling in on yourself in the grass, tears pouring down your cheeks even faster.

In the distance, you heard the distinct sound of a motorcycle gradually roaring nearer. The sound shot a spike of adrenaline through you, the familiar rumble causing you to sit bolt upright in the grass, one hand flying to your forehead as the world around you briefly spun at the movement. You winced in pain, removing your hand from your forehead as you tried to focus in on the noise of the bike. It sounded like it was coming from the opposite direction of where the Serpent had just left; it was coming from down where you knew Dotser was waiting for you.

Had the Serpent circled back?

Carefully you rose to your feet, pocketing the burner phone and blinking rapidly when your vision briefly blurred and you’d once again become dizzy. You stumbled forward, having to quickly catch your balance as a hiss of pain shot through your teeth. Recovering seconds later, you stuffed your hand back into your parka pocket, fingers wrapping around the handle of the gun as you began to make your way back down the hill. If Dotser was in danger you weren’t just going to leave him to fend for himself.

As you crested the top of the hill, you caught sight of a motorcycle pulling up beside Dotser’s parked car. You swore you spotted two people getting off of the bike before the headlight on it had turned off, throwing them back into darkness. But it hadn’t seemed like Dotser had been alarmed at the appearance of whoever they were, and you hadn’t heard gunshots ringing out. It must not have been the Serpents–they certainly didn’t share bikes like that anyway. But as you continued on your way down the hill, you wondered exactly who it could’ve been on that bike. Only Birdy and Frank knew you were out here.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out, though. As you continued your descent down the hill towards the two vehicles, your temple throbbing as you felt blood trickling down the side of your face, you spotted someone pulling off a helmet and aggressively throwing it to the ground. Then their figure began storming its way over towards you, moving at an alarmingly fast pace. Your hand squeezed around the handle of the gun in your pocket, but almost one second later a sinking feeling hit you in the gut right before you heard the unmistakable and furious voice of Michael Kinsella.

“What the fuck d’ya think you’re doin’?”

You winced at the anger in his words as he continued to stalk his way towards you. Instead of answering, you blurted the question that was on your mind.

“How did you know I was here?” you nervously called back.

Michael’s enraged steps were swiftly closing in on you, shrinking the distance between the pair of you as he approached, a gun held firmly in his right hand. In the dim light from the moon you could see the sheer fury etched across his handsome features as his eyes bore into you. The look on his face alone sent a chill through you. But then you saw the exact moment he spotted what must’ve been the nasty gash on the side of your head considering how fast his expression switched from murderous to concerned and fearful. His eyes widened, dark brows rising up onto his forehead as his lips parted in surprise. He hesitated for the minutest of moments before he was sprinting the remaining distance towards you, stuffing his gun into the back of his jeans as he ran.

You came to a halt when Michael stopped before you, your eyes guiltily darting away from him and towards the ground. He reached his left hand out without a single word, his fingers carefully gripping your chin and turning your face to the side further as he examined the wound on the side of your head. You heard him suck in a sharp breath beside you before you felt the tips of his fingers on his other hand just lightly brush over the skin next to the injury. You grimaced at his faint touch and something like a rumbling growl vibrated in his chest instantly.

“It’s not that bad,” you whispered.

Michael didn’t reply. Instead, he gently turned your face back towards his, your eyes gradually making their way back up to his. Michael’s hazel stare pierced into yours through the dark, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could practically feel the heat of his anger burning into you just through his glare alone.

“Who did this?” he asked.

You shook your head, his fingers still holding your chin as you did. The Serpents wanted him dead, Michael could not be running off after them just because one of them hit you.

“It doesn’t matter,” you told him. “You’re not going to–”

“Who did this to ya?” he repeated fiercely, releasing your chin and taking a step closer to you, his face hovering before yours. “The asshole on the bike who just peeled out o’ here? He the one, Grace?”

Eyes going wide, your mouth fell open. He’d spotted the Serpent leaving?

“Take that as a yes,” Michael growled, turning on the spot.

He took two steps before your stomach twisted uncomfortably, watching as his right hand withdrew the gun from the back of his pants. You immediately took off after him, ignoring the way pain shot through your head as you bolted forward.

“Michael, stop!”

Your hands reached out, grabbing onto his brown jacket and pulling roughly against it. Michael came to an abrupt stop, turning back towards you with a dangerous look in his eyes as he stared you down. The muscles in his cheeks were twitching and seeing that look back on his face only sent another chill through your body. He looked absolutely murderous.

“Let go of me, Grace,” he ordered, barely contained rage in his voice.

Your fingers curled tighter around his jacket as you shook your head at him. “No,” you told him. “You’re not going after him. I won’t let you. He’ll kill you.”

Michael took an intimidating step towards you, his face mere inches from yours. Though the proximity was anything but intimate with the way his expression was twisted in fury and his sharp, angered breaths were causing his chest to heave as he glared back at you.

“ I’m goin’ to fuckin’ kill him !” he roared at you, ignoring the way you flinched at the volume of his voice. “Ya think I’m goin’ to let some asshole threaten ya and then beat ya? Think I’d let that go unanswered? D’ya, Grace?”

He raised the gun in his hand, the barrel of it pointed upwards towards the sky. Your eyes inevitably were drawn to the weapon at the movement, goosebumps rippling over your arms beneath your jacket. You were torn between fear for Michael’s safety, surprise at his rage openly on display, and absolute admiration for how far Michael was willing to go to protect you.

Though you were immediately drawn back to the matter at hand. The Serpents wanted Michael dead because Eamon wanted him dead. That Serpent that had just left here would shoot Michael on sight without hesitation. And if Michael somehow managed to kill an MC member instead, he'd have a whole new problem to deal with.

He couldn’t chase after him.

“You can’t,” you said firmly, shaking your head again. “You can’t go after him, Michael.”

“The fuckin’ hell I can’t,” he snapped at you. “And don’t think I’m not wantin’ an explanation for whatever the fuck ya think you’re doin’ meetin’ with them all alone when I’m done dealin' with this.” He pointed a sharp finger towards your jacket pocket. " Or an explanation as to why you're carryin' a fuckin' gun on ya, Grace."

He firmly grasped your wrists, removing your hands from their hold on his jacket before he turned back around, stalking off towards the motorcycle he had rode in on. Inhaling a shaky breath, you followed after him, tears stinging at your eyes. You had to make him understand the gravity of this situation.

“The Serpents want you dead, Michael,” you shouted after him.

Michael stopped mid-step, his shoulders squaring as he stood there. Slowly, his head tilted to the side as he listened to you.

"The one I met with," you continued quickly, "he told me they're going after the bounties Eamon put out on all of you. Especially you, Michael. They want Eamon for a supplier. So if you chase after him, he'll kill you on sight."

Michael looked over his shoulder at you, his jaw clenched tight. The fury was still clear on his face but you pushed on, spotting Dotser and Michael’s brother Jimmy nearing the pair of you.

“And if you kill a Serpent, you’ll have the whole charter bearing down on your family here in Dublin,” you told him. “The club is a family, too. You kill one, you’ll have them all after you. And if you somehow prove to be difficult enough,” you said, pausing to draw in a deep, shuddering breath, “they call in the Viper."

You held Michael’s stare unblinkingly. His brows drew faintly together as he processed what you'd said, a look of confusion drawing over his features.

"Viper?" he asked.

You nodded solemnly in return. " My ex. He deals with…problems that any charter can't handle on their own. If you start killing off members in Cork, you’ll have Victor here in Dublin so fucking fast that you might as well put a bullet in my head right now.”

Michael’s eyes dropped to the ground, his left hand rising up to run across his mouth. You could see the tension slowly leaving him as the weight of your words settled on him; even his grip on his gun wasn't as tight and determined as before.

“So I’m–I’m just s’posed to let that fucker get away with layin’ a hand on ya like that?” Michael shot back, his eyes darting back up to you. "Ya expect me to do nothin' 'bout that?"

Your eyes darted to Jimmy who’d come to a stop beside his brother. He was eyeing you curiously, seemingly really noticing you for the first time. For a brief moment you wondered what Michael must have told him about you for him to come out here to help his brother, but now wasn't exactly the time to wonder what Michael’s family thought about you. Attention returning back to Michael, you answered him.

“There’s–there's nothing you can do about what happened to me right now,” you told him, shaking your head. “He told me I needed to deliver you to him in three days or he’d alert the charter in Cork and Victor to the fact that I’m here. So I don’t–don't think it's a good idea to go racing after him and shooting first without thinking it through," you admitted. "Birdy wanted me to meet with her and Frank after this. Right now, I think that's the better option than chasing that guy down. It's better to not make a bigger mess out of everything. Think the best choice would be to be smart and handle this with some thought before action."

"She has a point, brother," Jimmy cut in, gesturing a hand at your face. "And your girl looks like she could use some medical attention. Let Dotser take her back to Birdy’s. We can meet 'em there and figure things out."

Resignation slowly made its way across Michael’s face as he shot his brother a look. Jimmy held his brother's stare for a few seconds as if the pair were silently communicating with each other. Eventually Michael let out a loud sigh, returning his gun to the waistband of the back of his pants.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just give me a minute with her, would ya both?"

Both Jimmy and Dotser nodded, making their way back to the car and the motorcycle parked a little way off still. Nervously you focused on Michael who was watching the pair of men walking away. You felt guilty for having lied to him before coming out here, even more now that he'd caught you in the lie.

Gradually Michael turned, making his way towards you. He moved quietly, his eyes on the ground as he took each step until he’d once again stopped in front of you. A second later he finally looked up at you, the anger entirely missing from his face now. Instead, there was something warm and caring reflecting back at you in his concerned eyes before they focused on the cut along your head. He winced visibly at the sight of it.

"I'm fine," you whispered.

"Are ya?" he asked as his sad, pain-filled eyes met yours again. "You're in the middle of a lot o' shit right now, Grace. Because o' me."

You shook your head quickly, ignoring the sharp pain as you did. "No, it's because of me. Because of Victor," you disagreed.

Michael scoffed loudly, shaking his own head. "But no one would have taken notice of ya if ya hadn't been with me , Grace," he pointed out.

Hands curling into fists at your sides, you were terrified he'd suddenly tell you he wanted nothing to do with you. That this was all a mistake. That you were safer without him–all things you'd wanted to say and do to keep him safe and couldn't exactly blame him for. Your heart had begun nervously thrumming in your chest in anticipation of those words as his hand reached out, carefully cradling the side of your face that wasn't injured. It felt like you couldn't breathe as you waited for him to speak, his thumb lightly brushing back and forth along your cheek.

"I'm goin' to fix this," he assured you. "Goin' to make this right. To make sure ya are safe. Ya have my word, pet. He'll pay for this."

Gingerly his hand slipped back to gently grasp the back of your head, carefully drawing you into himself. Hands flying up, you wrapped your arms eagerly around Michael’s waist, desperate for the safety and comfort he exuded. He held you securely in his arms in return, one hand stroking affectionately down the back of your head as he lightly rested his against the top of yours.

"I'll keep ya safe, I promise ya," he murmured. "I got ya now, pet. Ya here me? I got ya now."

Burrowing further against Michael's chest, your eyes closed as you relaxed into his protective embrace. Despite how your night had gone, you felt safe with him. Fingers tightening further around Michael’s jacket, you held on to him like he was your lifeline.

You didn't want to let him go.

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella fanfic #kin amc

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daleyeahson · 1 year

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I feel like we moved on from this way too fast 😮‍💨😵‍💫

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yarrystyleeza · 2 months

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You Can Keep It (M.K)

Michael Kinsella x female!reader

Mentions of the Kinsellas' dirty business, mentions of Michael's wife death, but it's all fluff.

Summary: you've had an involuntarily hard limerence on your new coworker, Michael, for a while now. After an office party at the car dealership on a cold night, Michael lends you his jacket.

Word count: 2.11k!

Writer's note: I literally had this idea sparked in my head when I was chatting with the girls on discord the other day—and I really had to write it down! It's short, it's quick, but it's fluff and pining, it's what we live for! <3

You had a bottle of beer between your knees as you sat on the white office sofa, chatting with one of your coworkers about your plans for the weekend.

Amanda had decided to throw a party at the car dealership for whatever reason and you didn't really question it. You needed a break from working and some food because today was exhausting, and this party offered you all.

"I'll be out of town fer the weekend," your coworker said before taking a sip of her drink, "goin' ta see me boyfriend's family fer the first time," you smiled. You know she was looking forward for that day for a really long time, she and her boyfriend were planning an engagement soon and you couldn't be happier for her.

But as she spoke, your eyes strayed away to the farthest corner in the room and you spot him. The gloomy dark-haired man, standing alone, the way he always did. Michael.

Your eyes meet for a second and your face blazing red. Your interactions were less than few, but you couldn't help but smile and feel your stomach churn whenever you spot him anywhere in the crowd, or keep staring at him as he talks, or when he smiles—Oh God, when he smiles. This man was the perfect form of himself when he smiles.

He's Amanda's brother-in-law, and you learned that he was freshly released from prison for the murder of his wife. You didn't know of him before that and you'd be a liar if you say it didn't scare you off the first time you heard of him.

You expected a very frightening looking man but, he was totally the opposite.

Apparently, and presumably, he wasn't the one who did it. Judging from the way he looks whenever someone mentions her—he loved his deceased wife. But only him and God know what happened that night.

You know about the Kinsellas' real business, everyone knows about it, they aren't hiding or keeping it under the wraps anyway—but you often thought of that dirty business' involvement in that poor woman's demise. But ever since he was released, Michael was working his best to stay off the business—for his teen daughter, Anna.

You know, you just know.

Maybe you overheard couple things and maybe you investigated couple others but you're not very proud to say that you know things about this man and his family more than anyone else in the room. You know... Too much. You're Amanda's assistant—you got to be involved in so much shit work, and you knew so much that either could make you feared and powerful or put your head in a guillotine basket.

"Go talk ta him," your coworker nudged your knee with hers. You turned your head back to her, realizing that you were staring at Michael for too long. She smiled. You were a deer caught in headlights.

"What are ya talkin' about?" you were garbled, mind scattered all over the place. But a part of your brain is still there, with the man in the corner—and your eyes fight to look back at him.

"Ya know who I'm talkin' about. Go." she chin-jutted in his general direction. Your eyes follow back to him and his gentle gaze was on you. Once your eyes met again, a smile was slowly drawn on his face and you could see his cheeks prickling from this very far spot you're at. He looks down at his feet then back at you and you slip out of time and space, the air is stuck in your throat and your brain tunes out everything but him.

He's under the spotlight, and the rest is pitch darkness.

You rise from your seat to cross the distance between the two of you. Your heart pounds loud in your ears, your breath feels hot and wet against your face as you march towards him with his focus poured onto you.

His smile deepens the closer you get, until you could see the crow feet on each side of his eyes. You loved his hazel eyes, and you couldn't help but stare into their brown vastness and innocence, getting lost in the drugging color of caffeine.

"Hey," he speaks with a smile and says your name. He knows who you are, the same way as you do. And in fact, the feeling is mutual.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. "Hey, Michael," you smile and your face is red. You've never said his name out loud before and it sounds way better than the voices in your head.

"How's the party goin fer ya?" you ask, taking a sip of your drink, trying to sound chill and casual and nonchalant—but in reality you were melting into a puddle with his gaze softly casted upon you.

He smiles and you could see the ghost of a dimple under his thick beard. "Grand. Ya?" he simply answered, or that's what he succeeded to delude you with.

You were the first one Michael ever laid his eyes upon since he got released weeks ago. You made his heart tick in a way he couldn't explain. He watched you talk and smile and laugh with your coworkers and he wished he was this close to you.

At one of the few times you got a chance to talk—he was a breath away from asking you out, but he thought it would be awkward and a bit creepy. This broke him into pieces, watching you acting professionally around him while he was almost a pile of sweat and tears in front of you.

Tonight, when he looked at you and you looked up at him, his heart faltered in his chest, each beat is tripping over the other. He tried to appear more staid and calm but he sighs so desperately when you ripped your eyes quickly away from his.

He thought about walking over to you and striking up a conversation and maybe ask you out afterwards—but he felt it was too awkward to do that; he never started the talk—not with someone close. But he wants to be close. He wants to be something more to you. His insalubrious crush on you keeps him up at night and daydreaming in the morning.

"Grand, I guess," you pull him back into reality. You're standing in front of him, here and now, and he wasn't imagining things.

"Glad ye are, pet," your breath hitched in your throat at the casual petname he threw at you. You blink into the distance twice and look back at him. He just called you 'pet'.

You couldn't help but daydream about how other flirty words would sound with his pleasantly gravelly voice. 'Mine', 'baby', 'love', 'sweetheart', 'bug', you wanted to hear it all now. You wanted to hear your name in all of his tones.

"So am I," you had to talk back, you already looked awkward enough with your mind straying every few seconds.

"Wait a second," he gently says before passing you and heading towards the buffet table. You watch him plate two slices of pizza and some other bits and bites before heading back in your direction.

"Here," he offers you the plate. You take a slice and he takes the other, placing the plate on the desk next to him. "Ye've been working all day today, pet, ye must be starving," he calls you with that name again and you turn as red as your blouse.

You nodded with a 'thank you' before taking a bite of your slice. "Ye noticed," it was higher than a whisper, maybe it was a loud thought that slipped out of your mouth, but he caught it, and his face blushes and burns.

He blinks a couple of times, trying to find a way to avoid your eyes because you were staring at him with those pretty orbs of yours and he already started melting under your beautiful gaze.

"Yeah, can't lie," he lets his guards down with a sigh and a smile, "ye were working so hard on yer desk this mornin' and I wanted ta get ye coffee and something ta eat, but felt it was awkward ta do tha'."

There you go. If this wasn't a hint, you don't know what else is. Your grin widened as your heart raced faster. He was so considerate of you, it made your heart sweetly swell and you fought the urge to kiss him—not minding the setting or the fact that none of you have made anything clear yet.

You shook your head. "Not at all, Michael, that would've been a nice thing," you had to encourage him, you wanted things to go farther, to go deeper, and to grow stronger.

"In tha' case, I'll pick up some brunch fer us on me way tomorrow mornin'. Say Reuben sandwiches, black coffee and Baileys Truffles? Is tha' grand fer ya, pet?" you were in awe of him. Was he thinking about this for so long?

You nodded. "But I'd prefer if we had it outside," you didn't know what you said before it left your mouth. You mentally placed your hands over your mouth.

"Ye're askin' me out, pet, is that what ye're doin'?" he smirked and you found yourself blurting incoherent words. You sigh with a smile and look back at him.

"Can't let ya ask me out before I do it first, pet. Understand?" he inches a little closer, but not too close, just the amount enough to let you know that he's so interested in you.

You blush at his demands and you nod with a grin. He chuckled, for the first time tonight, and it was the most pleasant voice you've ever heard.

"I want ye ta go out with me fer brunch tomorrow, pet," Michael was now filled with confidence and pride, "and I want ta pick up lunch fer ya too."

That was too much for you to bare. He asked you out, offered you two meals, and you had no idea what comes next.

"And if ya let me, I will take ya fer a drink tomorrow night."

That was official. He is way more than just interested in you, he was head over heels for you.

"I'd love ta," you coquetted, unintentionally, but to him it was sweet and spontaneous—and that made him fall harder.

Time slipped away with your endless chats and the night began to die out.

"It's getting late fer ya, pet," Michael breaks the silence after pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. It was then when you found yourself alone with him —beside a couple other coworkers.

"Alright, um... Goodnight Michael." you say, almost turning in your heels.

"Mikey." he corrects you, "it's Mikey. Goodnight, pet." both of you smile and he lets you walk back to your office.

You pick up your purse and keys and walk out of the glass building, after exchanging waves and glances and maybe mental kisses and hugs.

In contrast to the warmth of the place inside, you were hit with a freezing howl of wind and it nailed you in place, hugging yourself while shaking out of shock and cold.

You walk for a couple feet before you heard your name called from behind you. You turn around. It was Michael—Mikey, taking off his black jacket as he approached you.

"There," he surprised you, placing his jacket on your shoulders and you were hit with the beautiful woodsy scent of his. He smelled of cinnamon and dark coffee and mint gum, you swear you could sleep in this forever.

His hands linger on your shoulders for a moment before he backs away an inch. "Tha' was stupid of me ta say back in there, ya shouldn't walk home alone at tha' time."

You tried to protest, but he shook his head, saying your name as soft as a swan feather on your skin. "Let me walk ya home, please." he said, his eyes sparkled in the dim lights.

You walk silently next to him, despite the butterflies loudly churning in your stomach, flying and meddling around in your chest, playing with the strings of your heart and messing with the chemistry of your brain.

You were completely besotted by this gentleman.

You make it to your doorstep and you're about to slip out of his jacket and hand it back to Michael when he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"No. Keep it." he says with a smile, inching closer to you, placing a chaste and soft peck on your temple, "goodnight, pet. See ya tomorrow."

Taglist: @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @bellaxgiornata @loveroftoomanyfandoms @galaxies-and-moons-and-cox @1988-fiend @floral-charlie-cat @munsonownsmyass @lazyxsquirrel @mindidjarin (feel free to ask for addition or removal 🤍)

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, thank you for reading! 💞💞💞

#yarrystyleeza #michael kinsella #charlie cox #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella fluff #michael kinsella fanfic #kin bbc #charlie cox supremacy

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frogchiro · 8 months

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Heyyy so i saw that you helped someone like a while back to find a fanfic so i was wandering if theres any chance you could help me as well?

Id understand if you do not want to help because of literally any reason its all good dont worry🙏

Either way, im searching for a ghost x reader fic where their plane crashed and they were the only 2 survives and they had to be in the forst for a while.

Sharing a sleeping bag for fending off a bear

I remember towards the end of the fic reader and ghost had a conversation that went like

Y/n: my therapist says we are truma bonded and thats why..

Ghost; why

Y/n: you wont leave

Ghost: you want me to?

Y/n: no

Or somewhere along the lines of that, it would be great help if you can help me with this

Thank you in advance if you do decide to post this 🫶💘

Forced proximity after a traumatic event that ultimately brings you closer becuase you literally had to rely for survival on each other is exactly my jam so if anyone knows what this is PLEASE KIND SOUL TELL ME 😭😭

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #professional fanfic finders😭💕

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fuzedatti · 1 year

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guess who is my favorite

designs for my fanfic

#scp #secure contain protect #scp 035 #scp 049 #scp 035 x scp 049 #scp 049 x scp 035 #049 x 035 #035 x 049 #the plague doctor #the possessive mask #SCP Foundation #scp fanart #fan art #sketch #the fanfic was started on 2019 help #guess who i kin challenge

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revrads · 1 year

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Been rewatching Ninjago for the nostalgia so here’s my attempt at making my own design of the ninja! Just the 4 dudes for now, might do Lloyd and Nya in the future! :)

Some notes:

- Zane uses the bo-staff for long-ranged practical weapon! I read a fic where after the Ice Emperor, he can’t use the shurikens anymore and I liked the idea so here’s me giving him a long stick

- Cole uses the tonfa instead of a giant hammer. Idk I just thought it’s a good match

- Jay still has the effects from the fangpyres so he’s a lil’ snake boy

- Kai is the only one without much change so there’s that

Bonus doodles cause Idk lmao:

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phantomram-b00 · 4 months

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Sometimes I’ll be reading ineffable husbands fanfics and then whenever aziraphale say “I promise I won’t leave your side” and I’m like “oh buddy- OOOH BUDDY” followed by crying for the 19282929th time. nothing lasts forever 🥲

#if Crowley said it too given the au I made it just as angsty #good omens #fanfiction #fanfic #good omens fanfiction #reading my comfort ships because I love them #fan fiction #good omens spoilers #i love good omens #ficlet #aziraphale I kin and love you but don’t make promises you can’t keep 🥲#ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #good omens ineffable husbands

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hazyaltcare · 1 year

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An Inscryption card for Mal (TF2 fanfic "Ex Machina") that resembled a scoutbot.

I made 2 versions, one Leshy's cabin style and one Botopian style. Enjoy B)

Mod Haze (🎮Greyson)

#fictionkin #fanfiction kin #fanfic kin #team fortress 2 kin #tf2 kin #scoutbot kin #mal kin #inscryption card edit #🎮#mod haze

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she-likesorchids · 7 months

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Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Warnings: None, just tooth rotting fluff.

Author's Note: Just a lil thing I wrote for my Sweater Weather Challenge! I combined the prompts "Your hands are cold" and "Don't move, you're warm". We appreciate the hell out of Mikey's chest hair in this house!!!!

Word count: Just over 700

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The walk from your office back to Michael’s flat wasn’t far, but it was far enough that you cursed yourself for leaving your gloves behind. The night air was bitterly cold, and the pockets of your coat just weren’t cutting it. By the time you reached the front door, your hands were almost numb from the cold, so you shook them out and rubbed them together in an attempt to get the blood flowing to your fingers again.

“Mikey, I’m home, love! Where are ya?” you called out.

“M’upstairs!” he replied.

You hung up your coat and your scarf and made your way upstairs and to the bedroom, where you found Michael in bed with his shirt off, reading a book. He sat the book to the side with a soft smile on his face, and opened his arms to welcome you home. You toed off your shoes and sidled up next to him to kiss him, and he recoiled slightly when you put your hand on his scruffy cheek.

“Argh, Mikey! I thought ya’d be happy to see me!” you pouted.

“I am happy to see ya, but yer hands are cold! C’mere and let me warm ‘em up.”

He gently took your hands in his and placed them on his bare chest, letting his body heat get your blood flowing again. You could feel his heart beating steadily under your palms, and you leaned over to tuck your head in the crook of his neck. He placed a soft kiss on your forehead, and wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you kept your hands on his chest. You felt a bit of a shiver from him as your cold nose came into contact with his bare skin, but he just held you closer and rubbed your back to warm you up.

“Sorry I had to work late, but I’m home now, love,” you whispered.

“Yeah, yer home now,” he hummed in response before placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You melted into his hold, and gently traced patterns with your fingertips on his chest, twirling his chest hair around your fingers. Michael chuckled softly as you slid your head down to rest on his chest, nuzzling it with your still cold nose.

“What are ya doin’, pet?” he asked with a laugh.

“Yer so warm, Mikey. Must be this fuzz ya got on ya,” you replied as you stroked his chest.

He laughed again as he wrapped his arms tighter around you, and you burrowed your face further into his chest. You let out a sigh of contentment as you finally felt the blood start to return to your hands and your nose and you inhaled Michael’s scent. He didn’t usually wear cologne, but the smell of his deodorant and soap gave him a natural, musky smell that you always found comfort in. You often wore his t-shirts and his sweaters when he was away, but having the real thing was always the best. Michael slowly scooted down on the bed so he was laying on his back, and he carefully moved you with him so that you were laying on his chest. He pulled the comforter up over the both of you, as you continued playing with his chest hair and listening to the steady thump of his heart. You worried about him quite a bit, but times like this where you were surrounded in the solid comfort of him made you feel like things might just be alright after all.

You were so relaxed in his embrace and close to sleep when you felt Michael try to gently roll you over.

“No! Don’t move, yer warm,” you huffed out as you rolled back over and wrapped yourself back around him.

“I was just gonna get up and make some tea, pet. I thought ya may wanna get out of those work clothes, too.”

You pouted as you sat up and whined, “Okay, fine. But we’ll continue this when ya get back.”

Michael cupped your cheek with his hand and gently kissed you before he threw back the covers and got up to go make you both some tea. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched you get up and begin to undress, and he called out to you from the doorway of the bedroom, “Of course, love. Ya may have cold hands, but ya’ve got a warm heart.”

#mandy's sweater weather challenge #michael kinsella #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella fanfic #kin amc #rte kin #kin rte

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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 1 month

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Mind the Gap, Chapter 1

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader, Matt Murdock & Reader (Platonic)

Rating: E

Word count (per chapter): ~500 (Just to set the story up, future chapters will be longer!)

Story Summary: When Michael gets sent across the pond to fix an issue with the Kinsella clan's drug trade expansion into New York City, he never expected to meet and fall for a pretty law clerk from the office of Nelson, Murdock, and Page. But when she gets abducted by a rival cartel, Michael will have to enlist the help of the very vigilante that's trying to take down his entire operation.

Warnings/Tags: Kin/Daredevil crossover, Canon-typical violence (for both shows), Platonic Matt Murdock/Reader, Smut in later chapters, More tags to come

A/N: After announcing this MONTHS ago, it's finally here -- the Daredevil/Kin crossover no one asked for, but I decided to write anyway. Lol

Note that this is a Michael Kinsella x Reader fic -- there is no love triangle between Mikey, Reader, and Matt.

If you want to be added to the taglist for this or any of my other ongoing stories, or if I was supposed to tag you/tagged you in error, please let me know!

Tag list: @danzer8705 @cheshirecat484 @thornbushrose @shouldbestudying41 @finnishjerseygirl @ednaaa-04 @ebathory997 @beezusvreeland @capylore

Fuckin' hell, let's get this over with, Michael Kinsella thought to himself as he trudged up the driveway to his sister-in-law’s house.

He had just gotten word that the Garda had wrapped up their investigation into his father's and uncle’s deaths and had ruled the case a murder-suicide -- therefore clearing him from further questioning -- when Amanda had texted that she was calling a meeting.

Amanda opened the door before he had even reached it. “Hey,” she said.

Michael walked in. “Hi.”

Amanda closed the door behind him. “Hadn't seen ya in a while.”

Aye, and there's a fuckin' reason for tha’, Michael thought.

As Amanda had started taking over more and more territory and doing whatever she had to in order to stay on top, Michael had realized that it hadn't ever been him that she had wanted, it had been the Kinsella name and the power and prestige that had come with it.

While he hadn't ever regretted having Jamie, he had regretted sleeping with Amanda when she had come on to him while Jimmy had been in prison all those years ago and again more recently when her marriage had been falling apart and Michael had been dealing with finding out about Molly being engaged.

He shrugged. “Been busy.”

“Wan’ a drink?”

Michael shook his head. What he wanted was to go back home.

Amanda pursed her lips, but before she could say anything else, Birdy arrived.

“So what's ya call a meetin’ for?” Michael asked once they had all sat down at Amanda's kitchen table.

Amanda folded her hands together in front of her and leaned forward. “I called ya over because we're takin’ over some operations in America and I need ya ta go oversee tha transfer. There's been some issues.”

Michael was taken aback. “Me? Why me?”

“Because we're all busy -- I’m tryin’ ta clean up tha mess Bren left while also dealin’ wit' Jimmy's shite, Viking is workin' on getting tha houses reopened, and Birdy's still dealin’ with Frank's estate. Yer’ that only one left who we can trust ta take care a’ things.”

“Plus I think it'll be good for ya to get away for a while ‘till things settle down again,” Birdy added.

Michael shook his head. “Are ya forgettin’ tha’ I'm a convicted felon? They won' even let me on a plane, much less inta another country.”

“Tha's already taken care of.” Birdy picked up a manilla envelope off of the table and handed it to him. “Everything is in here.”

Michael opened it to find an ID and passport.

He looked at the ID. “Michael O’Brien?”

Amanda shrugged. “Best we could do on short notice. ‘Least ya get ta go by yer first name.”

Birdy cut her eyes over to Amanda briefly before turning back towards Michael. “Flight’s already booked. Ya leave on Thursday.”

Michael sighed, resigned. “Where exactly am I goin?”

A satisfied look spread across Amanda's face as she leaned back. “New York City.”

#lotmf writes #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella fanfic #michael kinsella fanfiction #kin rte #kin amc #kin bbc #Mind the Gap Masterlist

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mostlydeadallday · 8 months

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Pale knife in a pale hand. The press of soul-bands round its wrists. The chill of void-loss in its limbs. The echo of its breath: panting, panting, panting.

Art for Chapter 36 of Lost Kin, by @slimeshade! (ko-fi) Thanks for another wonderful commission!

#lost kin fic #lost kin art #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #hk #the pale king

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bellaxgiornata · 9 months

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Safe Haven [Chapter Fourteen]

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.6k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains violence, drug use, domestic abuse, smut, hurt/comfort, angst, mutual pining, friends to lovers

a/n: This chapter will certainly leave you wanting more, I'll say that much. Feedback is always appreciated!

Fingers flying across the keyboard of your laptop, you sat at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of hot coffee beside you. You’d woken up just before Megan had disappeared for her shift at the hospital and settled down to write shortly after. So far your day was wide open and there wasn’t much else for you to do but focus on your work.

For the past couple of days that’s what you’d been doing–focusing on your writing. You had not managed to see Michael beyond the occasional fortuitous meeting at your bedroom windows. You hadn’t even run into him out in the back garden the few times you’d sat out there to work. Though he had sent you a few text messages on and off over the past two days. He’d repeatedly apologized for being so busy and promised that he still planned to make you dinner sometime this week as an apology for the situation with Amanda.

You were aware that he was still dealing with the fallout from the shooting the previous week. You also knew he was still dealing with the bounties on his and his families’ heads while they struggled to continue to run their very illegal business. And now the Garda were permanently parked at the end of the street for twenty-four hour safety measures and you didn't need Michael to tell you that they were only further complicating matters for the Kinsellas.

On top of all of that, you knew he had also mentioned that he had an appointment today for a CT scan to hopefully figure out what was going on with his sudden seizure episodes. Michael had told you that his brother was taking him to the appointment when he’d messaged you this morning. You’d been on edge ever since his text this though, waiting for him to message you back when he’d made it home safe afterwards. You had asked him to let you know because you’d been worried, even if you felt like an absolute idiot asking him to let you know when he’d gotten home safe. But you knew it was dangerous for any of them to be out of the house right now with the bounties on their heads–the memory of leaving the coffee shop with him the other day was still fresh in your mind. If you read between the lines of the few things Michael had told you, you’d easily gathered that they were all dead men walking.

But despite how hard you really did try not to let it bother you that you’d barely seen Michael the past few days, knowing he genuinely had a lot going on, you admittedly still missed him. You wished he’d just stop by, even for a few minutes, or that he’d invite you over for a short bit in the evening. Even just five minutes to see him–just to feel his arms around you–would have been enough for you. You had a feeling he could use the brief break from the stress of everything he had going on, and you certainly could use some comfort with how worried you'd been over the strange silence from Victor.

It didn’t help that you found yourself feeling lonely with your sister constantly off at the hospital for work. And while you tried to remind yourself that you had far more human connection here in Dublin over the past few weeks than you’d had in the couple of years that you’d been on the run, all that did was make things worse. Because you’d found yourself growing accustomed to not being alone since you’d been here. You’d found yourself looking forward to more than just the phone calls from Angela. But you knew that was dangerous because it meant you were growing attached–to this city and the people here–which would make needing to run in the future that much harder.

And all that alone time you'd had lately after Michael had apologized to you had also given you time to feel guilty. Guilty for knowing the personal things about him that you had dug up the other week when Birdy had been threatening you. You still hadn’t known how to bring it up to him, but you felt like you needed to tell him that you knew. Because it wasn’t right that you knew the reason he’d gone to prison or that you knew he had a daughter who you’d thought you’d seen the other day outside his house while Michael still had absolutely no idea. Though you were afraid to tell him considering just how personal the information was. You didn’t think he would take the news well. But the longer you kept it in, the worse you figured it would be.

With a sigh you glanced over at your coffee cup beside your laptop, feeling a headache coming on as your thoughts began to distract you from your writing. Picking up the mug, you drew it to your mouth for a long drink. Desperately you wished it would actually succeed at making you feel awake this morning. While you drank down the comforting liquid, movement out of the kitchen window just beside you caught your eye and you glanced up, spotting Birdy making her way up your sister’s driveway with what looked like the mail in her hand.

Slowly you set the mug back down on the table, watching as Birdy sent you a friendly wave through the window. Your eyes narrowed as you noticed the strained smile on her face, watching as she neared the door. Frowning, you closed your laptop before rising from the kitchen chair, making your way out of the kitchen and over to the front door. Birdy had knocked mere moments before you unlocked it, swinging it open to reveal that tense expression on her face even more clearly.

“G’mornin’ dear,” Birdy greeted, raising her hand that had been holding the stack of your sister’s mail. “I think we need to have a little chat this mornin’.”

Your frown only deepened on your face at her words. What could she possibly need to chat with you about and why the hell was she snooping through Megan’s mail? Opening the door wider, you moved aside and watched as she stepped into the house. Closing the door behind her, entirely baffled as to what she was up to, you followed behind her as she made her way straight to the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen yourself, you watched as Birdy tossed the few letters in her hand onto the kitchen island. She stalked around to the other side of it, her piercing blue eyes focused on you as she pulled her purse from her shoulder, setting it onto the countertop beside the stack of mail. Both of her hands came down to rest against the island, her eyes silently raking you over.

“Why are you going through my sister’s mail, Birdy?” you asked her, breaking the silence. “I’m guessing that’s still illegal here in Ireland, isn’t it?”

Birdy’s eyes only further narrowed at you in return. “That’s the least of my worries, dear. And truthfully the least of yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you questioned her.

“Have ya even taken a look at what’s there, dear?” she asked, her head gesturing towards the pile of mail on the countertop.

“What? Why?” you asked. “I don’t get mail here, Birdy. No one even knows where I’m–”

You stopped mid-sentence when your focus shifted down towards the pile, the letter on the top of the stack immediately catching your eye. There was no postage on it. As if someone had slipped it in the letterbox themselves. But what was alarming was what was messily drawn on the envelope. In the corner of it there was a small, upside down crucifix with a serpent wrapped around it. You felt the blood immediately drain from your face, your entire body freezing on the spot as fear struck you like ice in your veins.

“What is that doing in with the mail?” you whispered, eyes glued to the symbol.

“That’s what I was curious ‘bout,” Birdy replied. “Y’see, I saw someone lingerin’ out front of your sister’s house quite early this mornin’. Dressed in a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Saw them slip what I’m presumin’ is that–” she continued, gesturing at the letter, “–into the letterbox with the post. I was curious.”

Panic shot through you at her words, your eyes going wide as you glanced up at Birdy. “I’m not–not with them, Birdy,” you told her quickly, shaking your head. “I wasn’t lying to you. I’m not helping them with anything.”

Birdy sent you an apologetic smile, her expression softening. “I know that, dear,” she told you gently. “What I’m concerned ‘bout is how they know you’re here and why they’re slippin’ ya letters.”

“I don’t know,” you breathed out, your attention returning to the letter. “I don’t know.”

Silence fell over the pair of you, your heart feeling like it was pounding away in your chest. You could feel a small tremble beginning in your hands. Anxiously you wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your body tight as if that would help stop the shaking. You didn’t want to have a panic attack, not here in front of Birdy.

“Aren’t ya goin’ to open it, Grace?” she asked.

“What if–if it’s him?” you whispered, tears stinging at your eyes. “What if he’s found me already? Is just messing with me?”

“Well ya won’t know if ya don’ open it,” Birdy pointed out.

Nervously chewing the inside of your cheek, you hesitantly reached a hand out towards the kitchen island. Very slowly you slipped the letter off the top of the stack of mail, the shake in your hand entirely visible as you did. You could feel the weight of Birdy’s eyes on you as you brought the letter towards yourself, flipping it over and staring at the sealed back.

You didn’t want to open this. You didn’t know what was inside, but there was no way it was anything good. On top of that, you didn’t know how someone from the Serpents had found you here at your sister’s place, but you didn’t like it. The knowledge made your skin crawl.

But Birdy was right. You wouldn’t know anything if you didn’t just open the damn letter.

With a sharp exhale, you slipped a finger underneath the seal, tearing it open easily. Holding your breath, you reached inside and pulled a small slip of paper from out of the envelope. As your eyes scanned it over, you weren’t surprised to see there was barely much written on it. You didn’t recognize the handwriting sloppily scrawled along it, either.

For a minute you read the words over and over, your mind racing as that panicked feeling only further took hold of you. Your hands were shaking a little harder as the weight of the message settled on you, tears welling in your eyes and blurring the writing.

“Well,” Birdy prompted impatiently, “what’s it say?”

"They want me to meet with them," you answered quietly. "Tonight."

A dark look crossed Birdy’s face as she took a step towards you. "Who?" she asked.

You shrugged a shoulder, a tear spilling down your cheek. "I don't know," you replied, voice breaking. "The Serpent’s charter in Cork, I imagine."

Birdy’s shoulders squared, her expression darkening further. "Obviously ya aren't goin'," she stated.

"I don't have a choice," you whispered back.

“O’course ya have a choice,” she said firmly.

You shook your head, holding the paper out towards her. Birdy reached out, quickly grabbing the slip of paper from your hand. You watched quietly as her eyes darted across the page rapidly, and then you watched as she reread the words a few times herself. Once again your arms wrapped around yourself, your entire body slowly beginning to shake.

"They know who I am," you whispered. "If I don't go, they're going to tell Victor that I'm–I'm here. And I can't have that." Your fingers clutched at the sweater you were wearing, clinging desperately to the fabric like it was a lifeline. "My only options are to meet them or to run, Birdy.”

Her eyes looked up from the letter in her hand, that piercing stare of hers landing on you.

“Ya have more options than that, love,” she pointed out.

“No,” you disagreed, shaking your head. “I can’t ask any of you to help me with this. I won’t ,” you stated. “Besides, it’s not safe for any of you to help. It’s not safe for Michael to help. Eamon wants him dead, right? He can’t be out traveling to Cork dealing with the Serpents or showing up with me to that meeting. He’d be a dead man and you know that.”

“So what? Ya are just goin’ to run?” Birdy questioned.

Your gaze dropped down to the island countertop, your lips pressing firmly together as you thought. Admittedly your first instinct was screaming at you to do exactly that. To get out of here while you were still breathing. Every warning bell was going off in your head right now. That meeting screamed danger. Them knowing who and where you were screamed danger. But that was what made running now an impossible choice, one you couldn’t do.

“If I run,” you began slowly, staring at the countertop as another tear slipped down your cheek, “they'll most likely tell Victor I was here. And he’ll be led straight to this very house. To my–my sister ." You shook your head firmly, eyes flying up and holding Birdy’s stare. "And I can't have that, Birdy."

Across from the kitchen island, you watched as Birdy sighed in resignation. A second later her head tilted to the side, eyeing you for a moment longer in silence.

“So you’ve decided then, have ya?” she asked. “Made up your mind to go?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” you replied. “There’s really only one option I have.”

“Well then,” she continued, her attention shifting down to her purse.

You watched in silence as she unsnapped the bag, both of her hands reaching inside. Brows drawing together in confusion, you watched as her hands pulled something wrapped in what looked like a scarf out of her bag. She cradled it gently in her palms as she gingerly lowered it to the countertop. Gradually she pulled the dark material back, and your eyebrows shot up high onto your forehead at the sight of a gun.

Birdy’s eyes slowly shifted back up towards yours. There was a small, almost dangerous smile on her lips.

“I told ya I’d get ya a gun, Grace,” she said. “And I figured if there was someone spyin’ on your house like that, ya could use one now rather than later. But if ya are goin’ to meet the bastards head on, ya might want a little protection of your own, dear. Ya said ya know how to use one, yeah?”

Swallowing hard, your eyes still glued to the gun, you nodded. Your heart was thudding even harder in your chest at the sight of it just lying there on the kitchen island. You certainly knew how to use one, but having the ability to use it on someone–to use it with the intention to kill–was another story.

Birdy slowly slid the gun towards you along the counter, your pulse jumping when it was sitting innocently there just in front of you. Fingers digging into your skin through your sweater with how tight you were hugging your arms around yourself, your eyes remained fixed on the weapon.

“Ya should bring it with ya tonight,” Birdy told you. “And ya should let me set it up with Dotser to bring ya to this meetin’. Ya shouldn’ go alone.”

Shaking your head quickly, your attention returned back to her. “No, Birdy. You read the note. It said to come alone,” you replied. “I can’t show up with anyone. They won’t be fucking around, whatever it is they want. And if one of your men are with me, it might just cause more trouble for your family. So no.”

Birdy’s eyes narrowed back at you, her arms slowly crossing themselves over her chest. “Fine,” she conceded after a moment. “He won’t come with ya to the meetin’, but he’ll bring ya and bring ya back home after. Ya need a safe way there and back, anyway. I’ll have him pick ya up a couple o’ blocks from here and drop ya off near the meetin’ place.” She leaned forward towards you, her body language meant to be intimidating. “And ‘no’ isn’t an option here, dear.”

Chewing your bottom lip, you eyed her for a long moment. She ultimately had a point. You weren’t about to walk or take a taxi all the way out to meet whoever it was that had dropped that letter in your sister’s letterbox, and it’s not like you had a car and a driver’s license in Ireland, either. Your options were quite limited.

“Fine,” you relented.

“Good,” she replied. “And when Dotser drops ya off home after, I want ya to meet with Frank and I back at my house before ya head on home. If there’s trouble on our doorstep, I think we ought to know ‘bout it.”

“Alright,” you agreed slowly.

“And I think it goes without sayin’, love, but ya shouldn’ mention a thing to Mikey ‘bout any o’ this,” Birdy warned you. “‘Bout the gun I gave ya or this meetin’ tonight. No doubt he’d be rushin’ in guns blazin’ and puttin’ himself in a heap o’ danger if he knew. And like ya said, it isn’ safe for him to be out.”

Your stomach knotted uncomfortably at her words. Just more lies and secrets to keep from him. You didn’t like it, but she had a point. With the way he came rushing over to your sister’s house, from her retelling of the night you’d gotten drunk and she’d found you a bloody mess in the bathroom, you knew Michael would refuse to let you go to that meeting. You also had a strong feeling he’d go in your stead, probably making threats that would only end up getting him shot.

“I won’t tell him,” you promised her quietly. “You’re right. He’d only throw himself in harm’s way without a second thought to himself. And it’s not safe for him to go–to the meeting or out in general. So I won’t tell him. Because I won’t have him dying for me.”

A slow smile gradually drew itself across Birdy’s lips as she stared back at you. The look of something like pride was clear on her face. Her expression only confused you until she’d spoken again.

“I like ya, Grace,” she admitted. “You’re a strong one. Smart, too. You truly make quite the match for my Michael.”

If you weren’t so struck by fear about how your evening was about to play out later, you might’ve felt something more at her words. But as of the moment, you were currently struggling to keep yourself together. Because you were terrified about this meeting tonight, unsure what was to come of it. You didn’t know anyone from the charter in Cork so you didn’t know what to expect, and you certainly didn’t have a clue about why they’d wanted to meet you instead of just telling Victor you were here. What could they possibly want?

Across from the kitchen island, Birdy closed her purse back up before slipping the strap of it over her shoulder. She made her way around the counter, stopping just before you. Both of her hands came out, landing on your shoulders and giving them a reassuring squeeze as she held your gaze.

“You’ll be alrigh’, dear,” she promised you. “Don’t let them see your fear. And bring the gun. Don’t be afraid to use it if ya have to. We’ll figure it all out after if ya do end up needin’ it.”

Mouth feeling like it had long gone dry, you nodded in response. You didn’t know what to even say to that. With the approving smile still on her face, she squeezed your shoulders firmly before she released them, turning and making her way out of the kitchen to leave.

“I’ll text ya the details for Dotser to drive ya later,” she called back to you. “And make sure ya come and see Frank and I afterwards, dear. I’m sure there’ll be some things for us to discuss.”

You stood there rooted to the kitchen, your eyes following her retreating form until it disappeared down the hallway. A moment later you heard the front door open and close before your focus slid over to the kitchen window, watching as Birdy made her way down the driveway. When she reached the end of it and turned past the stone fence, your eyes slowly dropped down to the gun still lying on the dark blue scarf.

Your hands were stuffed into the pockets of your green parka as you made your way down your sister’s driveway. Her shift at the hospital would be finishing soon so you’d sent her a text a little bit ago, not wanting her to wonder where you’d gone when she arrived back home. Of course you lied and told her you were going to a coffee shop that was open late, suddenly struck with some writing inspiration that needed the ‘right vibe.’ You figured she’d buy the bullshit line well enough not to question it.

In actuality, you were on your way down the street and then over two more blocks to meet Dotser before he took you to meet the Serpent who’d left you that note. According to the brief bit of information Birdy had given you about Dotser, he worked for the Kinsellas’ and was quite personally trusted by Frank himself–who you were incredibly nervous about meeting later tonight after this meeting.

Assuming you survived it, of course.

As you reached the end of the driveway, you turned left. Jaw clenching tight, you became very aware of the cool metal of the gun in your parka pocket as your eyes landed on the Garda car at the end of the street. It certainly wouldn’t be good for you if they stopped you and found a gun in your jacket.

You continued on, trying hard to act casual, but you’d barely made it halfway past Michael’s driveway before you heard him call out to you. Instantly your heart flew up into your throat, surprise washing over you. Head whipping in the direction of his voice, you saw he’d been unlocking his front door before spotting you. He’d turned around and was heading towards you now, a tired smile drawing itself across his mouth. Stopping in your tracks as your heart hammered nervously away in your chest, you smiled back at him.

You’d been missing him over the last few days, desperate for a few minutes in person with him, but right now you’d wished you’d ran into anyone else but him. You were terrified he might see through you or that you might accidentally give something away. Because you were certain if Michael had any inkling about what was going on, he’d be rushing down to that meeting armed himself.

“What’re ya doin’ out so late?” he asked as he neared you.

“I–I was just going on a bit of a walk,” you answered awkwardly, hands curling into fists in your parka pockets. “Just needed a little air, you know?”

Michael’s smile widened a little further. “Would ya like some company? I haven’ seen ya in a bit,” he replied.

“Oh, uh, well I was actually hoping to sort of…think about some plot things? For my book?” you said, grasping at the first lie that came to your mind. Your heart twisted in your chest at the sight of his smile slipping. “I mean, normally I’d love you to come with, especially because it has been a few days since we’ve really seen each other,” you continued in a rush. “But I–I have Angela on my ass about a deadline and I just got hit with writer’s block. I’m desperate to try anything to give me some ideas so I figured a walk might help. And you–you really shouldn’t be out of your house. It’s not safe.”

Michael nodded slowly, his expression still looking a little downcast as he did. “I understand, though I don’t think ya should be walkin’ around by yourself right now, either,” he told you.

“Well I won’t be out walking long,” you replied–which wasn’t exactly a lie.

He nodded, a small smile making its way back onto his face as he focused on you. Gradually the disappointment of your rejection to his company slipped from his expression and he stepped closer, closing the space between the pair of you. His hand reached up to push some hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering along your temple as the rough pads of them affectionately brushed your skin. For a moment you almost forgot about what you were about to do with the way he was staring back at you, your pulse increasing for a reason besides fear for the first time today.

“I missed ya, pet,” he murmured. “Been a shite couple o’ days without ya.”

“I know what you mean,” you whispered back.

He lowered his forehead to yours, his eyes creased at the corners as his warm palm cupped your cheek. You leant into his touch, closing your eyes and wishing you could just stay here with him. Maybe turn around and head back into his house with him. Throw everything that you’d been hiding from him out on the table and hopefully get past it. Maybe spend the evening together.

But you couldn’t do that. Not tonight.

Inhaling a deep breath, you knew you needed to go before you were late to this meeting. You didn’t want to know what would happen if you were. But before you could get a single word out, Michael’s mouth cut you off.

His lips caught yours so softly, his mouth moving tenderly against yours. His hand was still carefully cradling your cheek while the other was resting lightly on your hip. But while he was kissing you so sweetly, your own hands were flying out of your pockets and wrapping around his neck, pulling yourself flush to the front of him. Desperately you wished you could cling to him and the safety he radiated. You hoped some of his strength would somehow transfer to you as you deepened the kiss, your mouth moving in any way but soft against his.

Michael quickly responded in kind, his own mouth moving hungrily before you felt his tongue sliding along your bottom lip. Your fingers were digging into the back of his neck as you kissed him hard, and in return, Michael’s grip on you became a little rougher. But the moment his hand slipped a bit farther down your hip, nearing the gun in your pocket, you instantly pulled away from him.

He was left standing there at the edge of his dimly lit driveway looking confused. You sent him a sheepish smile, running a hand over your forehead.

“Sorry,” you muttered, trying to catch your breath. “I uh, I got a little carried away. I should probably get started on that walk before it gets too late.”

“Right,” he agreed slowly, his dark eyes carefully studying you.

You cleared your throat, stuffing your hands back into your coat pockets. The fingers of your right hand brushed the cold metal of the gun immediately and your back stiffened.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” you told him, backing up from him.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes gradually narrowing. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Grace.”

Shooting him a tense smile, you abruptly turned and ducked your head, walking fast down the street. You just wanted to make it through the rest of this night already. Hopefully tomorrow you could talk to Michael.

#michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella #michael kinsella fanfic #kin amc

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