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toast-tales · 7 months

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Cursed Cravings: A retold, g/t story of Beauty and the Beast, with a sinister twist.

When he declines to help a beggar woman, wealthy aristocrat Christopher Penn was cursed to adopt a giant form with a terrible, monstrous burden, and the conditions to break the curse seem all but impossible. When a peasant girl, Danny, agrees to take her friend's place as Christopher's captive, he realizes that she may be the last hope of regaining his humanity and breaking the spell for good.

But who could ever care for a monster like him?

This will be an AU of ITWOM involving some familiar characters like Christopher, Danny, Sam, and Nathan - but you don't have to have read the main story to read this one. Lots of things will be changed around, so for all intents and purposes, these aren't the characters you know.

This story will contain g/t, angst, and soft/safe vore later down the road. It's still going to be a lighter read than ITWOM, but be warned nonetheless! This isn't the Beauty and the Beast story you know from Disney.

Read Chapter 1 below:

Chapter 1: Dark Night of the Soul

Contains: ~2k words | Chapter Index | Read this story on A03!

It was a night like many others, the night that Christopher Penn's life was changed forever.

A deluge had begun that evening, torrential rain bearing down upon the land with fierce strikes of lightning and thunder rattling the large windows of the mansion—but all this meant for Christopher and his guests was that they wouldn't be able to enjoy the garden out back, and their merriment was restricted to the large indoor space. The music still swelled and filled the air pleasantly, rising above the sounds of the storm outside and making it easy for the partygoers to forget how unpleasant it was outside the walls of Christopher's house.

The host in question flitted from person to person throughout the evening, engaging in the usual small talk and jokes, an easy and charming smile lighting up his face and those of the people he met with. He was a gracious and charismatic host, always making sure that his parties were the grandest, with his guests never wanting for anything. The people in attendance would speak highly of his events, of the balls and the dinner parties, that he was so keen to host.

On the surface, Christopher seemed rather at ease, full of a charm and grace that would be befitting of someone from a wealthy family. But his actions were all surface level—each word and step he took was carefully choreographed and planned in advance. He was terrified, truly—each person he brought into his home was a potential ally, a potential for advancing his status, but they were also a potential seed to his own destruction.

Christopher had spent every day since his parents had passed rebuilding his family's reputation among the nobility. He could see past their charm—they despised his parents, and in turn, they despised him. His own reputation—the very thing that allowed him to live in such comforts still, to have any amount of power and social standing at all—was fragile and tenuous, and every interaction he had, no matter how seemingly insignificant it was, was an attempt to maintain its strength.

And so, while he seemed completely comfortable in this element, there was a latent anxiety in Christopher, hidden well beneath the surface.

He almost didn’t hear the knock at the door at first, wrapped up as he was in conversation. But his manservant rushed to his side, rather insistently dragging him away.

“I’m sorry, Chris, she just won’t leave without speaking to you.” Sam’s stride was brisk, and they gave Christopher no choice but to follow. He offered a quick and profuse apology to the noblewoman he’d been entertaining before he caught up to Sam.

“You’re not able to send her away?” Christopher hissed, somewhat tersely. “I can’t be interrupted by every stranger that shows up here. I have guests to attend to.”

“Hey, I tried!” Sam insisted. “I’m just one guy, and I also have guests of yours to attend to. She keeps coming back. All she wants is a quick word with you. Just humor her, and she’ll be out of your hair.” Sam ran their fingers somewhat anxiously through their own well-groomed locks. “We can just deal with it quietly, before she causes a scene. Some of the guests near the front door are getting a little antsy about it.”

Christopher sighed wearily as he followed Sam to the main entrance. Perhaps if he had more staff, this wouldn’t be a problem. Most of the house’s staff had left in the fallout of his parents’ demise, with the sole exception being Sam—his personal servant who’d remained as doggedly loyal to him as they had the first day they’d been assigned to care for him. He’d never let on to his guests, but Christopher worked with Sam every day to keep the house in order, even helping cook the meals and clean. He had to keep up appearances as best he could.

Sam pulled the grand front door open to reveal a woman on the other side—a pauper in beggar’s clothes, tattered and rain-soaked, hunched on his front stoop as she gazed up at Christopher.

Christopher stood up straight and directed a cold, stern look towards the woman. He could feel several sets of eyes on him, and knew that there was a group of aristocrats watching the scene intently. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves idly as he spoke, as if he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to the woman at all.

“I’m afraid you will have to leave. I have no room for beggars here.”

The woman shivered slightly, tilting her head up further to meet Christopher’s face. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her face lined with creases from age and stress. “P-please, kind sir, I only need to come in from the storm for a short while. I won’t be any trouble. I…I haven’t eaten in days-”

The people nearby began to whisper, a touch of disgust coloring their tone.

“This is an exclusive event,” Christopher interjected firmly. “There is a certain decorum that must be maintained. Please leave, or I will contact the authorities to escort you away.”

If he had been at home alone that evening, he might have afforded some manner of small comfort towards the woman. But he couldn’t be seen sullying his hands with the poor here.

A pleading, desperate look came to the woman’s face, her features falling into despair. “Sir, I will not survive the night!” Her voice was hoarse and rough, as if sandpaper scraped against the inside of her throat. “You would turn me away, to the mercy of the storm?”

Her cries had gotten louder—more of his guests had turned to look and whisper among themselves, casting uncertain and hesitant glances Christopher’s way. He didn’t need to hear them to know what they were all saying.

What kind of place is this, where the host entertains beggars?

He is no better than his parents, mingling with such filth.

He doesn’t belong here.

He is not one of us.

He set his jaw and made his stance firm, his dark eyes fixed sharply down at the beggar. He couldn’t let this go on further. “Leave. Your welfare is not my concern.”

The woman’s face became suddenly sharper, each crease and wrinkle fading to a more youthful visage, and her muddy, round eyes transformed to piercing, golden ones. She no longer hunched, but stood straight up, rising to a height that forced even Christopher to look up in awestruck terror.

“THEN YOU WILL HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS, CHRISTOPHER PENN.”

Her tattered clothes transformed to flowing white robes upon her dark skin, her hair now falling in neat and lovely braids down her back, adorned with gold.

She cast a scornful, acidic gaze towards Christopher as she looked down on him, each fiber of her being radiating with malice.

His heart stopped beating—the entire world seemed to have gone silent, save for the strikes of thunder that almost seemed to accentuate every word this woman spoke. Her voice boomed with an unnatural volume throughout the entire hall. He didn’t need to turn around to know that every single person in attendance had heard.

He did his best to hide the quaking in his limbs. He couldn’t lose his composure, even now. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice escaping as nothing but a whisper.

The woman scowled at him, her expression one of pure poison. He could feel himself withering beneath it, despite all his efforts to keep calm.

“You would not remember me, for the faces you entertain here are simply passing flights of fancy to you. I was your guest, Penn. And I saw past your charm. You use people for your own gain, grasping onto what little power you have like a pathetic child, desperate to rise above your place in the world.”

She pointed an accusing finger towards him. “You have a vile, black heart, so cruel that you would send a woman away to her death when she asks for but a little kindness.”

“Hey!” Sam spoke up, a little timidly beside Christopher. “You can’t talk about him like-”

“SILENCE.” A loud strike of thunder shook the entire house, rattling the foundation and carrying the woman’s voice to the ears of every patron once again. A blistering wind tore through the open door, making the curtains tremble in its wake.

Christopher thought that something seemed familiar about the woman—he felt as though he could recall a conversation with her, and she surely must have been at one of his parties. He searched for a name desperately, frantically wracking his brain for this woman’s identity.

“...Sybil?” he croaked, every ounce of confidence having long since left his body. His knees began to tremble, and he worried that they would soon give out completely. “Y-you may come in, I am so very sorry to have offended-”

“You have already failed, Penn. Now you repent, for you see my true form, and the power I wield.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your fate has already been sealed.”

The world was swallowed in darkness within only the span of a moment, and the screams of Christopher’s guests and Sam became drowned out by an all-encompassing blackness that surrounded him, choking the air from his lungs, squeezing his ribcage until he thought he would burst from the pressure. He could not speak, he could not move, he could not see. If not for the excruciating pain shooting through every fiber of his being, he would have thought he was dead.

“You will no longer hide behind your tawdry facade. A monster within, so a monster you shall become.”

Sybil’s voice came from all around him, like a harsh winter wind that froze the blood in his veins as it passed over him. Her words had weight to them, laden with something powerful, and far beyond this world’s understanding.

His body was changing, but in what manner, he had no way to tell. All he could feel was pain—pain and a clawing hunger, like an animal inside of his stomach ripping and tearing at the flesh within, desperate to break out. His head throbbed as sounds swirled in his mind, indistinguishable from each other as they rose into a crescendo of noise, and the silence turned to a deafening cacophony. Voices, screams, shouting, but no words he could make out. He thought that he could hear Sam, amidst all the chaos, but he couldn’t be sure.

And then, before the darkness of his vision cleared to reveal the full extent of the horror that awaited him, he was assaulted by the wave of a strong smell he couldn’t place, a scent that filled his lungs and made the desperate animal within his gut writhe and twist in agony. It was like the scent of the finest wine, the most tantalizing food in existence, in such a great amount that it was overwhelming—even though, in those few moments of blissful ignorance, he had no idea what it was that delighted his senses so, that made the pain almost forgotten, that made every bone of his ache with an almost feral hunger.

His eyes opened with frantic urgency, and the scene before him unfolded slowly into a horrifyingly clear depiction of the gruesome fate that had been thrust upon him. He could barely see the faces of the ones he’d invited here, but their frightened screams spoke loudly enough. No words came to his own mouth—he was frozen in horror, like an insect trapped in amber as the weight of what happened sunk in, pressing down upon him like a suffocating, terrible gravity.

Despite his transformation, Sybil’s words rang as clear in his head as they had before.

“Ten years, Penn. Ten years to prove yourself, or this form will be your prison.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Next Chapter ->

Thanks for reading! I hope to update this story semi-consistently, because boy do I have some things planned down the road. So stay tuned!

#cursed cravings #itwom #g/t writing #g/t stories #g/t angst #vore stories #vore writing #g/t vore #gt vore #safe vore #soft vore #sfw vore #toast arts #beauty and the beast au #please click for the full quality of the image LOL #tumblr killed all the pixels and I'm very proud of those pixels :(

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myloveismineallmine · 9 months

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Sydcarmy & Beauty and The Beast

So, The Bear is a story with many themes and messages in it. The process of creating a story a lot times is just frankenstein-ing other stories and elements you like plus your owned lived experience.

I don't really remember how I started thinking about it, I do remember it was like 3am so that definitely has something to do with it, but I started thinking about Beauty and The Beast. And then I started comparing certain elements of it with The Bear. And then I started reading the Wikipedia page for Beauty and The Beast. And then I looked at the clock and it was like 4am so I was like okay, I should sleep now actually.

I did notice a lot of interesting similarities between the two, so I wanted to compare some of them in this post here. I think it's a really interesting lens to look at the story of The Bear from.

Chapter 1: The Beast

So, while it would be cool to do some kind of role reversal with the two romantic leads, this story does not do that, and the obvious parallel for Carmy is The Beast.

Rundown of The Beast's character traits, via wikipedia:

"In the original tale, the Beast is seen to be kind-hearted for the most part, and gentleman-like, with only an occasional tendency to be hot-tempered. Disney's interpretation of the Beast made him more constantly angry and depressed, due to the shame from his unkind actions which led to his transformation, and particularly his struggle of reconciling his hideous appearance with his inner humanity which made him feel hopeless about breaking the curse. Supervising animator Glen Keane describes The Beast as "a twenty-one-year-old guy who's insecure, wants to be loved, wants to love, but has this ugly exterior and has to overcome this." Upon his reform under his love interest Belle, his personality changes to refined and more even-tempered, while naive about the world at the same time."

Obviously this isn't to shame JAW's appearance, he's a pretty attractive dude, I'm looking more at the personality traits here.

The Disney version of him is way more unhinged and animal-like, which I'm not sure perfectly fits Carmy, but I feel like the insecurity, anger and depression is pretty accurate.

I don't think the "beast" element is entirely irrelevant, however. Let's think about what the namesake of the show is: The Bear. In reference, or course, to the main family having the last name Berzatto. They do also refer to each other as "Bear."

It's Cousin Michelle who makes the connection between the Berzattos and literal bears:

When she mentions this quote someone had said to her.

Stevie likens the Berzattos to bears later on in this episode:

It's pretty clear that the Berzattos = bears. Aggressive, but also kind and emphatic.

I also want to talk about the very first scene of The Bear:

Carmy is letting the bear out of it's cage, walking slowly towards it. He says "I know" to the bear, trying to calm it, or maybe trying to empathize with it. The bear growls and attacks him, and he wakes up from the nightmare.

It's clear that the caged bear represents something in Carmy. His rage, his stress, his grief. And he can't control it, it escapes and it consumes him.

Backstory of The Beast, extremely paraphrased:

Disney version: A prince is spoiled, cold-hearted and extremely selfish. He's transformed into a hideous beast as punishment, and told he won't transform back unless he earns the love a beautiful young woman.

Fairytale version: The prince's father died before he was born, and his bio mother leaves him in the care of an evil fairy godmother. Things get weird and incesty, this was the 1700s ig, the godmother tries to seduce the prince when he's an adult. He rejects her and she curses him to become a beast and says the curse won't be broken until he receives a maiden's act of true love. There's then a lot of really irrelevant fairy-lore and other stuff that I don't really want or need to get into.

I feel like evil mother figure one might be more accurate? Especially because Donna's one of the people who gave him so much trauma that he still carries with him? Generational trauma and addiction is "a curse" in a way.

Chapter 2: The Beauty

So it's very clearly Sydney.

Beauty in the OG fairytale doesn't have a super interesting personality outside of "pretty, caring and kind." so I think we'll look more at the Disney version here:

"While the studio wanted Beauty and the Beast to resemble an old-fashioned film, the writers envisioned Belle as "a woman that was ahead of her time"."

"... the screenwriter conceived Belle as a headstrong feminist to avoid creating another "insipid" Disney princess."

"Beauty and the Beast's story department was predominantly male. Woolverton often argued with the more traditional story artists over Belle's role and personality, but continued to be supported by Katzenberg and lyricist Howard Ashman, the latter of whom also lobbied for "a thinker and a reader" who "wasn't a victim"."

So, Belle was basically a strong and independent woman for Disney at the time. I wanna hone in more on these character traits they mention specifically.

Sydney is very intelligent, even an overthinker at times. She literally shows up to, like, week 2 of work with a full book written on how the business can be improved.

We know she's a reader. Not only from the coach K book, she also mentions lending Marcus books at some point.

I also think Sydney fits the "not a victim" criteria. Sydney is shown pretty consistently to stand up for herself and fight back in situations.

On Beauty's backstory:

In every version of The Beauty and The Beast, Beauty's a daughter to a widower (much like Sydney is.) Beauty has many siblings, most notably her evil older sisters. They are omitted from the Disney version, and Belle is an only child.

In the Disney version, Belle is well known for her beauty, but looked down upon for not conforming to more traditional feminine roles.

Being a headstrong woman of color in the very white and male dominated world of fine dining, I can see how she fits this.

Her father has doubts about her career as a chef, she has had bad experience with chefs in leadership positions before, and the crew of The Beef really looks down on her at the beginning of the series.

Chapter 3: Beauty and The Beast

So now let's talk about the actual relationship of the Beauty and The Beast.

Belle/Beauty is lured into The Beast's castle because her father is being held captive inside. And interestingly....

Sydney references her father as the reason for why she applies for The Beef.

In the fairytale, The Beast is immediately smitten with Beauty and asks her to marry him every day. That would be a very obvious HR violation in The Bear, so I think it might be better to look at the Disney version of this story.

So in the Disney version, The Beast is more annoyed that Belle and her father showed up at all, but he does know she's a pretty woman and allows the release of her father so she will be his prisoner instead.

Their relationship is pretty bad at first, like you'd expect a captor and prisoner relationship to be, but he does allow her a nice lavish room. He orders her to have dinner with him, and she refuses to leave her room to protest against him.

Carmy and Sydney were friendly at first meeting, but after The Stock Incident, their cracks really start to show. It's when Sydney really stands her ground and argues back at him. This is not the end of the arguments and tension between them.

Belle and the Beast end up getting in a fight when Belle snoops around his room. He yells at her more loudly this time, and Belle flees the castle on horseback. She gets attacked by a pack of wolves and The Beast saves her. She takes him back to the castle and nurses his wounds.

This to me matches with the final fight Sydney and Carmy have in season 1. Carmy displays the worst of his anger, and it causes Sydney to want to wipe her hands with him completely. She grabs her stuff and leaves, telling him she's quitting.

She comes back when he apologizes to her, and they have a real bonding moment when they decide to open a restaurant together.

The Beast and Belle start to have a better relationship after The Beast heals. They become more friendly, The Beast more docile, and they're both really happy for the first time in the film. There's a scene where The Beast shows Belle the castle library and tells her it's hers.

I think the equivalent would be seeing Carmy and Sydney plan the menu together. In those scenes they seem less like co-workers and more like friends. You can also tell it's one of the few things they get actual real enjoyment doing.

I think the main parallel I see for this relationship is how Carmy and Sydney improve each other. Like with Belle and The Beast, you can actually see Carmy learn how to better handle conflict and communicate more efficiently when he's placed with Sydney.

He's more vulnerable. He apologizes more. He's able to better control his temper.

There's two very concrete examples of Sydney being able to help stabilize his emotions, actually.

Sydney is quite literally "taming the beast" in Carmy. Cognitive behavioral therapy would also achieve that, but Carmy is too much of a workaholic to attend a session, so Sydney will have to do for now. They didn't have CBT in 1700s France, either, unfortunately.

I will also say that this isn't a 90 minute Disney movie, so the slow-burn will be slow-buring for awhile until we get to the actual conclusion of the fairytale.

Chapter 4: Gaston

so I have two characters in mind for this role: Richie and Marcus. But def more heavy on Richie than Marcus.

Gaston is a villain made exclusively for the Disney movie. Here's some description for him:

"In direct contrast to his adversary the Beast, Gaston is depicted as physically handsome with an unattractive personality, both physically and emotionally embodying hypermasculinity. "

"Gaston has been generally positively received by film critics, as his lack of "magic power or political influence" means that his villainy tends to resonate with audiences who often identify someone similar to him in real life, although critics regard him as a less memorable villain than some of the studio's previous efforts."

"The Huffington Post described early drafts of Gaston as "a weaselly, sort of wimpy character." In fact, Gaston was originally intended to resemble more of an annoying than antagonistic character,"

So I think Richie kind of fits the "hypermasculinity" thing, in terms of some of his mindset and sexist behaviors.

Richie, for at least the first season, really looks down on fine dining as a concept. He makes fun of Carmy and Syd for their background in it and makes snide comments about it whenever possible.

Gaston also looks down on Belle for liking books, and encourages her to live a more "simple" life with him instead.

Here's a really interesting parallel I found with these two:

Making fun of the main character's book and then throwing it away? In the intro of the story? Very interesting.....

As far as the similarity with Marcus: it begins and ends with Marcus and Gaston both having unrequited feelings for the main female protagonist.

Other than that, Richie is way more Gaston coded in the grand scheme of things. Just not as evil. I feel like he gives first-draft Gaston with being "More annoying than antagonistic."

Chapter 5: What about Claire?

I see Claire fitting into this as almost like a faux-Belle. The love interest that's supposed to "fix" the main protagonist, but something doesn't work.

Again, there's two scenes I wanna look at specifically to showcase this:

This reaction shot of Carmy. This is the last shot of the sex scene, and there are some other previous shots of the sex scene overlaying this at times. But I've been wanting to do a deep dive into it for awhile-- why have this shot? What's the purpose of it?

I think that this shot clearly tells us that Carmy is either pensive and/or dissatisfied with what has happened. Laying with his eyes open and just staring at the wall, deep in thought, possibly regretful. This isn't the expression a man who's just had sex with a pretty woman usually has. This is one of many clues that this relationship isn't something that he really wants or enjoys.

Aaaand, the panic attack scene again. If Claire was his "true love", she would be able to quell his anxiety and panic, if this whole "beauty and the beast" story arc I'm putting together is to be believed.

Claire is the perfect girl. She's pretty, smart, talented. His family loves her. She loves him. But she does nothing to fix his problems. Because it's not true love.

Carmy not being happy at the thought of Claire vs Carmy cracking a smile because he looks at containers of radichio + fennel, ingredients Sydney cooked him once.

It is ABUNDANTLY clear that his feelings for Syd help his mental state in ways his feelings for Claire do not. Because what he feels for Sydney is closer to true love.

Conclusion:

Am I saying Christopher Storer took the plot beats and characters 1 for 1 from Beauty and The Beast? No, obviously not. Am I saying that maybe he sat down one day and this movie was on and he was like "hey maybe i can do something with this"? Possibly!

This is just speculation at the end of the day, but I really loved looking at all the possible connections between these two things. Tell me your thoughts on all of this: cool interpretation or am I just talking out of my ass?

#thank u for reading all of this if u did because holy shit #this is a long one #the bear meta #sydcarmy #anti claire bear

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sematarygirls · 2 years

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Living Dead Girl — Patrick Hockstetter.

part two

pairing : patrick hockstetter x ghost!reader (descriptors such as beautiful and nicknames such as dollface, darling, ect, but no described features— ie. long hair, brown eyes)

summary : patrick gave into his urges and finally tested his morbid curiosities on prey much larger than just a cat or dog. little did he know his actions would come back to haunt him... literally.

warnings : patrick being a psychopath , animal abuse , graphic depictions of murder/gore , you being murdered (in third person) 🤗 , self image issues

word count : 5.5k (part one)

a/n : i don't know how accurate this is to patrick, but i tried to make him lack empathy and remorse and he can't exactly feel love— just obsession and fascination. also, i hc patrick as a lefty so do with that what you will.

Patrick had once again been feeling that familiar itch. It started subtlety this time, like a tickle from a weightless feather that blew lightly across his skin every so often, and it began to gradually grow.

He tried his best to satiate the hunger of the beast within, to scratch that itch in the same way he had so many times before— by killing the neighborhood pets.

But, it appeared this craving was a different kind altogether, for when he lit his lighter, allowing the aerosol to spray through the flame and fry the kitten until it was unrecognizable and it's shrill screams had died out, he felt nothing. There was no sense of relief, no satisfaction or even the small semblance of happiness— because Patrick truly couldn't feel such uplifting emotions.

There was just nothing.

Well, there was still that nagging itch.

It took some contemplation. Long nights staring up at the empty ceiling of his room, his right arm propped under his head while his left laid passively across his torso. How could he rid himself of this feeling?

He pondered that perhaps burning just didn't do it for him anymore. To test his theory, he tried many other options— drowning, suffocation, mutilation— he even, regrettably, attempted tasting the vile little creatures.

So, definitely not the method of torture because he was sure that if he hadn't even feeling so empty, those, with the exception of the last one, would have been a world of fun for him. Well then, maybe it was the animal!

Squirrels, cats, dogs, raccoons, lizards, frogs, birds— anything he could get his hands on became helpless victims in Patrick's reign of terror, but none of it helped.

That feeling began to grow until it took up every inch of his body. All he could think about was the kill. Even when he and his friends were torturing their pre-pubescent victims, images of blood and agonizing screams plagued his mind.

And that's when it hit him— he needed a human victim. One that brought real stakes to the equation, one that would get his adrenaline rushing at the idea of being caught.

Initially, it had been an idea. He hadn't planned to act on it... but then you came along, and god, you were just so perfect.

You ran into him, through no fault of your own. He had been walking down the wrong side of the hallway, and you were just coming around a corner, so he was in your blind spot.

"Oh, god. I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz," you chuckled lightly after you collided into his hard chest. You looked up at him with wide, apologetic eyes.

As he stared down at you, he just knew that you were the one. You were so perfect. So beautiful. And it made him furious. He couldn't quite discern why, but the way your eyes sparkled with genuity and naivety caused a pit of red hot rage to build in his stomach.

But he couldn't act yet. He had to gain your trust. He had to ensure that he could get you into the woods by yourself so he could enact his plan and finally scratch that fucking itch.

"My fault, dollface," he spoke with a wide smile, attempting to be somewhat gentlemanly. "I wasn't paying attention." He gently clenched and released his fist as he watched you smile brightly. "I'm Patrick, Hockstetter," he introduced, leaning forward to tower over you in an attempt to be intimidating but in a way that could also come off as flirtatious.

"Ah, yes, the infamous Patrick Hockstetter, I presume?" You asked, your eyebrow arching slightly. There it was again. That anger. It had to have been your subtle cockiness, the way you weren't the least bit fearful of him even though his reputation clearly proceeded him.

"The very same," he smirked, leaning close to your ear. His breath lightly fanned the shell of your ear. "Why? Does my reputation scare you? Do I scare you?"

You let out a light chuckle. "No." It was a simple answer, and yet Patrick still found himself having to cling to that feeling on his skin, the one he desperately wanted to be rid of, to ensure that he didn't snap right at that second.

For some bizarre reason, in your presence, Patrick felt utterly powerless, which was a very foreign feeling to him. He had always been calm and calculated, except for when he was alone with his projects, so to be so out of control of his emotions just added to his resentment toward you.

"You should be," he replied ominously before turning and walking away from you in long, precise strides. He let his smirk fall and his lip curl up in disgust as he felt your eyes on his back the whole way down the hallway.

It had been such a simple interaction, and yet it had left you completely and utterly captivated. You should have been afraid of him. You'd known of his tendency for him and his friends to terrorize younger kids, and of course, you had heard the whispers of what he did when he thought no one was around, but those were just rumors... right?

Either way, you were intrigued by Patrick and wanted to see him again.

The next time you two had met, you were walking home. You lived above your parent's old record store in the town square, which was extremely convenient for you because it meant all the stores, the arcade, and school were just a short walk away. The record shop had been your grandfather's before it became your mother's, and soon it would be yours.

You were coming up on the arcade, and as you approached, you hesitated. Should you go inside? Your parents were expecting you home, but it was Friday, so they'd be okay with you going out for a bit, right?

As you contemplated, a blue Trans Am pulled up next to you, and a voice called out to you. "Y/N!"

Your eyebrows furrowed as your mind registered the familiarity of the voice. It sounded like Patrick, but it couldn't be because you had never told him your name. You turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise as your gaze met Patrick, who was hanging with half his body out the window of the car. In the passenger's seat, Henry was staring forward, a bored and slightly irritated look on his face.

"Hockstetter?" You asked with a grin. "I don't remember telling you my name."

"You didn't," he replied, sending a grin of his own your way.

"Did you ask around about me?" You teased, your eyebrows raising slightly as you gave him a playful look.

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Still not scared of me?" He asked, placing the palms of his hands on the door to push his upper half out the window toward you.

"Hmm," you looked up and to the side, pretending to think for a moment. "Nah," you shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Well, in that case," he drawled out. "You wanna go out with me tomorrow night?"

"You bringing your posse?" You asked, nodding your head to the three other teens in the car that had undoubtedly been listening in on your conversation.

"Why? Do you want them to come?" He asked suggestively. "I mean, I didn't know you were into that, but if you insi-"

"Stop! Stop!" You laughed, clamping your hand over his mouth. He looked you dead in the eye, and for a moment, you were so hypnotized by his eyes that you didn't realize the wet sensation of his tongue flicking across your palm. "Ugh!" You shrieked in disgust with a small laugh. "Gross."

"So?" He asked, his eyebrows raising. "Whatdya say?" He grinned his Cheshire cat grin, and you couldn't help but relent.

"Okay," you said softly with a little nod. "Yeah, I'll go out with you."

"Great," he smirked, doing a little drum solo on the door in, what appeared to be excitement. "I'll pick you up at 8." You nodded, not able to contain your huge smile as he tried to awkwardly pull himself back into the car. "Oh," he said, sticking his head out the window a bit. "And wear white." Before you could question him, he sent you a wink, and then, the car was off speeding down the street.

You began to absent-mindedly walk the rest of the way home, all plans of going to the arcade having fled your mind, replaced with the thought of going on a date with Patrick. Your first date!

You really didn't know what he saw in you. He was so charming and handsome, and you were just... you. You weren't exceptionally attractive like Shelly Benson and Daniel Klein or outrageously popular like Greta Bowie and Jackson Pines. You were smart in subjects you enjoyed and not as smart in one's you weren't, and you had average social skills but never really made friends, just acquaintances.

You were just normal.

And so you stood, staring at yourself in the mirror as you examined every inch of your outfit, desperately trying to look less like yourself. You sighed in frustration, running a hand through your hair with a huff as you turned around, refusing to look at yourself any longer.

Your room was your safe space. The walls were covered in posters of your favorite bands, celebrities, and movies. You wondered what it felt like to be so effortlessly flawless as you stared around at all the beautiful people littering your walls.

Aside from the posters, your room was quite cohesive. You had chosen an excellent set of neutrals to pair with your accent color (which was your favorite color, of course), and it created a very attractive and appealing color pallet.

The sound of a knock on the apartment door made you snap out of your admiration of your room. Leave it to you to critique your artistic excellence when you're on a time crunch.

You took one last look in the mirror before taking a breath and exiting your room. You proceeded down the hall and through the living room. With one last mental reassurance, you turned the knob and opened the door.

Patrick had been practicing and planning his moves precisely. He had to shower you with compliments and be completely polite. It would let your guard down, and that's when he could strike.

The door opened, and Patrick's gaze fell on you. Even he had to admit, you were undoubtedly attractive, but it wasn't companionship he was after. It was relief.

So, putting on his best show, he opened his mouth as if he was going to speak before closing it and giving you a once over, trying his best to seem in awe of you.

"Wow," he breathed with an awkward chuckle. "You look," he let out a puff of air, motioning to you as if he couldn't find the words. "I mean- you look perfect."

He watched in satisfaction as you smiled sheepishly, gaze averting to the ground. "Thank you," you replied. You looked back up and playfully said: "And you don't look too bad yourself," in an attempt to play it cool, but Patrick could see right through you. You were falling for his charm, and how could you not?

He was a God, after all.

"So," you asked, stepping out of your apartment and shutting the door behind you. "Where are we going this fine evening?"

"Well," Patrick started, placing his hand flat on your lower back as you two walked down to the record shop on the first floor. "I know this perfect spot in the woods away from town-" You gave him a concerned look, and he chuckled lightly at your fear. "I know how it sounds, but there's a firepit me and the boys set up out there, and it has a great view of the stars because there's no light pollution out there."

You bit the inside of your cheek, and Patrick felt his pulse begin to quicken. It seemed like you were going to back out. Should he have told you? Or just let you panic when they got there?

"Okay," you nodded, turning to him with a smile as you made up your mind. "I don't love the idea of a first date in the woods, but I'm like 99% sure you're not an axe murderer or anything, so," you trailed off.

Patrick gave you a wolfish grin. Oh, if only you knew that he was a predator and you were his prey— so innocent and oblivious to the things that the night had in store for you.

The two of you walked out of the store, and Patrick read the shocked look on your face as you saw Belch's Trans Am, which was then followed by discomfort and then relief when you noticed his friends hadn't accompanied him.

"Took some convincing, but I got Belch to let me borrow Amy," Patrick said proudly as he took one long stride forward and opened the car door for you.

"He named his car?" You asked with a little giggle as you climbed into the passenger's seat. "That's cute."

"Yup, although cute isn't the word I'd use," Patrick replied before shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side.

"And what word would you use?" You asked, amusement coating your tongue and dancing in your eyes.

"Demented," he said, giving you a look as he started the car. It was ironic coming from him, and he knew it. If anyone was demented, it was the pyromaniac freak who killed animals and was tricking a girl into thinking he liked her when really he was taking her to the woods to kill her.

"That's interesting coming from someone with such a," you paused, for a moment, thinking for the right word. "Colorful reputation."

"Touché," he shrugged, pulling out of the spot he was parked in and continuing down the road to the woods. The car settled in an awkward silence as neither of you really knew what to say. Patrick knew he should ask you questions and engage with you, but to be honest, he didn't really care about what you had to say.

"Let's see what Belch has in his glove compartment," you said with a grin. Patrick's blood began to boil again. Not because you were invading Belch's privacy— he quite liked that part, actually. No one was ever allowed to look in the glove compartment. In fact, he had specifically told Patrick not to and that he would know if he did, and now Patrick could satisfy his curiosity while blaming it on his date.

No, his blood was boiling because of how casual you were. Most people would ask a stupid question to fill the silence or just sit in it, but you found a way to light heartedly and nonchalantly attempt to start a conversation. It was Infuriating to him how different you were.

Patrick considered himself an expert on human behavior. After all, it was his world, and everyone else were pawns, so growing up, he had to learn about people. He had to pick up on their little habits and understand why people did certain things so he could manipulate them and use them as playthings.

But you were different, and that's what infuriated him so much. You were still plenty easy to manipulate, but you had little quirks and ways of doing things that he'd picked up on that went against his understanding of the human condition.

You were defective, and that's why he had to get rid of you. You weren't normal. You weren't a plaything or a pawn.

You were a threat.

Patrick glanced over at you, watching for a moment as you rummaged through the glove compartment.

"Eyes on the road, pretty boy," you said absent-mindedly. "I don't plan to die tonight, and especially not at the hands of you." This made him internally smile. That was the second reference you'd made tonight of him hurting you and each time you had been wrong. You were going to die tonight— a very painful death— and the blood would be on his hands.

"He has got a lot of tapes in here," you observed aloud, pushing things around a bit more before a gasp left your lips. Patrick looked over again as you pulled out a pink piece of paper with a red lipstick stain in the shape of lips and a message in a hot pink sparkly pen that read: I really enjoyed tonight. We should do it again sometime =).

"No fucking way," Patrick said in shock, a laugh leaving his lips as he registered what he was seeing. "I can't believe that fat fuck actually gets bitches."

"Hey," you scolded, smacking him lightly on the arm. "Don't be mean," you defended. "I think it's really sweet, and clearly, he knew you'd be an ass about it," you rolled your eyes. "He really tried to hide it in there."

Patrick turned the car into a little dirt road and parked. He knew no one would be out there that late, so the car wouldn't be seen. "Here we are," he announced before climbing out and making his way to the passenger's side to open your door.

"Don't take this the wrong way," you started as you got out of the car. "But I did not expect you to be such a gentleman." Your eyes followed Patrick as he grabbed a blanket out of the backseat and tucked it underneath his right arm before approaching you.

"Well," he said, linking your arm in his left one. "I don't usually care what people think," he confessed, one of the few true things he'd actually said to you, but of course, he was about to follow it up with a lie. "But with you, it's different." He looked over at you, only to find you staring. If he wasn't making an attempt at faking vulnerability right now, he would have smirked at how enamored you were by his words.

"And why is that?" You asked quietly, hypnotized by the way the darkness created shadows on his face that seemed to define it so well. Almost as if the darkness suited him better, which was odd considering usually the light was more well-defining to people.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met, and I don't want to scare you away," he professed, his voice seeming genuinely sincere, but obviously, that wasn't the case.

"That's quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me," you said sheepishly, a soft smile falling upon your lips. You both walked in silence for a moment, the cruching of leaves and the chirping of crickets ringing through the vast area. "Wow," you breathed out, eyes glued to the sky. "You were right. The stars look amazing out here."

"Told you," Patrick grinned before unlocking your arms and advancing forward. You two had reached a clearing, and he was approaching the firepit in the middle. Surrounding the firepit, which was clearly homemade as the stones surrounding it were just stacked on top of each other haphazardly, were various random chairs and a long bench that looked surprisingly comfortable.

"This place looks cozy," you said, eyes sweeping over the area. A chill ran down your spine as a breeze blew through the clearing. The air seemed to grow thick, and something in your gut told you to run— leave now and never look back.

You would soon wish you listened to that feeling.

Instead, you walked forward, taking a seat on the bench as Patrick doused the wood inside the firepit with lighter fluid before grabbing a lighter from his pocket and setting it ablaze.

A wave of warmth fell over you as the clearing lit up gold. Patrick straightened up and came to sit beside you on the bench. You were so focused on examining your surroundings that you didn't notice Patrick carefully grab the knife that he'd hidden inside the folded blanket and tuck it under his leg before unfolding the blanket and placing it across you both.

"So," you grinned, finally looking over at him. "Do you bring all your conquests here?"

"Just the hot ones," he smirked. You rolled your eyes, laughing at his remark. "No, but seriously," he let his smirk fall into a soft smile. "You're the only one."

You looked into his eyes and couldn't sense any deception. God, those beautiful eyes. You didn't didn't think they were capable of telling a lie.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but Patrick didn't have a soul, so his eyes were more like mirrors, reflections of what he knew people wanted to see when they sought out answers to questions that were better left unsaid.

You stared at each other, the air growing thick with tension as the urge to kiss him overwhelmed you. Your faces slowly inched closer together. "Patrick," you whispered, a wanting evident in your voice.

He reached up to cup your face with his right hand as his left carefully, discretely retrieved the knife from under his leg. He moved his face in, and you were sure he was going to kiss you.

But instead, he moved to the right, his mouth next to your ear as he plunged the knife he had deep into your stomach. You let out a choked cry of surprise and pain as your mind raced with a million thoughts at once, all of them so loud that you couldn't think rationally at all.

"Aw, Y/N," Patrick said darkly, feigning disappointment as he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "I told you that you should've been afraid of me."

He pulled away, twisting the knife to create irreparable damage before pulling it out. He watched as you cried out in pain, hand clutching your stomach in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

"But you were too pathetic," he spat. He ran the bloodied knife across your cheek, slicing it open before pushing a strand of hair away from your face. "Just a desperate little whore."

"Why?" You sobbed, tears streaming down your face from the burning pain. Blood began pouring out of your mouth due to the damage to your internal organs, and you knew you were going to die.

"Because I wanted to," he replied with a crazed grin, his tone of voice indicating that he believed it was the most obvious thing in the world. You had never been more fearful than you were now. Not just because you were dying, bleeding out in front of a boy you thought liked you, but because of the look in Patrick's eyes.

They were devoid of any emotion, as if killing someone didn't matter to him at all. You would have even preferred for him to look like he enjoyed it; that's how disturbing his absence of emotion was to you.

Patrick sat there and watched as you bled out before him. The glossed over, far away look in your eyes made his whole body ignite. It just felt so good.

Finally, the itching was gone, and he could live in peace for a little while more. He sat on the bench beside your lifeless body for awhile more, relishing in the feeling of freedom; it had been so long since he had felt that. When he was fully satisfied, he began cleaning up. He threw the blanket in the still burning fire before running back to Belch's car to grab the shovel he'd brought.

Sweat clung to him, sticking his shirt to his chest as he dug the hole where your body would lie. It seemed to take hours, and the feeling of sweating but also being cold was very unpleasant, but finally, he got the hole dug.

He threw the bloody knife inside and grabbed your body, picking you up bridal style and hauling you over to the hole. He dropped your corpse carelessly into your makeshift grave and didn't give you a second thought before he began shoveling the dirt back into the hole.

When he was finished, he walked back to the Trans Am, wrapping the dirty shovel in the other blanket he had brought so no dirt would get into the trunk of Belch's car. And, no one would question dirt in the driver's seat of a teen boy's car, so he wasn't overly worried about his dirtied hands and jeans.

For weeks, Patrick felt amazing. It was the longest Patrick had ever gone without feeling the compulsion to kill. Of course, he still tortured small animals, but that was for fun rather than necessity.

But then he started to see you.

At first, it was just glimpses. Like, when he was brushing his teeth, he'd lean down to spit out his toothpaste, but when he straightened himself out, there you were— standing beside him, blood staining your clothes and the cut on your cheek that he had gave you still fresh. But then, once he blinked, your figure was gone.

He would see you around like that sometimes, not frequent enough to cause concern that he was gaining a conscience. Just enough for him to think he was suffering from a bit of sleep deprivation.

He wasn't worried about being caught. The police hadn't found your body, and when he was questioned as to what happened that night on your date, he said that the two of you had planned to go out to the woods, but on the way there, you two got into an argument because you had been snooping through Belch's things and you got so furious that you demanded to be let out of the car right then and there. Belch, of course, backed this story up because he could tell someone had disturbed his glove compartment.

Soon enough, however, you began to haunt his dreams as well. He would have terrible nightmares of you coming back from the dead and murdering him in cold blood, just as he had done to you, and then, when he awoke, you were standing in the corner of his room.

It wasn't just his brain making shapes out of things to scare him. It was you. He could see clear as day; the moonlight illuminated your face, your once innocent and naive eyes now staring at him with hate and malice.

Patrick Hockstetter didn't believe in ghosts, but he believed in you.

"Dude, what's your fuckin deal?" Henry asked, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts. Patrick looked over at Henry from his spot, splayed out on the hood of Belch's car, which he had objected to until Patrick threatened him. The four boys were hanging around at the quarry, drinking beer as music blasted through Amy.

"What?" Patrick questioned, hostility lacing his voice. Who did Henry think he is speaking to him like that?

"You're not even listening, man," Henry complained, attempting to throw a crumpled up beer can at him but missing.

"Maybe because you fuckers don't have anything interesting to say," Patrick shrugged, looking to his left at the water and tuning their conversation out again.

You had been on his mind non-stop. All he could think about was your eyes. They were so real. That look of hate— he had seen it before in his mother and father after he killed his little brother Avery. He couldn't have imagined that so vividly.

"Do I scare you?" A familiar voice asked, voice a mere whisper as a breeze tickled his ear. He quickly turned and saw you. You were sitting right next to him on the hood of Belch's car, and this time, he was sure he wasn't imagining it. You were there in broad daylight. He had heard you. He had felt your breath across his ear.

But how was this even possible.

"What the fuck!" He shouted, genuine fear in his voice. He felt something he had never felt before as he tried to shuffle away from you, but there was nowhere left to go, so he ended up falling off the car and onto the ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Victor asked, his eyebrows furrowing in pure confusion as he registered the panic and fear— he had never seen Patrick exhibit such emotions, and he could tell by the look in Patrick's eye that they were not fake.

Patrick couldn't hear Vic over the sound of your laugh. It was so loud, deafening even, and it made his ears ring. You hopped off the car and walked toward him slowly with a sickening grin.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He asked, scrambling backward, pebbles and rocks digging into his palms as he tried to escape you.

"Because," she stepped forward, leaning down and grabbing his faded yellow Tom and Jerry t-shirt by the collar. He felt her grab him. It was all real. "I can," she spat viciously. And just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

"Are you alright, man?" Belch asked, genuine concern lacing his voice as his brows knitted together. Why had his friend been acting so strange?

"I-I need to get out of here," Patrick spoke quickly as he rushed to his feet, dusting off his clothes and looking around frantically.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Henry cackled, taking a long sip of his beer. Patrick gave him a hard, warning glare that confused Henry. What did he do?

Patrick took off running into the forest, driven by a pure, unbridled fear as he tried to escape you, but the faster he ran, the louder your laugh became. It echoed all around him. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. He clamped his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

And then, just like that, it stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and removed his hands from his ears, peering around the woods. He heaved a sigh of relief as he realized it was over.

It wasn't real.

You weren't real.

He took his time walking back home, stopping and tormenting a few animals on his way to relieve some of the stress that had built up from the games his mind had played on him.

By the time he arrived home, the sun had long disappeared below the horizon, replaced by the luminous glow of the full moon. He pushed the front door open, kicking his muddy boots off by the front door before shrugging his leather jacket off and tossing it onto the floor.

"Ma!" He called into the oddly silent house. He advanced forward, his eyebrow arching as he didn't get a response. "Ma, I'm home!" He tried again, still no answer. He continued through the house into the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat.

As his eyes scanned the kitchen, a tiny post-it note stuck to the fridge caught his attention. He took two long strides and ended up in front of it. Grabbing it off the fridge, his eyes scanned it.

Gone to see your father. Be back in a few days. I left some lasagna in the fridge for you to heat up and some money on the table for pizza or something in case you eat all of it.

Love, Mom

Patrick scoffed, crumpling the post-it into a ball and tossing it into the trash. Patrick's father was arrested for attempted murder when Patrick was young.

After Patrick killed his brother Avery, his father went mad and tried to kill Patrick. He claimed that Patrick was evil, and the world needed to be rid of him. Fortunately for Patrick, his mother still loved him (he had no idea why she still did after what he had done), and she called the police.

The paramedics arrived in time, and Patrick was saved. Though the attack did leave a raised scar on his stomach that never went away.

Patrick pulled a plate out of the top cupboard and a fork out of the drawer before opening up the fridge. He grabbed a can of Coke and the large glass dish with lasagna out. Deciding he didn't feel like waiting for it to heat up, he just used his fork to pick the pre-portioned slice of lasagna out of the dish and drop it onto his plate before sliding the rest back into the fridge for later.

Grabbing his beverage and dinner, he began making his way up the creaky steps that led to the second floor.

The carpet that had previously adorned it had been ripped up when his mom was having one of her overly energized and productive moments, so staples and other sharp objects stuck up from the dirty wood. He was careful to avoid them.

He reached the door at the end of the hall with a yellow sign that read DO NOT ENTER and swung the door open.

"Finally," a voice sounded, causing him to drop both his can and his plate. The sharp sound of glass breaking followed by a loud thud echoed through the room as the plate and soda can collided with the floor.

"No, no, no," Patrick shook his head, shutting his eyes. "This isn't real. I killed you. You're not here. You're not real."

"Sorry, babe," the voice, your voice, whispered into his ear. Your warm breath fanned his ear, and he felt his whole body tense. "I'm very much real."

Tags : @fatfagsj @brokenloverr24

#patrick hockstetter x reader #patrick hockstetter #the bowers gang #it 2017 #patrick hocksetter x reader #patrick x reader #henry bowers #victor criss #reginald huggins #belch huggins #it x reader

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safarigirlsp · 6 months

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I was so excited to see the ask game going around. I hope it perks up around here again 💛

Do you any HCs to share for Flip, Kylo, Jacques, and Mills??

🍔

🍕

Hello!! Thank you for sending this in! Today feels like the good old days with this dumpster fire hopping and the bs flying! I love it!!

🍕What's your favorite comment you've received on a fic?

Omg @iamburdened absolutely kills me with her comments. I have re read them 100 times and I smile like a lunatic every time. She's so dark and hilarious and I love her!

Here is just one example of her awesomeness on my fic Sinners Welcome!

@vedavan leaves some of the most involved and thoughtful and incredible comments I've ever received and I am so beyond floored at the amount of thought she gives. I am so thankful for her encouragement and support!

This comment on Here There Be Monsters made me swoon

Ahhhh!! Your stories are always such a thrill, a joyride from beginning to end, and this one was no exception. I loved every word, and your gift for action scenes and gorgeous descriptions shone so brightly here. I loved all the side characters too: from the colorful ragtag assortment of pirates and whores, to Legris' trusted crew and of course the legendary Pierre; the elegantly villainous Talvington and the mysterious, bewitching Grey Lady. Even the ship herself, the Belle Dame, was a character in and of herself. And of course as always I appreciate Carroughes disgusting appearance and his inevitable demise. Your obvious love and passion for the subject matter and for the characters (no one writes a better, hotter, more delicious male MC than your Legris 🔥🔥🥵) made this such a joy to read, and I was almost sad when it ended. Action, romance, drama... your stories have it all and I'm completely addicted. Perfection! ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

@reveluving inspires me to write more insanity by her support and beautiful comments on my stories!

This is so hard actually, but I have to shout out to my favorite people here and the most supportive and amazing people I know who always spur me to keep churning out my bs and do more!

You, of course! @queeniebee and all the other friends I have here who instantly come to mind when I think of support and wonderful people! @babbushka @lumberjack00fantasies Silky!! @gabesprincess @mrs-gucci @rynwritesstuff @mythrielofsolitude @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @srorgana1 @kyloremus

🍔What's a headcanon that hasn't made it into a published fic yet?

Kylo knew you were the one when he found he could fight with you and argue without losing his temper. He has a famously hot temper. He's a notoriously violent man. But of course, he could never hurt his girl. That doesn't mean that he wouldn't lose his temper with her, or so he thought. He thought it would be a challenge, that he would feel his blood pressure rise and his teeth grind when you angered him, because naturally you're going to. It can be a little thrilling to push his buttons. But he never has lost his tempter with you, despite your best efforts. He gets hot and bothered in other ways, ways he channels to improve both your moods.

It's true what they say, that Beauty tamed the Beast.

No one can debate that Jacques has a winning personality. He's fun, lively, exudes charm and charisma, and has no hesitation putting on a grand show for his girl. However, like so many highly charismatic people, his charm was hard-earned and developed for survival. A self-made man, he had no name or fortune and had to claw his way up the food chain until he became a man of power. He remembers going dirty and hungry and cold, sleeping on the ground, awaking to a muscles that ached from cold and a growling stomach that couldn't be sated. Charisma was another skill he learned along the way to survive. Just as necessary to gain power and fortune as being able to fight, red in tooth and claw, was the ability to mingle, to befriend, to charm to amuse. He had to make himself useful in all ways to his betters until he outstripped them all.

With you, he finds that he doesn't need to act at all and that it's all natural and second nature. It makes him swell with pride when he puts a smile on your lips. He realized you were the one when he realized that making you happy made him happier, giving you pleasure made his heart soar. He will also ensure his girl, his family, will never know the feeling going hungry or cold, nor of being shunned and kicked aside. His table will always be bountiful and his arms always warm and loving for his woman. When he smiles for you, when he laughs and entertains, its genuine and it makes him love you more.

Flip was raised outdoors and helping on his family's ranch, breaking horses, branding calves, cutting timber, chopping ice, hauling hay. All the things his size and rambunctious temper were good for.

His upbringing made him a die hard western movie fan. Clint Eastwood is his favorite with John Wayne a close runner up and he's watched their entire filmography at least five times over with his dad. He's ensured his girl has seen all of his favorites and plenty of others too. True Grit, The Outlaw Josey Wales, El Dorado, Unforgiven, to name a few.

Westerns are his favorite movie genre. However, he is also quite a bit of an ornery jackass. As such, his favorite genre to watch with you is horror. He loves setting the stage, making sure the house is nice and dim, the temperature a little cool, a fire crackling in the fireplace. The ambience is perfect for a movie night in, and all strategically geared to make you want to get nice and close to him, against his chest and inside his arms. He will tease you mercilessly and goose you during the jumpy parts. Then he will laugh - bray- like the jackass he is. He deals with killers and criminals in real life. Horror movies don't phase him. Some big ungainly bastard with half his vision obscured by a mask, coming at him swinging a chainsaw that's telegraphed a mile away is hardly a challenge. Flip would have fun taking your average slasher out in spectacularly ballsy fashion. Flip loves horror movies and chill. He chills while you get chills.

Mills is tenacious and hard working in all ways. He will go the extra mile and work harder and longer than anyone. Complaints aren't part of his vocabulary and he never shies from any quantity of blood, sweat, and tears it takes to see anything through once he sets his mind to it. He's determined to the point of self destruction and will push himself far past the bounds of comfort and even good sense.

The area in which he's happy to put in the effort and diligence is for his girl. Once he sets his sights on her, nothing will deter him. He will tilt windmills and make every overture, simple and grand, to win her heart. As a lovesick teenager who didn't know a damn thing about girls, this took the shape of embarrassing acts like clumsily strumming a guitar and singing off key below his intended's window at odd hours of the night until angry fathers ran him off. He considered it a badge of honor when one particularly enraged father took a shot at his feet with a .12 gauge.

Thankfully, he has learned a thing or two and now applies his tenacious enthusiasm in better ways. He will cook for you and rub your shoulders until his hands ache. He will bring you flowers and take you out for a picnic that entails a ride in his bush plane out to a mountain lake to spare you the hike. He will carry you to bed when you're tired and hold you all night. He considers it a personal failure when he doesn't make you cum before him, and is dauntless when it comes to making you moan and sigh. He is the ultimate Golden Retriever Boyfriend. He will work every day to make you smile and never let the new wear off.

#my stuff!#my writing #hearts #kylo #jacques #flip #65 #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x reader #jacques le gris x reader #jacques le gris x you #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman x reader #commander mills x reader #commander mills x you

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avelera · 1 year

Text

Random thoughts on the D&D movie in no particular order:

I loved the jokes. All of them. All the stupid jokes. I was their target audience and they succeeded at making me cackle at dumb shit while my partner's soul left his body

The landscape shots were breathtaking and honestly made me tear up at the beauty in places. In the theater, I remember thinking, "Yeah, FUCK yeah, these guys understood the assignment!" Nine out of ten times, I think fantasy should be animated, because if you don't pour millions into the budget, the action looks like crummy LARPers wearing silly costumes in the woods. This movie understood that if you're doing live action fantasy, you owe your audience some damn beautiful landscape shots and damn did they deliver on some beautiful landscape shots.

(cut for spoilers)

I sincerely appreciated Holga and her husband being divorced but still amicable. I'm so tired of the trope of exes being evil or awful. They just seemed like two adults who wanted to love each other but the circumstances of being together doomed them from the start. It was played for laughs but it was just a moment I genuinely enjoyed as divorcee. I also loved her ex's new wife looking exactly like her, both for the gag, and for what it said about both of them being each other's type even if it didn't work out.

I also cackled like a hyena at Holga's halfling fetish while also finding it rather sweet and enjoyed imagining all the reasons why she might have that preference lol

As a basic Drizzt Do'Urden loving bitch, I squeed when I saw Icewind Dale on the map. Then I had a moment between that and the Underdark of wondering, "Am I gonna see him? Even in the distance? Am I going to see my first love, Drizzt Do'Urden??"

And then I realized: the Paladin. The Paladin is Drizzt. Only good person who came out of a nation destroyed by evil. Too good for this world, too pure, to the point of being sanctimonious but is also a hottie. Xenk is Drizzt.

Oh, I also squeed when I saw the Underdark.

I appreciated how knowledge of D&D improved certain story beats (like the gelatinous cube or the displacer beast) but wasn't required to enjoy the plot. That's how references should be done.

The most agonizingly cringe moment for me was when Holga was dying. Just. I appreciated the beat. It couldn't go any other way. They delivered on their set up with the tablet, the only question was ever, "Who besides his wife is going to get saved with it?" And it made perfect sense who it was. I'm glad they didn't try to pull a fast one. But the scene was like... 10 seconds too long of her dying for me to not roll my eyes. We know you're going to use the tablet on her, dipshit, please keep this moving.

BUT I think the reason they did it was to land a sincere moment with the daughter, and I appreciated that. I think the scene could have been improved by Holga being like, "Don't you fucking dare use that tablet on me!" and then smacking him when he did it anyway and then he'd have to explain that he set out to save his daughter's mother, not his wife, who has passed on, etc etc. but I'm not sure that would have been much better so maybe the drawn-out opera death scene and the sincerity was better in the end idk.

I KINDA wanted to see the actors as the players playing D&D BUT I know why they didn't and it was a wise choice, it undermines the drama too much to say it doesn't matter because it's a game. Maybe if instead they'd should the characters playing D&D in universe as normal humans? Idk

I thought there'd be more Xenk? I thought he'd be in the arena with them? A little bummed but I also loved his GM NPC energy.

The combat and camera work was great! Genuinely enjoyable and well made, I appreciated the artistry that went into it.

Loved the bardic distraction scene for truly capturing the chaos of a D&D party's attempt at breaking and entering

Loved the portals bit for truly capturing the strategy and planning that can go into a functioning D&D campaign's clever heist, even if I'm sure it would have taken 5 sessions to plot out IRL

Honestly, it was just a fun, solid film! It's been a while since I've seen such a fun, solid film! I would buy it and put it on in the background to just enjoy and not angst over it! It was worth the price of admission, it was faithful to the spirit of D&D instead of sneering at it the way the early 2000s one did, and I had a good time! It wasn't the highest of art but it would have been weird if it had been! I liked it a lot!

#DND #honor among thieves

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vodika-vibes · 1 year

Text

The ARC and the Monster

Summary: Three months after the events that left him with prosthetic legs and a prosthetic arm, ARC Knight Echo is on a journey to relearn himself. And while on this journey, he discovers a village that doesn't exist.

Pairing: ARC Knight Echo x Reader

Word Count: 5810

Warnings: Mentions of death

Mando'a Used: sen'ika - little bird (according to the website I saw, lol)

A/N: I am very bad at writing fight scenes, I should work on that, lol. This is a twist on Beauty and the Beast, and I'm actually happy with it, which is surprising.

Divider by saradika

“Morning again, darlin’,” You smile tiredly at the merchant, “Bacon and a fresh loaf of bread?”

“I don’t suppose you have anything new?” You ask as you lean against the counter.

The Merchant laughed, “You know I don’t, darlin’. One loaf of bread, and one rack of bacon. As normal.”

You sigh and rest your head on your palm, “I am so tired of bacon.” You say with a sigh.

“Ah, I know darlin’.” He reaches out and lightly pats your hand, “How are things at the palace?”

“Same as ever. As per normal.” You smile at him as you take the bag of food, “How’s the wife?”

“Exhausted. We both are. We never expected our son to be an infant for almost 30 years.” He sighs, he accepts the credits and you wave as you head towards the door.

“Maybe someday the curse will be broken,” You call from the door.

“You won’t find many people who still have hope, darlin’. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You wave and step out of the shop, allowing the door to swing shut behind you. You neatly side-step several other people, and start walking the meandering path headed back towards the manor.

At this point, you can walk the path while wearing a blind-fold, you’re so familiar with the path between the village and the old mansion you call home.

You are, or were, the head chef for the Duke of these lands. In charge of all of the cooking and all of the food shopping. At the time it was a good job, high paying with incredible job security, and a chance to move up in the world.

Of course…that’s not what actually happened.

Thirty years ago a stranger appeared at the palace doors on the night of the young Baron’s 15th birthday. The Baron himself answered the door, though it wasn’t his duty, and he sent the guest away with a harsh word and a violent hand.

The Stranger was a Sorceress, and she was so put out by the Baron’s actions that she cursed the entire land. The Duke and Duchess vanished, trapped in a painting to your best guess, the young Baron twisted and changed, until his looks matched his personality…and everyone unfortunate enough to live in this Duchy ended up trapped in a time loop.

This day, the day of the Baron’s 15th birthday, repeats over and over and over again. And the only way for the Curse to break is if the Baron show’s any true remorse.

But…

Well…

He doesn’t.

You stop in front of the manor, and then turn to walk around the building to enter through the rear. No need to draw attention to yourself, if at all possible.

There are some good sides to being trapped in a time loop, you suppose as you push the door open. For example, anything that happens today will be reset when the clock strikes midnight. Any dishes that get broken will be repaired, any injuries will be healed, and any money spent will end up right back in your account.

Also, no one can die.

But no one can be born either.

You kind of feel bad for one of the Housekeepers, she was 7 months pregnant when this whole fiasco began, and now, thirty years later, she’s still 7 months pregnant.

But that not dying has been a boon. Especially those first few years when the Baron was so angry at everything that he lashed out at everyone.

It was incredibly…strange. Getting ripped to shreds and then waking up in bed the next morning like nothing happened.

Luckily, the Baron has since learned that his temper tantrums have no lasting effect, and has since locked himself away. You don’t know what he eats…and to be honest, you don’t care. You have more important things to do than deal with a self important brat.

You step around one of the butlers, who is dutifully dusting a vase, “Good morning, Chaz,” You greet.

“Good morning, Miss.” He replies, “Did you have a nice walk?”

Your smile is wry, “Well, it’s warm and sunny, right now, and not a cloud in the sky. So, I was miserable.”

He chuckles, “I sent the young ones to the kitchen for a baking lesson, they seemed thrilled.”

“Well, if I had the choice between cookies and math, I would choose cookies too, Chaz.” You joke as you lightly pat him on the shoulder, and then step around him.

“Quite right, Miss.” He says with a laugh, “Also, the Young Master is in a foul mood today, I would avoid the southern gardens.”

“When isn’t the Young Master in a foul mood.” You reply, “But I’ll tell people to stay clear.” You toss him one last smile, and walk the short distance from the side entrance to the kitchen, and you set your bag on the counter, “I have bread…and bacon.” you call out to your staff.

The room erupts into groans of dismay. “If I have to have bacon one more time,” One of the maids says dramatically as she drapes herself across the prep table, “I’m going to throw myself off a bridge.”

“That would be impressive since there are no bridges in the Loop.” You counter dryly, “Also. I’m making soup with bacon and chicken.” The moaning slows to a stop, “Great. Also, Chaz says stay out of the Southern Garden. Also, who’s doing baking lessons?”

“Granny’s got the kids,” One of the other maids calls from near the window, “And I saw the young Baron head into the Garden, he looked mad enough to spit fire.”

“Alright everyone, let’s get to work. We have a manor to feed.” You call, and the room devolves into organized chaos, and you smile. Running a kitchen is a dance, and it’s a dance you’ve performed over ten thousand times. Everyone is in their positions, and though the room looks chaotic…well, they’re performing a masterpiece.

You smile and slide yourself into your position, and begin your part of the dance.

***************

It has been three months since the events that saw ARC Knight Echo losing his arm, and both of his legs in a magical explosion. And while he has prosthetics, and they work well, and he’s comfortable with them, he’s still not comfortable with his new body.

It’s why he went to Rex and asked for time. Time to heal on his own, without people hovering around him. Time to get used to the prosthetics and the way that his body moves now.

And after two weeks of camping, he’s starting to feel more like himself. Still, he’s not quite ready to return home just yet. For all that he claims that he hates camping…he’s actually enjoying himself. Enjoying the hunting and the fishing, and navigating the land with nothing more than a map and a compass.

Still, Echo is beginning to think it’s time to return home. There’s only so much time he can spend on his own before he starts missing his brothers, and starts talking to the trees around him.

He glances at his map, and then at the bridge several feet away, “Well…I’ll get to the top of the hill, and then I’ll turn around and head home.” He says to himself. He looks over the map one more time, and then folds it and slides it into his jacket pocket. He then hefts his bag over his shoulder, and he crosses the bridge.

He walks up the shallow hill, crests the top, and then he stops. Slowly, without moving his eyes, he pulls the map out of his jacket and he looks down at it, and then back in front of him.

There is not supposed to be a village here. And yet there is.

A well settled village, at that. The houses look old, like they’ve been there for a while, and the road is cobbled, rather than dirt. Echo pockets his map, and carefully adjusts his jacket so he’s able to rest his hand on the pommel of his blade.

And then he starts walking down the cobbled road.

This is strange, and he loves solving strange.

******************

Once more, you walk the distance between the manor and the village. You go to the grocers, you buy bacon and bread while making jokes about having literally anything else, and you leave the shop.

Normally you don’t pay any attention to your surroundings, you’ve done this thousands of times now, but for some reason, today you do. Maybe you’re just feeling wistful, remembering the days when you could crest the hill and cross the bridge and head into the forest.

You flicker your gaze towards the village exit, and your breath catches in your throat.

There, standing next to the welcome sign, is a man. A strange man.

And, after thirty years, there are no strange men in this village.

You turn and walk towards him. He’s tall, though not the tallest man you’ve met, with dark skin and dark hair. As you get closer, you notice that his hair is curly, and that he’s got a prosthetic arm.

By the time you’re close enough to talk to him, you’re sure. “You’re from outside,” You breathe out.

He pins you in place with a curious stare, “If you mean that I’m not from this village, then yes, you’re right.” He looks away from you, his dark eyes scanning the village properly, “This village isn’t on any map.”

A pained look crosses your face, “We used to be,” You say quietly, “But…not anymore, I suppose.”

He glances at you, and then at some of the other people in the village, some have stopped what they’re doing to stare at him, while others blatantly ignore him, “Why are they looking at me like that?”

“People don’t come here,” You explain, “I…I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“I’m Echo. Echo Fett. I’m an ARC Knight of Mandalore.”

You introduce yourself with a smile, “I work at the manor, as the head chef.” You explain as you motion, vaguely, to the manor, “Um, so you asked what people are looking at you-”

“Yeah. They’re staring at me. I know prosthetics aren’t normal-”

“What? No! That doesn’t have anything to do with it.” You hasten to say, as you reach out and touch his arm lightly, “Just…please, will you listen to our story?”

He turns his attention back on you, “Yeah, alright.”

You tug him off the main road, and to a small park. Families used to picnic there, but not anymore.

You sit on one of the benches, and wait until he’s sitting next to you. “So…what’s the story with this place?” Echo asks.

“Um…okay. So this story begins thirty years ago, on the night of the Baron’s 15th birthday.” You explain, your voice quiet, “You have to understand, the Baron was never a good child. He was always harsh, always cold, always mean…no one ever had anything good to say about him. I can’t even describe just how awful of a boy the Baron is.”

“Okay. So he’s a brat, the son of a Duke?”

“That’s right,” You nod, “Well, there was a surprise visitor. And for some reason the Baron answered the door himself. He turned the stranger away with violence…and it turned out that the stranger was actually a sorceress.”

“Oh no.”

“The entire Duchy was cursed as well.” You say quietly, “The Duke and Duchess were trapped in paintings. The Baron has become a monster. And the rest of us…well, we’re trapped.”

“In what way?” Echo asks.

“We have to live the same day, over and over and over again. We can do different things, within reason, but time never moves on for us.” Your voice is soft, “You’re the first new person we’ve met in years.”

He leans back against the bench, and he doesn’t say anything for a really long time, “So…what happens when time resets with me still here?”

You bite your lower lip, “I don’t know.” You hesitate, “I would suggest staying away from the manor, though. Until we know if the loop affects you…you need to stay away from the baron.”

“Why?” Echo asks.

“Because he’ll kill you.”

Echo stills, and something flinty enters his eyes, “Does he kill people often?”

“Oh, he hasn’t killed any of his employees in five years now.” You try to soothe, “And, well, it resets at midnight anyway, so…”

“Does that make it better?” Echo asks, his voice very gentle.

Your hands shake slightly as you remember razor sharp claws and teeth dripping with saliva, “...no.” You admit. You clench your hands tightly in your lap, to try and stop the trembling.

Echo glances at your hands, and reaches to place one of his hands over yours, “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“For now.” You answer softly, your hands moving slightly to lightly grip his hand, the metal is cool under your hands, but is also soothing somehow, “It’s why you need to leave.” You say as you look from his hand to his face, “If you stay here-”

“No.” He interrupts, he smiles at you to soften the harshness of his word, “Look, you said that the curse is based around the Baron, right?”

“Yeah. He changed, and then his parents were trapped in the painting, and then the duchy was trapped in the loop. In that order.” You reply.

“Okay, so with the curse centered on the Baron, then to kill the curse we need to kill the Baron,”

You’re already shaking your head, “He’s too violent. If we get too close to him he’ll kill us.”

Echo frowns thoughtfully, “Then I’ll do it.”

You start and stare at him with wide eyes.

“I’m an ARC Knight, this is what we do.” Echo explains, his voice very kind.

“Free people from decade long curses?” You ask doubtfully.

He laughs softly, “Fight things that other people can’t.” He squeezes your hand, very gently, “Trust me.”

You hesitate for a long moment, and then you slowly nod. “Okay Echo.”

He smiles at you and gently releases your hands, “I’m going to need your help. Can you get me into the manor?”

Your gaze lingers on his clothing for a moment, and anxiety twists your stomach, “What if he claws you?” You ask, “His claws are…they ripped through me in one…”

Echo reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small metal orb, it’s glowing faintly, “This is an armor sphere. This is where I store my ARC armor when I’m not actively using it. Don’t worry, sen’ika, I’ll be wearing armor when I fight the Baron.”

“...okay.” You stand and gather your shopping bag in your arms, “Then you should probably follow me.”

“Yes ma’am,”

Echo follows you through the streets, and down the path that leads to the manor, and he follows you around the building to the side entrance. You hold the door to the manor open for him, and he steps into the worn down hallway that leads to the servants quarters.

Chaz is waiting for you. His severe gaze looks from Echo, to you, and then back to Echo. “The Young Master is in the library,” He says in a clipped tone, “I have instructed everyone to remain in their rooms for the time being.” He exhales slowly, and then lightly touches Echo on the shoulder, “Good luck, young man.”

“Thank you,” Echo replies, growing slightly startled when Chaz bows deeply, and then turns and vanishes into a side room. “Sen’ika, I need someplace to put my armor on.” He says to you.

“We can use the kitchen, it’s the one place in the manor the Baron never comes to.” You say, “Plus it’ll be empty right now.”

“Great, lead the way.” He follows you down a side hallway and into the kitchen, where you help him clear one of the prep tables, and he activates the little sphere, and lays all of his armor out on the table, and he quickly starts strapping the pieces to his body, “Where’s the library?” He asks.

“It’s part of the main building, on the third floor.” You explain, “You’ll never find it unless I show you…it’s not like there are any maps of the manor.”

He cuts his gaze towards you, “I don’t want you anywhere near the fighting.”

“I’ll be careful,” You reply, “But you’ll never find it without me.”

He sighs quietly, “Fine, but you will listen when I tell you to do something.”

“Yes sir,”

He finishes pulling his armor on, and he hooks his blade to his hip and then grabs his helmet, “Alright. How big is the library?”

“Massive. The Duchess was all for education.” You answer as you head out of the kitchen and into the hall, “She purchased several copies of every book ever printed and all of them are kept in the library.”

“So it’s cramped?”

“Less so than you might assume…it’s just very big.” You guide him through the twisting halls, until you reach the main living quarters. Unlike the servants quarters, which are clean and well maintained, the main house is dimly lit.

The wallpaper is ripped and torn, and there are some places where the wooden floorboards have been ripped up and flung into the wall. Pictures have been torn to shreds, and none of the furniture is usable. “The Baron did all of this?”

You nod, “He destroys the house every morning…at this point it doesn’t even take him an hour to destroy the house.” You carefully step around one of the floorboards, “Follow me, we need to go upstairs.”

You move silently through the house, and Echo is just as quiet, in spite of the armor he’s wearing. Finally you stop in front of an ornate door, “Is this the library?” Echo asks, his voice hushed.

“It is,” You hesitate, “You can still leave, Echo.”

“I’m not doing that.” Echo replies.

You sigh softly, and then you push the door open just enough that the pair of you can enter. Just like every other room in the main house, the library is destroyed, but you lightly touch Echo’s arm and you point at the ceiling, “There.”

Echo’s gaze follows your finger and he inhales sharply, “That used to be a man?” He asks.

The creature is shrouded in shadow, with claws long enough to rip a man to shreds without trying, and teeth that barely remain in his jaw. He clings to the ceiling, as though gravity has no effect on him.

“Yes,” You whisper, “That used to be the Baron.”

Echo motions for you to get back, and draws his blade, “How do I get him down?” He hisses.

You glance at him nervously, and then you lift your fingers to your mouth, and you release a loud whistle that echoes through the chamber. And then you immediately duck under a fallen bookcase.

The Baron’s eyes snap open, revealing blood red eyes, and he releases a noise that sounds like a million angry snakes hissing at the same time. And you watch as the Baron moves, lunging at Echo with his terrifying speed.

But Echo is just as fast, and his blade is just as sharp as the Baron’s claws.

You watch, terrified, as Echo proves just how good the average ARC Knight is, and you gasp when, in a smooth motion, Echo severs the Baron’s head from his body.

You slide out from your hiding space, and take several steps towards Echo, when the pressure in the room changes suddenly. You clamp your hands over your ears as the pressure increases and becomes painful.

You feel Echo’s hand lightly against your shoulder, and just barely hear him calling your name. And then there’s the sensation of a baseball bat slamming against your chest and the world goes dark.

**********

You wake with a painful groan. Your entire body hurts, and your head is throbbing. You let out a noise of discontent as your bedroom door bursts open and Chaz hurries in, “Good you’re awake. Get up, get dressed.”

You groan and roll out of bed, landing on the floor with a painful thump, “Why does everything hurt?” You rasp out.

“You were standing right there when the curse reset,” Chaz replies as he pulls you to your feet, “You took the brunt of the reset.” He explains.

“Oh…it sucks.”

“It does.” He agrees as he shoves an outfit into your hands, “Get dressed, you need to get out of the manor.”

You clumsily take the clothes and start peeling off your sleepwear, replacing them with the loose tunic Chaz gave you, “Why?”

“Echo killed the Baron yesterday, didn’t he?” Chaz asks in return.

“Yeah. He did. But if the world reset-”

“I broke a plate yesterday, it’s still broken.”

Your fingers pause on the ties of your shirt, “That’s impossible.”

“It’s improbable, but killing the Baron caused a change. You need to go back to the village and see if you can find Echo. He’s not in the manor.” Chaz pauses and leans in, “I think he was flung outside of the loop, since he’s not a part of it.” He motions to the blue and black backpack sitting in the corner of your room.

You pull your trousers on, and then pull on your boots, “That makes sense,” you say quietly, “What if he doesn’t come back?”

“He’ll come back. I have a good feeling.” Chaz replies, and then he grips your shoulders tightly, “Listen. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I think if we kill the Baron once for every year that we’ve been cursed, the curse will break.”

“30 deaths? There’s no way. We already know that the Baron remembers things that happen in previous resets.” You remind him, “There’s only so many times that Echo will be able to kill him with a sword.”

“Agreed. Don’t worry, we’ll handle it.” Chaz pushes you out the door, “Now go!”

“I’m going, I’m going.” You allow him to propel you out of your room, and down the hall, and then out the side door, and he slams the door behind you.

You huff out a heavy breath, and groan as pain shoots through you. You slowly walk the familiar path to the village, where you’re greeted by enthusiastic shouts. The grocer is missing a loaf of bread he sold the day before. The baker’s flour level is down just a little bit.

There’s change for the first time in years.

You walk to the Village sign, and lean heavily against it, your arm folded protectively against your ribs. You had forgotten how pain lingered. You don’t like it.

Your head snaps up when you see movement from in front of you, and a relieved smile crosses your face when Echo, still clad in armor, walks over to you. “Are you okay?” You ask.

He pulls his helmet off, “Are you? I found myself on the other side of the bridge when I woke up. Why are you holding your ribs?”

“They’re bruised, I think.” You reply, “I woke up in bed because of the reset.”

“So it didn’t work.” Echo says with a frown.

“Well, it is. But the curse is just…cracked. At least, that’s what we think.” You step closer to him, “Chaz broke a plate yesterday, and it’s still broken.”

Echo frowns, “You have a theory?”

“We think that if the Baron dies once for every year that we’ve been trapped here, the curse will break.”

“Thirty deaths?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Echo exhales sharply, “How many more times can I use my sword before he learns how to avoid it?”

“Better to not risk trying it again,” You reply as you reach out and take Echo’s hand, “But, we have lots of weapons…assuming you know how to use them.”

“I haven’t encountered a weapon I can’t use,” Echo replies dryly, “Come on, back to the manor.”

“Yeah.” This time Echo guides you to the manor, and through the side door.

Chaz is sitting in the kitchen with one of every weapon from the armory, “He’s in the west garden today,” He says as soon as he sees Echo, “Which one of these do you want?”

Echo presses his blade into your hands, “Keep this safe for me,” He says, and you nod, curling your arms around it, while he picks through the weapons, eventually grabbing a pair of axes which he spins expertly, “How do I get to the west garden?”

“I’ll show you,” You say.

“You’re already hurt,” Chaz says, “I’ll show you,” He says to Echo.

“But-”

Echo smiles at you as he pulls his helmet on, “Don’t worry, sen’ika. I’ll be fine.”

You watch him walk out the room, led by Chaz, and you tighten your grip around Echo’s blade.

***********

You wake up in your bed, dressed in the tunic and pants from the day before, with your arms wrapped securely around Echo’s blade.

You lay in bed for ten minutes. Whatever Echo did to the Baron clearly worked, since the day reset less than three hours after it began.

You roll out of your bed, and hurry out of the manor. And by the time you reach the village sign, Echo is waiting for you, his arms folded. “You’re okay?” You ask as soon as you’re close enough.

“A few bruises,” Echo replies as he takes his blade back, “I don’t want to get close to him again, I don’t think.”

“We’ll figure something out.” You say as you hug him quickly.

“I’m sure we will.”

The third death involves a massive amount of crossbows, which pin the Baron to the wall of the ballroom.

The eighth death involves a truly terrifying amount of fire.

The fifteenth death involves an explosive made from flour and gunpowder.

“Halfway there,” Echo says as he leans back on the bench in the garden, “Only fifteen more deaths.”

“Are you okay?” You ask as you reach out and touch a bruise on his cheek.

“Just exhausted, sen’ika.” He smiles at you, “The people sure seem happy with all of the changes,” He notes.

“Change is good, Echo. Being trapped is…it’s a kind of hell. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” You say quietly.

“Well, with any luck, you’ll soon be free from this curse.” Echo says with a grin, “What’ll you do first?”

“Leave. I’m going to go literally anywhere else, and I’m never going to eat bacon again.”

Echo laughs, “Maybe I’ll take you back to Mandalore with me,” he says lightly, “It’s very different from this little village.”

“Oh, I’d like that-” You start to say, only to pause when something hits your face. The bustle of the village, just one street over, descends into silence, as the sky opens and rain starts falling.

You scramble to your feet, holding your hands out as the cool water splashes against your hands. And then you laugh, “Rain,” You whisper, “It’s raining!” You laugh again and spin in the rain, turning to grin at Echo, “Echo! You brought the rain back!”

From the next street over you can hear triumphant shouting, cheers of delight, and laughter.

You spin away from Echo, giggles of sheer delight falling from your lips as you stand in the pouring rain.

And Echo…well, he leans his elbows on his knees and he watches you with a fond smile on his lips. And when loud music starts playing the next street over, he gets to his feet, and he lightly takes your hand in his, an impish look crossing his face, “May I have this dance?”

You grin at him, and spin into his arms, “You may,” You agree as you look up into his eyes.

The seventeenth death involves an intricate trap with ropes, pulleys, and the heaviest bookshelf in the manor.

The twenty-first death involves a pit filled with lances.

The twenty-ninth death is much more straightforward, with Echo using a truly amazing number of potions to kill the Baron.

“This is the last one,” You whisper as you apply a healing ointment to Echo’s arm, and then reach up to patch up the bruise on his cheek.

“I think you’re more worried about this than I am.” Echo teases as he gently grabs your wrist, and lowers them away from his face, “Everything is going to be fine, I promise.”

“This is the closest we’ve been to freedom in years, Echo. I’m just…I’m nervous, that’s all.”

He smiles at you, warm and soft, and he leans in and lightly presses his forehead against yours, “There’s no need to be nervous.” He murmurs, “I’m going to take care of you.”

You release a shaky breath, “Okay. Are you sure you want to use your sword?” You ask one more time, just to make sure.

He laughs softly, “Yes. I’m sure. He won’t be expecting it.”

“But-”

Echo presses a light kiss to the inside of your wrist, “Trust me, cyar’ika. This is for the best.”

“I do trust you, but I’m still nervous.” You murmur, even as heat floods your face at his gentle kiss.

He smiles reassuringly at you, and gently releases you, “Go and take your position.”

You nod once, and take half a step back. Then you hesitate, and step back towards him and stand on your toes to press a kiss against his cheek, “Good luck, Echo.” And then you turn and hurry away.

Echo lets out a quiet chuckle, and then he pulls his helmet on. He walks the familiar path to the main room of the house, and he glances up at the second floor, where all of the employees of the Manor are standing, watching.

There’s the sound of angry hissing, and then the Baron is there. Twenty-nine deaths have left the creature angry and paranoid. Angry enough that his gaze was locked on Echo, and not any of the innocent people in the room.

Echo spins his blade with the ease of someone who knows what he’s doing and he takes a step towards the creature, “It’s time for this to end.” Echo says flatly.

The creature snarls and throws himself at Echo.

But Echo has already killed this creature twenty-nine times. He knows how he moves, how he acts in a given situation, and he’s clever enough to be able to make educated guesses on how he’ll react in unknown situations.

The whole encounter has already played out, hundreds of different times, in Echo’s mind. He already knows how it’s going to end. And so do the people watching the last fight.

Echo moves, just enough out of the way to not get hurt. He activates the runes on the blade, and he strikes. The Baron releases an inhuman scream, and spins to try and flee, but Echo strikes two more times.

And the creature falls still.

Nothing happens for a long moment. And then the shadows that cover the creature disperse in every direction, washing over all of the people, then across everything in the Duchy, and then the shadows vanish as if they never existed to begin with.

You look at the massive clock on the wall and you watch as the calendar and time speed up to match the current day and year, and then you hurry down the stairs, “Echo!”

He pulls his helmet off and grunts as you crash into his side, “I’m okay, he didn’t even touch me.” His arm slides around your shoulder as you hug him tightly.

“No!” You both turn at the wail coming from the young man kneeling on the ground, “No! How could you? I was strong! I had power!” The Baron, a teenager again, gets to his feet, his teeth bared. “I’ll kill you!”

Echo lightly pushes you behind him as the teenager lunges at him. He draws his fist back, and then slams his fist into the boys face, sending him reeling back to the ground, “On the authority given to me by the Royal Family of Mandalore, you’re under arrest.”

“I was cursed!” The boy spat, “You can’t arrest me for being cursed!”

“No, but I can arrest you for the repeated murders of your employees. Just because it didn’t stick doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Echo says flatly, and then he presses the tip of his blade against the teenager’s throat, “Unless you think that none of them will testify against you.”

The boy hesitates and then looks away.

“That’s what I thought.” Echo effortlessly cuffs him, and then tosses him against a wall.

“So…what happens next?” Chaz asks.

“I have to make a phone call to Mandalore, we’ll get people out here to help you all get resettled. Thirty years is a long time, my friend.” Echo says as he clasps Chaz’s shoulder, “Although, unless anyone wants to stay here, we’ll probably reach out to different nations to help you get settled somewhere else.” He smiles at the group of people, “A new start…for all of you.”

He steps away from Chaz as the older man begins giving orders for information to get passed onto the village proper, and he leaves the manor. You chase after him, “So, what happens with me, then?”

“A new start,” Echo says, stopping as you hurry to his side, “Doing whatever you want, wherever you want.”

“What if I want to stay near you?” You ask.

He pauses and looks at you, “Well, I might be able to help with that.” Echo says with a slow smile. “If that’s what you really want.”

You hum thoughtfully, “You brought the rain back, Echo. And you fought for our freedom. There’s nothing I want more than to stay with you.”

He laughs softly, “Come here, sen’ika.”

You step closer to him and he lightly hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer, and then he lightly bumps his forehead against yours.

“I have an idea,” Echo says lazily, “How about, once I make this call, we go down to the village and buy sandwiches from the cafe, and we have a picnic while we wait for help to arrive?”

You rest your hands on his chest plate, “Like a date?” You ask softly.

“Exactly like a date,” He confirms.

You smile at him brightly, and you raise up on your toes to brush your lips against his, “I like that idea.”

He smiles against your lips, “Glad to hear it, cyar’ika. Now, I really do need to make this call, but you don’t have to move if you don’t want to. Actually, they’re probably going to have some questions for you, so it’s best that you don’t move-”

You grin and lay your cheek against his shoulder, it’s not a happily ever after, not yet at least, but it’s a start and that’s all you can ask for.

#star wars #tcw #Star Wars AU #Knights and Magic AU #ARC Trooper Echo x Reader #TBB Echo x Reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction

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talenlee · 6 months

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3e: Sticks and Stones

ALright I’m up late and the thing I was working on didn’t work and I don’t want to fall behind on my schedule so let’s just belt out something about the ongoing grievance I have in how 3rd edition D&D treated spellcasters as a better class of people with their own higher standard of living because being able to rewrite reality at will is by no means a perk enough to justify not feeling bummed out.

Let me talk to you about sticks and stones powers.

First the origin of the term. The psionics system of 3rd edition was a beautiful beast and also a complete functional failure. Its presence was demanded implicitly by being a thing that existed in 2ed and people liked, while its exclusion from the core of content was demanded explicitly by being a thing that existed in 2ed and people hated. It was a sci-fi thing, unlike the flying airships and unsupported towers made of glass that the rest of the fantasy genre had going on inside it. The psionic system has two distinct forms; the version that launched in 3rd edition proper, and the followup version in 3.5.

3rd editions’ psionic system had a lot of things in it to try and make sense of things that seemed like they should exist in a story, which included an idea of psychic combat. That was where two psychic characters could give up their actions to tangle with one another in a sequence of paper-rock-scissors-laser-godzilla in an attempt to determine who had the bigger brain, who had dedicated the right resources to it, and crucially, who hadn’t decided to spend a few turns using their actual powers to do actual damage or inflict control. Seriously, psychic combat was a hilarious system because it was only useful for psychics who both wanted to fight one another and deplete each other’s power points. Just using powers on one another, like by say, using psychic powers to bombard the other person with lasers? A lot more effective. But don’t worry, there was also the silliness of psychic combat folding in the Illithid power Mind Blast which is a cone stun that lasts for 1d4+1 rounds, aka ‘probably enough to kill anyone or get away from anyone.’

Yeah, player characters could have Mind Blast, at a certain level. It was the only thing anyone ever bothered with in that system.

Along with that system was a collection of psionic powers that all relied on different stats to make sure the spellcaster had to feel rounded. They then could use these well rounded stats to cast psionic powers which were quite mediocre compared to magical spells of their level, and also because of those rounded stats, likely to fail. The entire system was built on ‘hey, here are nice ideas, why don’t we do this’ and the answer coming out pretty evidently in the first playtest.

Anyway, in the Expanded Psionics Handbook in 3.5, Expanded from the Latin meaning ‘not a pig’s arse’, the rulebook decided to instead make the psychic spellcasters into what they always were: spellcasters. Spellcasters needed things like a familiar stat structure, feat support, prestige classes that advanced spellcasting, powers that scaled, and of course, eventually, as with so many things in 3rd edition D&D, gear support.

The Expanded Psionics Handbook introduced the power stone and the dorje. A power stone is an item that has a single use application of a power in it, imbued by the caster at some point. If you can manifest the power in the stone, you can use the power stone. A dorje is a power stone, but a little waggly stick. The waggly stick could have lots of charges stored in it. That is to say, power stones and dorjes are fundamentally, scrolls and wands, as every other spellcaster in the core rules had at the start of the edition.

All psionic manifesters had a limited pool of spells – sorry, powers – they could cast – sorry, manifest. Anyway, these spellcasters were like sorcerers, who could only cast a few spells and that meant that these items that expanded your available spells were super useful. This also meant there were spells you didn’t necessarly want to know wth your limited choices, but you could spend some of your gold to expand on that. Spells cast out of dorjes and power crystals were cast as weak as they could be – minimum caster level, minimum stat, so for a 1st level power, it would be the duration, range, and effect of a level 1 caster’s version, and the difficulty class to use it would be a dc 10. Not great stuff for offensive powers, you want to be able to put oomph behind those yourself.

But say, Comprehend Languages? Or Knock? or Object Reading? Spells that just give you information and aren’t cast under time pressure for combat? Nobody cares about the difficulty of those. You might as well have those in these convenient forms and never bother learning them for yourself. In the process this creates the vision of a marketplace supplied by the small number of psions who do actually know those powers and learned them entirely to supply everyone else with them through dorjes and power stones, which is, at the least, a little funny.

This led to the term ‘sticks and stones’ powers; powers you didn’t need or care about in most situations but you’d stick some of them in your backpack for convenience when you needed them later. This meant that over time, psionic characters would have a swiss army knife of toys for every out-of-combat situation and it was for a time, criticised.

It was criticised, because it was encroaching on the wizard.

Yes, that’s right we’re back there! We’re back at it! Becuase the problem as described was the problem of one character having too much versatility, and in 3rd edition design, the character who had too much versatility was the wizard’s niche. Wizards had been crafting spells into spellbooks and onto scrolls at the end of every day since day one of 3rd edition. They even got the feat to do it for free! Their spellbook was the biggest, and had the most weird niche things! The game even had rules for wizards that pointed out how sensible it was for a wizard to develop their own unique versions of existing spells!

The whole point of stick-and-stones powers is that the powers systems had things that existed in two non-overlapping fields of play, and then expected you to spend the same limited pool resources between them equally even though one of them could get you shanked by a drunken gnoll.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#DnD 3e #Dungeons &amp; Dragons #Games

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farfromstrange · 1 year

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Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 17: Crisp Trepidation

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader (she/her)

Summary: Michael is shaken up and you take care of him. But when Amanda comes around, truths start spilling out and you finally remove all the walls that have been standing tall between you.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of child death, mentions of child abuse, blood, non-sexual intimacy, cursing, panic attack, crying

Word Count: ~11k (this is a beast but it had to be done)

A/n: So they finally talk!! It’s not a proper adult conversation because it didn't fit in here, but they do talk a little and they’re finally open with each other, which lays the foundation of The Talk that’s gonna follow. You're welcome! (It’s also a lot of dialogue and I’m not sure if it’s good, but I tried. Feedback is always appreciated!)

Michael’s house is eerily silent when you enter. He turns the lights on in the hallway and you lock the door behind you. You can never be too safe, especially not after what conspired earlier tonight.

You’re met with the sight of a cozy kitchen. His decor is minimalistic, but it fits. You like the colors, and you like the layout.

It's a nice home to live in, you note, if it weren't for the constant reminder of tragedy you know lies in the living room.

You suspect his bedroom is upstairs together with the bathroom–the stairs lead from the living room to another floor. It’s small, but it’s cozy and it seems like a nice place to live in. But the place is missing a personal touch, and that’s where you realize that he was really gone for eight years; it shows in every inch of his home.

You wonder what life before his wife’s death was like. Were they happy? How did he and Anna get along? You have no doubt he was a great father before. You’ve always wondered what life as a Kinsella looks like, but after hearing he was shot at and his nephew died, you no longer want to know. It’s dangerous and you don’t like the thought of him being subjected to it.

“You, uh–” He breaks off to catch his breath. “Sorry, you want a drink?” Michael asks.

You shake your head. “No,” you answer. “I’m good.”

He purses his lips, gets a glass, and pours some water from the tap into it for himself.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened?” you break the silence first.

He shakes his head.

“Okay, that's fine.” Your voice is soft when you reach out to touch his cheek again and say, “How about you take a shower then? It might help.”

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and he leans into the palm of your hand. His head is just as heavy as his heart. A pile of bricks drags him down further under the surface of the lake. He’s drowning somewhere he’s sure no one would find him if he disappeared. You’re the rock keeping him afloat, but once you’re gone, nothing is holding him back from following the current into oblivion.

Michael nods weakly in response to your question. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Shower sounds grand.”

You offer him a soft smile. “Do you need anything else before that? A hug, maybe?”

His hand finds yours at your side. He comes closer, his breath fanning across your face, and you move to tangle your fingers in the hairs on the nape of his neck. “I know I fucked up last night,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I...I never wanted it to end like tha.”

The dim light that fills the house reflects off the tears glistening in his eyes, and you can see the specks of green in his irises so much clearer now. The change in color always shows how he's feeling. Today, the sadness underlines the deep brown in his eyes, and that’s where you find yourself lost time and time again. He’s beautiful. The tragedy in him brings with it a certain beauty. A human and fragile kind of beauty.

Your throat dries shut. You reach out to cradle his cheek; the action carries the weight of your emotions, and yet it’s still not nearly enough.

“You didn’t have t’stay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to repay ya for bein’ there for me the way you always are, but–”

“Shh,” you’re quick to cut him off. “You have no reason to apologize, okay? Let’s just…forget what happened, just for tonight, so I can take care of you. Nothing else matters.”

His lip quivers as he bites down on it. “I can’t be alone,” your name is a mere breath on Michael’s lips, “And I don’t wanna be.”

“You don’t have to be alone, Michael.”

He catches your chin between his fingers. “Can I–”

You don’t let him finish. “Yes,” you say. It’s a breathy admission, asking for something you both need.

Your lips meet in a tender kiss at first. He still tastes the same as before, maybe a little more like coffee and you taste a lot more like tequila, but he isn't disgusted by the alcohol and caffeine mixture. The gentle brush turns into more when he takes hold of your face and pulls you even closer.

All the pain, fear, and uncertainty melt into a shared vulnerability. It's a kiss filled with longing, a desperate need to find solace in each other. You hadn't been apart for long, but you both believed each other to be over, to have lost the one person that makes life worth living; now he's kissing you again and it feels too good to be true.

Your bodies press together. You wrap your arms around his neck. The soft caress of his hands on your skin sends shivers down your spine, electrifying every last nerve ending. The kiss is emotional, not as passionate as it seems, but it is exactly what you need.

When you break apart, your forehead drops to his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into the silence.

He shakes his head, his lips finding your forehead. “It doesn’t matter. I just thought I lost ya,” he says. “And tha what happened was somehow my fault.”

You’re quick to look up at him. “No! God, no. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving. We’ll… We’ll figure it out later, okay? Just not tonight.” It’s almost as if you’re begging.

You have both been through enough, you don’t need to add to each other’s plates with another burden to carry.

“Not tonight,” he agrees.

He seems to want the same as you, and you don’t blame him. He has other things on his mind right now.

You press another kiss on his lips before pulling away for good. “Now go take your shower. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Michael offers a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He tries to reassure you, but his own emotions betray him. He’s a very expressive man, even though he pretends he isn’t.

He squeezes your hand, slowly untangling himself from you and stepping toward the stairs that lead, as you’ve suspected, to the bathroom on the second floor.

So many things are still left unsaid between you, but it feels almost natural to be there for him, to kiss him, and be held by him. It makes you hopeful that there is a chance he might forgive you and you won’t end up hating each other.

You’re not sure where this night will lead, but he needs you. You keep reminding yourself that you’re doing this for the man you love and nothing else matters but being emotional support for him. If you stopped telling yourself, you would break, and he would join you. He’s broken enough as he is.

While he showers, you find yourself drawn toward the living room.

He has a lot of books, you notice. He reads. He told you once. His collection looks well-sorted, and the titles all seem familiar. You try not to touch or disturb anything. Everything is kept in order, so he has a system and you’d hate it if someone disturbed your system, and so you leave it be.

Then, your eyes fall on the fireplace set into the wall, and the bullet holes above it cause the blood to freeze in your veins. Of course, you remember what you read about Michael’s wife and how she was shot in this very home, but for a brief moment, you forgot.

His house feels so homely. You forgot he is staying in the very same place that holds a lot of trauma, closer to his family than anything else, and he admitted to feeling stuck there. With these obvious bullet holes, you wonder how he manages to spend even a few minutes in here, but this is Michael and he shoulders a lot without wanting to talk about it.

And you can’t say you haven’t stayed in a place that holds traumatic memories and scars from the past because that would be a lie. You know what it’s like to live in a place where the blood still lingers, but in a twisted kind of way, you feel like it will always be your home. Physically, at least.

You didn’t really listen in therapy, but your therapist said something along the lines of that, and that your dependence on the past is also the reason you’ve never really felt at home anywhere.

Michael is the first person you feel truly safe with, but you went right ahead and shattered that like any other broken relationship you’ve had along the way. You always do this.

Your fingers reach out to trace the scars left by the shooting. The wallpaper feels rough under your fingertips. You imagine the bloodbath, the tears, and the guilt that filled this space eight years ago. You find yourself staring at the floor and the carpet, wondering if someone switched it out because blood is hard to get out. You know what it’s like to try and scrub the crimson liquid out of a carpet, and it’s no fun.

You shake your head, quickly turning away from the ghastly reminder of the trauma that befell Michael and his little family, the same trauma that caused him even more from that moment on, and make your way back to the kitchen to occupy yourself with something else.

Time passes by, and Michael has been showering for a little over thirty minutes. You’re not used to him taking so long. After downing a glass of cold water, you make your way upstairs. There is no water running in the bathroom, only dead silence.

You swallow. What if he had a seizure and you weren’t there? In the bathroom, there are many edges he could split his head on. Your mind starts reeling with the worst-case scenarios, and it compels you to knock on the door to what you suspect is the bathroom.

“Michael?” you ask. “You alright in there?”

There is a moment of silence before he answers, “Yeah, grand.”

You sigh in relief, leaning your head against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

He whispers a quiet, “Yeah.”

You push the handle down and step into the bathroom. The mirror isn’t foggy yet, and the shower seems dry. Michael is sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his boxers, his eyes vacant as he stares at himself in the mirror.

Your brows furrow slightly. “Hey,” you murmur.

His head turns in your direction, but his eyes don’t meet yours. “I can’t get the blood off,” he says. His voice sounds like a monotone line. “I tried, but I…I can’t get it off. I never struggled t’ get blood off before, but it won’t…it won’t come off.”

It dawns on you. Your eyes soften as you stare at him, trailing over the stains on his neck, cheeks, and forehead. There is an unused sponge next to the towel he wet to get the blood off, but he didn’t succeed.

You grab it, turn on the water in the shower, grab some shampoo, and kneel beside him. His eyes finally meet yours and you offer a gentle smile. You start scrubbing his neck with the sponge, and the blood almost instantly dissolves under your touch.

The blood washes down the drain, followed by some of his tension. His eyes close. You try not to be so rough; he doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened any more than he already is every time he looks in the mirror.

Eventually, most of the blood is gone. His skin is reddened, but the physical reminder is gone.

You stop to stroke his cheek. “Are you okay?” you ask again.

He nods weakly, but it’s a lie. Truth is, he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling and it confuses him, which makes the numb pain in his chest so much worse.

Putting the sponge down, you take a step back. The water in the shower is warm now, you check, and you slowly start taking your clothes off.

Michael’s eyes fall on you and he frowns. “What’re you–”

You cut him off with a finger against his lips. “Take your clothes off,” you tell him.

He doesn’t question your intentions. He knows what you mean. With a grunt, he gets up and sheds his underwear. You’re already bare at this point, so you step into the shower first, making sure it’s comfortable for him when he steps in. His muscles need warmth, and his mind needs a break.

You pull him under the hot stream with a gentle tug of his hand. He has no choice but to succumb to your treatment; he’s exhausted, and your hands hold a magic he can’t get from anyone but you.

You gently use the sponge from before to glide across his skin, starting with his torso. Your touch is tender, massaging his sore muscles in the front and back, and whatever blood you missed before joins the leftover soap in the drain. The water turns clear, and the weight falls off his shoulders.

His skin itches and he still feels sticky with blood. He can’t get the picture of Jamie’s lifeless body off his mind. The memory is forever etched into his inner eyes, and he sees it clearly every time he closes his eyes. The darkness is bright red, the gunshots a melody in his ears that won’t stop, no matter how hard he tries to focus on the cascading water or your voice as you instruct him to twist and turn so you can clean him properly.

You probably can tell that he’s not okay, that he’s still thinking about what happened, but you don’t push him for answers. You don’t ask useless questions because it is clear that’s not what he needs right now. You respect his boundaries.

There is too much pain in his body, and he doesn’t know where to channel it all with his thoughts raining down on him like heavy bricks, hitting him in the head over and over again until he’s bloody and bruised.

He’s a mess, he can’t deny it any longer; he doesn’t want you to see him like this, but he physically can’t be alone. He doesn’t trust himself to be alone, and you’re the only one he can count on to care enough to leave him alone and just be there, which sounds ironic and makes no sense, but to him, it’s all that makes sense in his scrambled mind.

He called you because he knows you can be there for him while also giving him space. You broke up, or at least it felt that way, and he figured you wouldn’t come, but then you did and now he has to deal not only with watching Jamie get shot right in front of his eyes, but he has to deal with his feelings for you as well.

Though when he looks at you, he can tell you’re trying to keep the focus on him and not to speak of what happened, allowing a sense of tranquility to settle in between you. You want this to feel normal as much as he does, but there is no way you can erase what happened or forget just for one night, no matter how hard you both want to try.

It’s messy, but Michael can’t help but appreciate what you’re doing for him. You’re there for him, taking care of him without pushing him into anything he doesn’t want to do, and that’s exactly what he needs and deep down, it is the reason he called you anyway, even though his common sense told him not to.

The movement of the sponge against his back stops. He looks over his shoulder to find you staring at your hand on his skin and his eyebrows furrow.

Michael turns around to face you again. You snap out of it as soon as he moves, but there is still a glaze covering your eyes and turning the color of your irises darker than it should be.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You blink. “Sorry, I just…got lost in thought,” you lie.

He must not have noticed the bruise on his back. It lies close to his shoulder blame, looking almost like the imprint of a door handle. It's just a bruise, you try telling yourself, but you still stop and stare at it for longer than you should have.

A lump forms in your throat. The thought crosses your mind: it could have been him tonight. The terror of losing him, the idea of his life being snuffed out by senseless violence, sends a wave of panic through your body. Michael could have died tonight. A few inches more to the side and it wouldn't have been Jamie or Eric the bullets hit. He could have died and your last conversation would have been a fight that had no reason for turning into such a huge deal. It would have been your fault.

You take a moment to compose yourself, your hand gently retreating from the bruise on his back. It's haunting.

You've seen bruises before. You've seen worse, too. You've looked into the mirror before and seen the very same color on your own skin, and you covered it up because it was always just a bruise. But this is Michael, the man you love, and it proves to you just how fragile life is. It could end in an instant. You could have lost your life many times before. Your sister lost her life when she was just a toddler. Michael could have died at the hands of a gun tonight for seemingly no reason other than that he is a Kinsella, or maybe not even that's the case, and it slowly poisons you from the inside out.

Michael reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Hey, what's goin' on?” he asks. “You alright?”

He noticed you zoned out, but it's hard to breathe. It feels as if someone is sitting on your chest, not ready to budge. But this is not the place and time to panic. This isn't about you. You aren't traumatized. Lying to yourself is easier than admitting the truth. You are not the center of attention. It doesn't matter.

The things you keep telling yourself are enough fuel for the demons in your head to cruelly attack you further, but you signed up for this. You knew this would happen. You were a fool to even get involved in the first place and now look at you. You hate your mind and your body and the person you have become. It's not fair to him.

You meet his eyes. “You could have died tonight,” you whisper. You try not to break so he won't worry because it's the last thing he should do, but you're far too late for that.

Michael's expression softens, his thumb caressing your cheek gently. “I know. But I didn't,” he says. “I'm alive.”

His words, though comforting, don't ease your nerves. “It's not...I just can't wrap my head around it. You could have died tonight,” you repeat, and it hits you even harder. “Just...Dead.”

The weight of the guilt you carry threatens to consume you, but you push it aside, not wanting to burden him further.

He nods along, understanding very well what you mean, but he can't take the weight off your shoulders because he told you before that this is his life. “I know this is probably a lot to process...”

Taking a deep breath, you try to steady your voice. “No, no,” you insist. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let my thoughts wander like that. This is about you. I'm here to take care of you, not the other way around. Sorry.”

His smile, albeit gentle, also holds a certain amount of pity. “You’re incredible, you know tha?” he says.

You offer a small, appreciative smile in return, although it doesn't quite reach your eyes. The demons continue to torment you, but you steel yourself against their onslaught. This isn't the time or place for your own insecurities.

As you both stand in the shower, the water continues to cascade around you. Michael reaches for the sponge.

“I wanna take care of ya,” he says. “May I?”

You shake your head. “No. This isn't about me,” you are quick to respond. “I'll be fine.”

He steps closer, ignoring your protests. Gently, he takes the sponge from your hand. The sensation of his touch on your skin sends a jolt through your body.

As he washes away the remnants of the night, you allow yourself to lean into his touch.

“You matter, too,” he tells you. “I don’t know who told ya you don’t, but they were lyin’.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You can't talk. Instead, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.

He hugs you back, needing this just as much as you. The water continues to cascade over both of you, the steam creating a sanctuary within the confines of the shower. There's no need for words; his presence alone speaks volumes.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, your tears mingling with the water. They're silent and he probably doesn't notice. His eyes are closed just like yours, and he's heavily focused on the sound of your heartbeat to ground himself, and his hold tightens.

Time seems to lose its meaning as you cling to each other. The water's warmth envelops you, cocooning you both in its embrace.

Eventually, the need for air pulls you apart, though you remain close, foreheads pressed together. Michael brushes away a stray tear from your cheek. He doesn't ask about it. He rarely does.

“Okay?” he asks.

You manage a small nod. “Okay,” you answer.

He kisses your forehead, then turns the water off. The bathroom is still warm, but without the water, goosebumps are quick to form on your skin. Michael wraps you in a towel first, urging you to dry off, and he follows shortly after.

The next few minutes pass by in silence as he disappears into the bedroom to grab you both some clothes, and he returns with a shirt and a pair of boxers, handing you the same along with a pair of fuzzy socks because he knows you tend to get cold easily.

You take his offer with a small smile and continue to get dressed as well. Meanwhile, he takes your sweatpants and your sweater and hangs them somewhere where the rain can dry. It’s still pouring outside, you can hear it rattling against the window, but you don’t mind the background noise. It’s soothing, in a way.

“You want tea?” you ask him once you’re back downstairs.

Michael’s sitting at the dining table, his brown eyes empty as they stare up at you. He nods, and you get on it without asking any more questions.

You find his tea pretty quickly. Your kettles are the same, so you know how to use them. When it comes to getting the mugs out of the cupboard, you take a moment to search for them because his kitchen is obviously sorted differently than yours, but you also find them quickly without having to ask him.

You feel as if you’re navigating through your own home, which is strange because this house holds many memories that aren’t yours, and they hold bloodshed and trauma that also isn’t yours; Michael has been shouldering it all for years, and there must also be happy memories hiding in some corners that he can never get back now that all is ruined.

You feel bad for him, but you know pity is not something you want. Everyone deals with pain, trauma, and grief differently, and he’s not the type of guy who likes to be belittled. He just wants to be treated like a human being, show love, and be taken care of every once in a while because he has never been nurtured before.

It’s strange how easily you can read him and yet he’s still not an open book, while he is grappling for even the smallest piece of information from you because he thought you were an open book, but it all turned out the pretense and delusion on your part.

For someone who likes to watch people and get to know them, you suck at giving back. But you’ve also never been loved like this before, let alone by a man like Michael. He also knows people and he always finds out what he needs to study them, so it was only a question of time when he would have found something connecting to your past.

You figure this is what you get for falling for a Kinsella, and no matter what you do, you can’t pull away because you feel so deeply for him, this love is impossible to break. Besides, you pushed him away because of you, not because he’s a bad person or you’ve lost interest, which also adds to your pile of guilt that you very much feel like you deserve to carry around.

When you place the mug of Chamomile tea before him, you stop beside him. He looks at you, looks at the mug, and then his eyes meet your chest which is at level with his head. He contemplates before slowly placing his cheek where your heart seems to beat out of your chest.

Michael leans against you, and you instantly wrap your arm around him while your other hand tangles in his hair. He does the same, wrapping his arm around your waist, afraid you might leave him or drop him if he doesn’t. But your hold is strong and he soon realizes that you don’t mind holding him like this, not at all.

He listens to your heartbeat, the familiar rise and fall of your chest that he missed so terribly the other night, and the exhaustion starts to turn into drowsiness. He wants to sleep, but he knows that if he does, he will dream about what happened and then his mind is going to play tricks on him and he’s going to feel all the pain at once, together with whatever is fucked up in his brain. He hates that he knows how his night is going to go, and he hates that you might witness it in person this time.

But knowing you, you still wouldn’t pull away. When it comes to him, you never pull away, only if it’s making you feel vulnerable. But taking care of him is not something that would make you feel vulnerable, it only makes you feel responsible, and that’s why you stayed. You can’t help but help others, especially the ones you love, and he knows you love him deeply, you just struggle–he can’t blame you for that.

“Maybe you should finish your tea,” your chest rumbles when you talk. “And then we can move to the couch and you can rest a little. How does that sound?”

You always make sure he’s comfortable with what you’re doing.

Michael nods, weakly leaning back to finish his tea, and you do the same. The liquid is hot, but he can’t drink it fast enough.

Once his cup is empty, you guide him to the couch, making sure he's settled before joining him. He sits next to you for a moment, fidgeting with his fingers. It's as if he wants to ask something or make a move, but he doesn't know how. So, you simply open your arms in silence.

He takes the invitation, lowering his head into your lap, and you instinctively wrap your arm around him, holding him tightly. The weight of the world seems to press down on him, but in your arms, he finds peace.

You start dragging your nails across his scalp.

He lets out a soft sigh, his body relaxing further against you. His hair feels soft under your fingertips, like silk, almost. His hand rests on your thigh while the other rests on your arm that is wrapped around him. He's cradled almost like a baby, and he seems content with that. You're all over him, you even smell like him; the comfort you provide is something he can't put into words, but it feels good and it's exactly what he needs to finally fill his lungs with oxygen and let go. Just for a moment, he thinks, he wants to shut his mind off and focus on something other than the shit show his life has become.

Your voice breaks the serene silence. “How are you feeling?” you ask softly.

He stirs, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. “Empty,” he admits. “But hangin’ in there.”

You don't press him for more. Instead, you offer a gentle nod, silently acknowledging his answer. You continue to run your fingers through his hair like you did before.

As he begins to drift off, his breathing growing slower and more even, you hold him a little tighter, cherishing the vulnerability he allows you to witness. He didn't have to call you, but he did, and that shows that his feelings truly didn't waiver. With each stroke of your fingers against his scalp, you hope that it's enough to ease his troubled mind, even if just for a little while.

Your eyelids start drooping too, his weight and warmth dragging you down into the abyss with him. But you have always been a light sleeper, and sensitive to sound, too. There is nothing that can't wake you. Even breathing too loud could disturb your sleep, and you figure it's because you grew up as a vigilant child, but it could also be because of whatever is wrong with your mind. It never really mattered to you because, after some time of not being able to sleep, a person gets used to living like this, even if it's unhealthy.

Your eyes fly open when there is a knock on the door. You know you couldn't have imagined it because it happens again when you're a little more lucid.

Michael stirs. You gently move him off your lap and place him down on the pillows. It’s probably foolish to open the door on your own after what he got himself into, but he deserves to rest.

You take a deep breath before pushing the handle down. The woman standing across from you appears familiar, but you can’t put your finger on where you know her from at first.

“Hi!” you blurt out, crossing your arms over your chest. You introduce yourself and ask, “How can I help you?”

When the woman finally speaks, you realize where you know her from. The news articles you read online while researching Michael come back to mind and you can finally sort the face out.

“I need ta talk to Michael,” she says, her voice curt, and perhaps even the slightest glimmer of jealousy flickers in her eyes.

Amanda. She was the pretty brunette you saw in the Twitter thread about the Kinsella business, the owner of the car dealership, Michael’s former boss if you can even call her that. And she’s Jimmy’s wife, making her Jamie’s mother, and the same woman Michael told you are living next door to him. But she is–was–Jamie’s mother, and while you should feel bad, you also remember what Michael told you.

The way his family continues to treat him is awful and he doesn’t deserve it. He called you because he doesn’t want to be prodded by them, but Amanda still found her way over. You can’t blame her because she’s grieving, but you can blame her for everything else, the way they treated or saw him, and that makes you angrier than anything. You can’t feel bad for her when you don’t like her. Maybe that makes you a bad person, but she made herself the bad person when she and the rest of his family chose to treat the man you love like a pawn after he went through literal hell.

You know what it’s like to be expected to be there for everyone, to be the best and aim to please, and it sucks. He doesn’t deserve it. No one is a saint in this world and this life, especially, and Michael did horrible things in the past, but he’s working on himself and he has a good heart. You’re not so sure about Amanda and the rest of his family though.

Her eyes are red and she must have been crying, but you couldn’t care less.

Your expression tightens. “He’s resting,” you say. “It’s late, maybe you can come back in the morning–”

Amanda is quick to cut you off, and kindness seems to have gone lost on her. “It’s important,” she says.

“I know, but he had a rough night.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Amanda–I suppose it’s Amanda, right?”

She rolls her eyes.

“So it is you. I’m so sorry for your loss–”

“I don’t have time fer this. I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, but I don’t care. I’m gonna speak to Michael whether ya like it or not, so if you know what’s good for ya, yer gonna move out of my way now so I can–”

Just as she’s about to reach out and physically push you aside so she can enter, footsteps approach behind you and another hand finds its way to your elbow and pulls you back.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Michael asks, his voice a little groggy.

He stands between you and Amanda now, and her demeanor changes the second she lays eyes on him.

“Michael,” Amanda breathes.

He only briefly acknowledges her, taking more time to move you behind him to shield you from any possible danger (or in this case, Amanda’s personality).

“You have a minute? I need t’ talk to ya. Please? It’s about Jamie.”

Oh, so she can say please. She just hates you. You never met this woman and you don’t know what you could have done to upset her in the few seconds you stood across from each other, but she’s really starting to show her true colors.

Michael stiffens at the mention of the boy’s name, and he looks over his shoulder at you. You’re not sure what he wants to hear, so you simply stare back.

Turning back to Amanda, he sighs. “First of all, don’t touch her,” he says, and although it sounds calm, there is a certain power hiding in his voice that comes from deep within, a certain sense of protection. “She has nothin’ t’do with wha happened tonight, so don’t drag her into this. She never did anythin’ to ya. Calm down.”

“I just need a moment alone with ya,” Amanda retorts, defending herself. “Please, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head. His stern eyes divert and turn back toward you. He tells her to wait before pulling you aside.

“You want me to send her to hell?” you ask once she’s out of earshot. “Because I know I may not look like it, but I actually know how to punch someone.”

He chuckles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s alright,” he tells you. “I’m gonna be fine. Just give us a minute, alright?”

You’re not happy. For one, you don’t want to leave him alone, and two, he told you about how determined his family is to persuade him into doing things he doesn’t want to do, and that’s also a reason why you don’t want to leave him alone with her. But she said it’s about Jamie and maybe it’s not as deep as you think it is, just two grieving people talking about the life they lost. She’s a mother, she lost her child, and Michael lost a family member. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not as serious as you think it is and they just need a minute to talk.

You put your protectiveness aside and nod, although still hesitant.

“If anything’s wrong, you call for me,” you say. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Michael nods in response, leaning forward to press his lips on your forehead. You close your eyes. He’s good at calming you down, but even better at persuading you. You caress his cheek one last time before heading for the stairs, thinking going to the bedroom might give them enough space.

You glance at the two one last time on your way up, Amanda enters the house down, and he drags her out of your eyesight into the kitchen behind the wall. You sigh. Eavesdropping wouldn’t be cool, and why are you jealous anyway? Your mind is messed up, you think to yourself, and this is none of your business. So you sigh again, resisting the urge to be an idiot and make your way back upstairs to give them some privacy to talk things out.

Once upstairs, you find yourself pacing the room. It's difficult to silence the thoughts swirling in your mind. They threaten to consume you.

As you walk back and forth, you attempt to distract yourself by focusing on the mundane details of the room. The flickering lamp on the nightstand, the familiar scent of the sheets, and the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. But these simple things do little to ease your mind.

You find yourself glancing at the clock; time feels like an eternity, and the silence in the house amplifies the turmoil within you.

Eventually, you force yourself to sit down on the edge of the bed, urging yourself to take deep breaths. You remind yourself that Michael knows what he's doing, that he can handle himself. Yet, a nagging voice in the back of your mind insists that something is terribly wrong and he needs you or else he will fall apart.

Minutes turn into what feels like hours, and the silence becomes unbearable. You consider going back downstairs, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer. But then the sound of the front door closing abruptly makes the decision for you.

You hesitate. Does that mean you can come back? There are no footsteps, only silence, even when you momentarily open the door to listen.

“Fuck it,” you mutter to yourself before making your way back downstairs.

It’s your gut that is telling you to move, and you choose to follow it this time.

Walking into the kitchen, you notice that Amanda is gone, but her presence still seems to linger in the atmosphere. You can smell her perfume, and you figured they must have hugged, but then your eyes fall on Michael and your heart breaks.

He’s leaning over the dining table, both hands gripping the edges. His eyes are closed. He looks like he’s in excruciating pain, and it makes you worry about what conspired between him and his sister-in-law to change his mood this quickly. Talking about someone you lost with a now childless mother is one thing, but the way his face contorts holds more than just grief.

“Michael,” you call out for him softly. “Is everything alright?”

The only answer you receive is silence.

You reach out to touch his shoulder. “Hey, talk to me. What happened?” you ask.

Your hand doesn’t even brush him before he pulls away, shaking his head. He whispers something you can’t hear, maybe it’s a curse, but his eyes remain shut. There is something on his tongue waiting to be uttered, but he seems almost scared of saying it.

Your eyebrows furrow even more. The worry shoots straight through your veins, paralyzing you. You’re not sure what to do or what even is going on; you don’t understand and it’s frustrating because you just want to help, but he doesn’t seem to know what he wants.

Sometimes, when there is a truth to be shared, your mind shuts off, afraid of admitting it because then that truth will become real and you no longer have a defense to show for yourself. You know how it is because you live by that rule every damn day of yourself, and you only now realize how much it hurts to see someone you love struggling but not knowing why, and you could kick your own ass for being so naive.

“Michael,” you try again.

This time though, he cuts you off. “Jamie, he was…” He swallows. His voice breaks like a glass that just hit the cement. “He was…He was my boy.”

The words reach your ears and your brain begins to process them, but it takes a moment for you to realize what they mean. It’s not just any statement, it is the raw truth, and it’s a truth that hurts. It’s a truth that breaks.

You frown, your brain still busy connecting the dots, when he says, “Jamie was my son.”

His eyes fall on you, and that’s when it clicks.

Oh.

OH.

Michael grew up surrounded by violence. He was shot many times before and went through a lot in the past. He was there when his wife got killed. Watching someone get shot was nothing new for him. You never questioned his reaction to the events; he had every right to be shaken up because he’s only human, after all, but now that you think about it, his reaction hinted at how much the person who got killed meant to him and you didn’t even realize. He is downright traumatized, and someone who used to hurt people for a living would not have had that much of an emotional reaction except if the victim meant more to him.

Jamie was his son. Not his nephew, his son. It all becomes frighteningly clear to you. The fact he even shared it with you is one thing, but it’s a truth you don’t think is meant for the whole world to hear, and that makes it so much deeper.

You place a hand in front of your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes. You know you’re supposed to say something, but right now, you’re speechless.

You never lost a child, but you know what it’s like to lose someone as close to feeling like a child as it could possibly get, and you know how badly it hurts. And it hurts even more if you don’t get to grieve, or if people don’t take it seriously and expect more from you. It hurts, it’s vile and it paralyzes you.

How is he still standing?

“Amanda and I…We…It was a stupid mistake. A lapse in judgment. I never meant ta…But I was so full of hatred and self-pity and she…God, she can be so cruel. Tempting. And she…she was miserable too. We both were. And then we just…It was a fuckin’ bad idea,” he says. His voice is quivering and you’re only counting the seconds before he’ll break.

Michael is spiraling, but is there even anything you could do to stop him? He’s confiding in you, and if this is his way to get it off his chest, you don’t want to stop him, even though you can tell it hurts him. You’re shocked and confused and all you can do is listen.

“Never told Jimmy ‘cause that would’ve been…It was so stupid, but it kept happenin’, and then…then she got pregnant and I thought…I thought it’d be Jimmy’s, but then she tells me it’s mine, tha she’s carryin’ my child…I didn’t know what t’do ‘cause we swore we’d never tell anyone, so she just made him believe Jamie was his, but he knows,” he scoffs, “Jimmy…I know he knows. Jamie…Jamie didn’t know. I was Uncle Michael, but I was there and I watched him grow up as much as I could, and fuck! I fuckin’ knew he was mine just from lookin’ at him. I couldn’t…Couldn’t even deny it ta make me feel better. He was my boy.”

He pushes himself off the dining table, his eyes finally opening and meeting yours. The tears are instantly visible. You want to reach out, but maybe this is a line you should only cross once he’s ready for it, and he doesn’t seem ready right now.

“I was s’posed ta protect him,” his voice is barely above a whisper before it raises again, filled with agonizing guilt. “But I…I failed. And now…now he’s fuckin’ dead! Amanda’s right, I should’ve…I could’ve done somethin’, but I failed and tha’s my fault. Shit!” he cries out and his fist hits the wood of the table hard enough to make it shake.

He turns away. Now you know he’s crying, and at this point, your own tears are staining your cheeks. You can’t help it.

Michael swallows. “He was my boy,” he repeats, “and now he’s dead. He’s…He’s gone.”

And he watched him die.

“Oh, God–” He chokes up.

You call his name, but you’re not sure if it’s even audible. You step forward, letting your body do the talking, and you envelop him in your arms before he can break down on the floor. His needy hands dig into your hips as he hugs you back, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, and he finally lets it out. He held back all night for probably the very same reason he just bared to you–Jamie was his son, he watched him get shot and now he’s gone. He didn’t process it before, and Amanda probably forced him to face it and then put her first instead, and it all became too much.

He has every right to break down; you’re glad it’s in your arms and not on his own, or with someone who doesn’t understand. You’re not sure you can understand enough, but you’re trying to because you’re familiar with the pain, at least. Everyone deals with it differently, but you understand, even in silence. And so you hold him as he sobs into your arms, your tears mingling with his, but the room is only filled with the sound of his broken heart. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever seen before.

You hold him as tight as you can, making sure he knows you’re his lifeline and you’re not going anywhere. He’s not a burden, he just needs someone to take care of him. Who are you to deny him that?

He lost his son…It still hasn’t settled in fully, but it’s the brutal reality you have to look in the eyes the same way he does. It hurts, but he took the first step and admitted it, and maybe your touch is enough to at least piece him back together enough before he can fully slip away.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

His breath gets caught in his throat and he hiccups. You rub his back. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re not alone…”

You don’t tell him everything’s going to be okay because that would be some pretentious shit you don’t want to expose him to. You know it’s not something you want to hear after losing someone dear to you because you often know that it’s not true.

He cries until he has no more tears left, and his body is almost limp in your arms. You continue to hold him. His breath hitches, but his sobs quiet down. The tears continue to spill, but even those eventually start to subside. You’re standing there for a little while longer, giving him what he wants, letting him take what he needs, and his erratic heartbeat eventually aligns with yours as he focuses on his breathing.

“Sorry,” his breath is hot against your shoulder. “I shouldn’t have–” he says.

Michael leans back, rubbing his wet eyes. They’re swollen and reddened, and his lips are dry now. Your eyes soften. He’s trying to take the blame again; he’s trying to downplay his pain because he’s not used to being able to share and then not having to give anything in return. He hardly ever shares his feelings.

You sigh, your hands resting on his shoulders. Your eyes stare sternly into his, and he reminds you of a deer caught in headlights.

“Guess the cat’s out the bag now,” – he sniffles – “Sorry ‘bout tha. Yer shirt’s soaked. And…” A pained sound forms in the back of his throat when he sees your tears, and he reaches out to wipe them away. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head softly. “Don’t you dare apologize right now,” you say.

You take his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers with his. You guide him to a nearby chair and urge him to sit down while you grab him some water and a tissue. He doesn't protest, almost too weak to even move.

When you come back and clean his cheeks, his eyes are no longer vacant. He allowed himself to feel, and while the guilt becomes stronger now, it seems as if deep down, he acknowledges that he needed this. It was a huge display of trust you don't deserve, but he shared his truth with you and now you get to take care of him. He trusts you enough still; that's supposed to be a good thing, no matter how much you hate yourself for it.

You meet his gaze, your eyes filled with compassion and understanding as your hand rests on his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for,” you insist. “You don't need to apologize for telling me the truth. I can't even fathom how much you're hurting right now, but I'm glad you told me. So don't apologize. Not...not for this, not for anything, because you never did anything wrong. Jamie's death is not your fault. He was your son and shit happened and now it hurts like hell and that's okay. It's okay to let it out, to let yourself feel. You have to or...or you'll break. I know you're probably expected to move on right away, and that it's been like this every time you lost someone or something, but that's not right,” you say. “Your family...They should care about you and your pain too, so if not for them, take a break for me. You deserve to just let it all out. You deserve to grieve.”

His hand untangles from yours to cradle your cheek. “Don’t cry,” he says. “Not ‘cause o’ me.”

You place your hand over his on your cheek, intertwining your fingers with his.

“You don't have to worry about me,” you assure him. “I'll be okay. I just…feel for you, that’s all. You're the one who needs comfort right now, and that's what I'm here for.”

You feel his grip on your hand tighten, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his gaze is raw, yet there's a glimmer of gratitude shining through.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You nod. “We’ll be alright.”

A moment of silence follows. He finishes his glass of water, slowly regaining composure, but his voice still breaks when he talks again. “Amanda wanted to know his last words,” he tells you. “We talked about boxin’ in the car and he made fun of Eric’s flat tire ‘cause he thought it was funny. He…he died quickly. He didn’t suffer or anythin’. Tha’s supposed t’ make me feel better, right? That he died quickly. But it…it doesn’t make me feel better. It makes it feel so much worse and I don’t understand why.”

You wipe your cheeks. Jamie was just a boy. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into this, and now a lot of lives are in shambles because of what happened.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can answer.

Michael shakes his head. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You came,” he says. “You didn’t have ta, but ya came anyway.”

You shrug. “You called.”

Another tear slides down his cheek. Tears always find a treacherous way back once they’ve subsided. He groans, dropping his face in his hands.

Just when you thought he was out of the woods, the downward spiral begins again.

The whole day weighs heavy on your heart, and you're barely keeping it together as it is, but you soon realize Michael is worse off than you thought, and your blood threatens to boil over. He breaks the silence eventually with a bitter scoff that turns into a chuckle, somehow managing to send shivers down your spine that you wouldn't count as pleasant. Your eyes fall on him; you're confused and you frown, but the look on his face is just as alarming as it is unsettling.

“This is so stupid,” you catch him muttering to himself.

You tilt your head to the side. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“I'm such a fuckin' failure,” Michael's voice cracks.

You look at him, but whatever he’s trying to say doesn’t become any clearer. He can see it on your face that you’re not following. His jaw locks. He clenches his teeth and his fists; it must hurt how hard he’s doing it, but perhaps this is the whole point of his behavior. To hurt himself.

“I couldn't even protect my own son,” he says, his voice matching the bitter look in his eyes. “I let him down. Just like I let Anna down. She's my daughter, and I can't even properly fight for her. Couldn’t get my shit together, and after wha happened to Jamie... no court is gonna say yes t'me gettin' her back now. I fucked up again 'cause I was so caught up in my own feelings. I hurt ya, I hurt Anna, Allison, and now Jamie's dead. Everythin' and everyone around me dies.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. It's a struggle to keep your composure, to hold back the torrent of emotions building inside you. “What?” you ask quietly, hoping you just misheard, but you didn't.

“You heard me,” he says, your name now sounding condescending rather than soft and sweet. “I'm a bad father and you can't tell me it didn't cross yer mind tha I'm a failure when I told ya the truth. It’d be a lie.”

“It wouldn’t be a lie,” your voice is barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, it would.”

“No…”

“Yes. Don’t act like I’m a saint or- or tha any of this makes me a good person.”

But the weight becomes too much to bear, and with a mix of desperation and anger, you finally let it all out.

Was this how you sounded the other night? You're appalled. The anger lands in your veins like an injection from a needle straight into your bloodstream, and the heat rises to your cheeks as your heart starts working double time.

“Like father like son,” Michael says, and this one is directed at himself. “Ruinin' everythin' in my way since the day I was born and I still pretended it was all gonna work out. And the worst part is, if I told anyone in my family, they'd agree with me 'cause they like rubbin' salt in every goddam wound. I don't even exist as a human being t’ them, and maybe I don't deserve t'be treated like one. I don't even fuckin' care anymore. I'm just...done. And Anna deserves better. I should’ve never tried gettin’ her back. She’ll only suffer. I–”

“Stop it!” you cry out, cutting him straight off like a knife, and he looks too stunned to speak. He has never heard you yell before.

The door of the fridge slams shut and your beer bottle almost breaks upon impact with the kitchen counter. The room grows eerily quiet, only filled with your labored breathing and a soft whimper from Michael's end when he looks at you and sees the pain in your eyes.

“Just stop with this self-loathing bullshit!” you snap.

The tears are right there, and you can't stop them, but you also don't want to because he is an idiot and you're sick and tired of hearing him claim things that aren't true. This is partly your fault. Rage makes you blind, but perhaps this is exactly what you two needed; you had to reach your breaking point to finally open up the way he did, and now everything's right there on the table, your heart bleeding out into the palm of his hands.

“You want to know what a bad father is?” You look at him, your eyes big and challenging. “I can tell you, Michael,” you say.

He stares at you, speechless.

“I've lived through it. I endured it day in and day out for almost nineteen years, and then, when I was free, I signed up for another two years of hell for the sake of being the person people expected me to be. A bad father is the one who killed my little sister. My three-year-old little sister. She was defenseless,” you say.

Michael’s jaw drops. “Jesus,” the word slips past his lips like a mere breath

But you’re not done. The words tumble out of your mouth and you can’t stop them. So you continue, “A bad father is the man who abused me, who made me feel worthless every breathing second of my life since I was a baby. A bad father is a man who played favorites and took his anger out on me, had two more children, and still used me as a punching bag just because I wasn't the daughter he wanted. A bad father is a man who constantly abuses his wife to the point she developed epilepsy and makes his children deal with the aftermath. That's a bad father!”

Tears stream down your face as the floodgates of pain open wide. You can’t see anything but the color red, sadness disguised as rage, and it all blurs together.

“You, Michael, you're not a bad father. You're far from it,” you tell him. No, you insist. He needs to listen because it’s the truth. “You're decent. You're human. You have a soul and a heart, which my father didn't have, and that's what a monster is,” you say. “You loved Jamie, and you love Anna. You're grieving, and you're hurting because you loved Jamie, and it's tearing you apart. I get that. Trust me, I do, because the little girl I was talking about, my sister? Yeah, I was the one who raised her, so when she died, it felt like I was burying my own child. You're allowed to feel all the pain you fucking want, but don't you dare compare yourself to a monster like my father is. You're not a bad father because you're nothing like him. So just shut up...please!”

You slack with your back against the kitchen counter. You said it all in one breath. You feel a little dizzy, and the panic makes your mind swirl. What did you just do?

You take a moment to process, but you can't, not really, because the wave of the endless ocean crashes into you and you've never learned how to swim, so you're drowning now, and no one seems to be close enough to save you. Not that you want to be saved, but it's your father's voice that's haunting you, and you keep seeing your own failures right before your eyes every time you close them. You have nowhere to go but to surrender.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper. “I didn't mean to...I just...I...”

You can't breathe. You collapse into a nearby chair, your body trembling as you struggle to regain control. Michael's eyes are wide, a mix of shock and realization filling them. The silence between you is suffocating, the air heavy with the weight of your revelations. But the air keeps getting thinner, and the water is up to your lungs by now. You feel like you're dying, and none of the things you keep telling yourself, the rational things, are working. You're officially lost at sea.

Michael reaches out to touch your shoulder, but you flinch away, instinctively recoiling from any physical contact.

Your breathing is rapid, and you feel the need to move. Without a word, you push yourself up from the chair and pace back and forth, your hands shaking.

“I'm sorry,” you begin again, and you try not to yell so much this time. “I never meant to hurt you the other night. I didn't want to push you away. I never fall in love, I keep people at a distance, and it hurts, but that's why I choose bad men to hurt me so it makes things easier.”

Your voice is thick with tears. “You're not like that. And I don't know what it's like to be loved or have someone so willing to protect me by my side,” you say. “It's just so scary, Michael! I panicked when you found the file, and everything just spiraled out of control. I wanted to tell you, but then I didn't, and I just reacted because that's what always happens. I never had anyone to talk to about it. I...It triggered me, and then I got drunk, and then I...I fucked up, okay? I've been carrying this burden for so long, and I didn't know how to share it, or how to trust anyone with the truth, so I kept it hidden. I was so alone..."

Your words spill out in a torrent, your sentences blending together as your desperation takes hold.

“It's been six years, and I've kept it all inside, the truth about what happened to my sister, the truth about our father. I have no proof,” you admit. “I tried finding it, but I eventually gave up, and I moved–and my other sister is all alone in that hellhole and I've been trying to get her back, but he...he told me he'd kill me if I ever got near her or that case again, and I stopped because I saw no point, but I...I got drunk–” Your voice cracks and you choke on a broken sob.

“It's dangerous to know, and I don't even know what I'm doing, but I thought it best to do it alone than drag anyone into it,” – You sniffle, wiping your cheeks furiously, but the tears continue to fall – “You were so caught up with your own shit, with Anna, and this could hurt you and her and I can't let that happen,” you say. “I couldn't...but I don't know what to do anymore. I'm scared, Michael. I'm so scared...”

The weight becomes too much to bear. Your legs weaken, and you stumble, your body threatening to crumble under the overwhelming weight of your pain. You start seeing dark spots from the leg of oxygen, and you start to think that that's it. It's over. Just as you're about to collapse, Michael moves swiftly, catching you in his arms.

“Hey, hey,” he says. “I've got you. Deep breaths.”

He can feel your body trembling against his. Your heartbeat is hammering against your ribcage. He can feel the weakness of your muscles due to the lack of air, and his fingers dig into your skin a little more to make you feel something other than the fear that is keeping the sobs stuck in your throat.

“It's alright…” He cradles the back of your neck and pulls you closer, urging you to listen to his own heartbeat to ground yourself. “You’re safe now. I'm here. Just breathe with me, slowly. In and out.”

You reach out for the lifeline thrown at you. Another wave hits you, but you make it to the surface to hold onto the rope. It's steady and strong, and you cling to it. With each breath, his steady rhythm begins to synchronize with yours, and the chaos within you starts to calm.

He brushes a gentle hand through your hair. “Shh,” his lips press to your ear, “Keep breathin’. That’s it. Good girl.”

You shudder. “I’m so sorry,” you whimper in his arms. You’re a mess of snot and tears, but he still doesn’t pull away.

“No,” it’s his turn to tell you, “You have nothin’ to apologize for.”

“But I hurt you. I pushed you away–”

“Water under the bridge,” he says.

“No, that’s not how it should be! You should hate me. You should–”

His hands find your face and he holds you rather sternly, forcing you to meet his eyes, even though he looks blurry. “Hey, listen to me!” You try to struggle out of his grip, but he’s stronger. “Listen,” he says, “I love ya with all I have, and I haven’t said tha to anyone in a very long time. You were hurt, you were traumatized and in pain, and tha is not your fault, do you hear me? It’s not your fault. It never was.”

His words penetrate the chaos swirling within you, reaching the core of your being. The strength of his love and unwavering support begins to chip away at the walls you've built around yourself. It's a fragile and delicate process, but it's a start.

You take a shaky breath, allowing his words to sink in. His presence anchors you. The panic begins to subside. You sync your breathing with his.

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “That’s it. You’re doing great. Just keep breathin’. I’ve got ya.”

Michael lowers his forehead against yours, his hands never leaving your face, and you hold onto his strong arms, afraid he might not be there if you let go. “I know it's overwhelming,” he says, “But yer safe here with me. You don't have ta carry this burden alone anymore. I'm here, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect ya and help yer sister. But for tha, I need you to trust me and let me in.”

You sniffle, meeting his eyes with your teary ones. “Will you let me in, too?” you ask in return, your voice hoarse from crying.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I’ll let ya in. I’ll tell ya anythin’ you wanna know. Just ask.”

You let out a shaky breath. The weight that had been pressing on your chest finally begins to lift.

“Thank you,” you whisper back. “For not leaving.”

Michael's lips curl into a soft smile, and he brushes a gentle kiss against your forehead. “I'd never leave ya.”

You lean into his touch. As the minutes tick by, you both remain entwined. No words are needed. The softness of his touch and the steady rhythm of your breathing become a symphony, gently mending the cracks in your heart.

With your head resting against his chest, you listen to the steady beat of his heart. The world outside may be chaotic, but in his arms, you belong.

“I love you,” you confess. It feels like the first time you shared those three words to each other.

His grip on you tightens. “I love you too,” he says back without hesitation. “So fuckin’ much,” he says. “You have no idea.”

You realize something then: You were never alone. It just took you far too long to open your eyes and see him right in front of you. He has been there from the beginning and you didn’t realize. You were almost too late.

As it turns out, telling the truth isn’t as bad as you first expected it to be. At least not with Michael because he truly loves you and you believe him now that he would do anything to keep you safe. Why it took you so long, you don’t know, but you still curse yourself for it.

In the warm cocoon of his arms, you allow yourself to breathe. You allow yourself to finally let go of everything. “We have to talk, don't we?” you break the serene silence, your voice still barely above a whisper.

He nods. “Yeah, we do.”

“Okay–” You straighten your shoulders. “Let’s talk then.”

It has been a long time coming for you to finally trust each other enough to talk. It won’t be easy, but the stakes are higher now, and you have proven to be able to stand through everything together, so a little conversation would be the last thing to break you apart. There are worse dangers out there, and you would face them, together.

Tagging: (let me know if you want to be tagged, too!) @bellaxgiornata @mattmurdocksscars @ms-murdockswift @your-not-invisible-to-me @shouldbestudying41 @acharliecoxedfan @glowstick-lesbian @roseallisonparker @norestfortheshelbywicked @1988-fiend @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattkinsella @schneeflocky

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella fluff #kin amc #reader insert #chaos theory #charlie cox

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