#michael kinsella

[bellaxgiornata]

I am completely normal about big, violent, fictional men who want to fuck you like you're made of glass.

[kendallsroyco]

Charlie Cox but his chest hair keeps increasing 🤤

[mattmurdeaux]

CHARLIE COX + The HIMBO, WHORE, and DILF strut

STARDUST (2007)

DAREDEVIL (2015)

KIN (2023)

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Comfort Headcanons for Frank, Matt, and Mikey

A/n: so I am ridiculously overwhelmed by personal and political stuff right now. And I told myself I was going to write every day this week if possible, but my brain was being difficult today. So instead of working on a longer fic I wrote some self-indulgent headcanons about Frank, Matt, and Mikey caring for an overwhelmed partner. I hope you all enjoy. Please feel free to send me other headcanon requests!

How would they’d react to you being overwhelmed

Frank

Frank would pick up on this IMMEDIATELY

the second your self care habits change, he’s onto you. You stay up later than normal two nights in a row, or run out the door with a granola bar instead of eating a real breakfast, and he is concerned™️

He’s willing to entertain it for three days max. He knows life gets tough sometimes, and he doesn’t want to encroach on your process—but we all know that once this man is worried, he’s minutes away from taking control. He has issues but we love him for it.

On the 4th day, when you’re waking up exhausted after far too little sleep and rejecting his offer to take you out for breakfast, he puts his foot down.

“Gonna order in for dinner tonight, ok? We can watch that movie you wanted to see and turn in early.”

You hastily agree, bolting out the door before you end up late to your job.

When you finally arrive home, he’s all over you in an instant. Murmuring his hellos while helping you out of your coat and shoes, ushering you over the couch.

He’s insisting that you sit in his lap while the two of you pick out dinner, offering suggestions for restaurants instead of leaving the choice open-ended. Given how tired and generally stressed you seem, he wants to take as much weight off your shoulders as possible.

Once dinner has been ordered, he tucks you close to his chest, practically burying you in a jumble of muscular limbs, humming appreciatively when you nuzzle further into his space. His hand is cupped around your nape, thumb gently brushing over your spine as you hunch toward him.

“Ready to talk about what’s botherin’ ya, doll?” The question leaves room to decline, but his stern tone suggests you choose to answer.

He listens carefully as you tell him what’s on your mind, brushing silent kisses against your forehead whenever your breath wavers around a stifled sob. His hands never move from your skin, cradling you to him like he’s trying to absorb your pain.

He wouldn’t let you lift a finger the rest of the night. Retrieving the take out, dishing it up for you, drawing you a bath, tucking you into bed

When you’re beginning to drift off atop his giant shoulder, he’d rest his forehead against yours.

“I know it’s tough right now. But we’ll get through. I promise.”

“Please don’t leave, Frank.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, babydoll.”

Matt

Matt isn’t as observant of your habits and routines, but he can sure as hell pick up changes in body language.

Gritting teeth, blinking back tears, frustrated sighs—he notices all of it. He might not act on it immediately, brushing it off when you explain that you just had a bad day, but when your fatigue and growing apathy persist…

I think you hiding something from him would spook him for sure, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be determined to get answers out of you. He’d set his personal anxieties aside and prepare for a serious talk.

He’d leave the office somewhat early, asking you to meet him at his apartment. He’d offer you a beer, or whatever you were in the mood for (if his lacking fridge and pantry allowed for it), and he’d ask you the big question.

“You aren’t yourself lately. What’s going on?”

He’s not happy when you start crying, but he’s definitely relieved when you collapse into his arms and explain your recent mood. Even more so when you confess it had nothing to do with him.

As always, he harbors immense guilt for not being there, not being endlessly supportive, not being able to solve the issues gnawing at you with his own two fists.

But what he doesn’t realize is that he’s helping just by being there. By being present and absentmindedly squeezing you with his tree-trunk arms. By acknowledging your struggles and offering what he could.

He’d cut his patrols short for a few days, nearly begging you to sleep at his loft instead of in your own bed, so he could keep a metaphorical eye on you. He sleeps better with you by his side anyway.

Mikey

You’re Michael’s whole world, so he’d know you were overwhelmed before you realized it yourself.

As soon as he spotted the stress lines on your face, he’d be on his feet, trying his best to lighten the burden.

He’d walk you to and from work, as always, maybe even stopping by to keep you company on your lunch hour.

When he wasn’t with you, or ignoring his family, he’d be constantly cleaning the house and working through your joint to do list, taking task after task off your plate so you could properly decompress.

He wouldn’t pressure you to talk to him about it, but he’d give you the option.

“I’m here if ya want to talk, pet. Anytime ya need.”

And, of course, you’d take him up on it. Explaining that you could handle everything and you didn’t want him to overwhelm himself trying to help you because it was just a pile of small things that were wearing you down. But he’d have none of it.

“I wanna do this fer ya. Let me help, love.”

He’d bundle you in a knit blanket on the couch and set the tv to your favorite show, kissing the top of your head before heading to the kitchen to clean up after dinner.

I hope you enjoyed! And I hope you’re all doing ok this week. It’s rough out there.

[theimpalatales]

Kin

Buy me a ☕️

[shiorimakibawrites]

Mo Ghrá (Kin Fan Fic)

Words: ~1500 Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader Summary: You're on your period and you miss Mikey. Warning: Period symptoms, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, pumpkin obsession Masterlist / A03 Tags: @bellaxgiornata, @shouldbestudying41, @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland, @lulukings92

This little story interrupted the writing of "Bound". Guess Mikey wanted a little attention.

Thanks to @shouldbestudying41 for the title suggestion.

Mo Ghrá

You were on the couch, trying to find a position that was comfortable. It was a struggle. Your abdomen was in favor of the fetal position. Your lower back disagreed. Vehemently. Right now you were seeing if on your side, pillows supporting your back and heating pad pressed against your belly, would work.

You hoped so. You were so tired. You had gotten, maybe, two hours of sleep last night. If you added it all up. Yesterday hadn’t been much better. You had called off work, knowing there was no way you were hauling your ass into the office. Not today.

After failing for umpteenth time to find a comfortable position on your bed, you had given up on it. The couch wasn’t much of an improvement. Best thing you could say is that it wasn’t covered in sheets that smelled like stale sweat. You needed to change your bedding but that sounded like far too much work today . . . maybe, if you got lucky, you’d find the energy to fix that before attempting to sleep tonight.

You wished Michael was here. You wanted to bury your face in his chest hair while he rubbed your back with those large, warm hands. You wanted his voice softly murmuring into your hair. But you stayed at your place last night and yesterday night. Like an idiot. You didn’t know what Past You had been thinking. Probably some nonsense about needing to spend some time at your own place since you were still paying rent . . .

But you were also glad that Michael wasn’t here. Because you felt gross. You had scrapped up just enough energy for a shower this morning. But it was the second day of your period. When you had the worst cramps and the heaviest bleeding. So it didn’t take long for the refreshed, clean feeling to disappear.

You whimpered when another cramp ripped through your abdomen. The painkillers were wearing off. Granted, the ibuprofen was barely dulling your cramp pain. And it did absolutely nothing for your headache . . . But it was all you had. In a minute, you would get up and take more. Refill your water bottle while you were up. In a minute . . .

The knock on the door startled you. You weren’t expecting any company. Michael had mentioned something about running errands when you had called him to cancel your lunch date. Another disappointment, you had been looking forward to that date . . . you weren’t going anywhere special. Just the little cafe that you two had discovered that had really good coffee. Really good everything actually. Anna liked it too . . .

Another knock alerted you to that you had gone woolgathering instead of getting up and answering the door. It was tempting to pretend not to be home. But curiosity won out. Reminding yourself that you needed more medicine and water anyway, you wiggled out of your blanket cocoon and stood up.

Your abdomen protested the loss of the heating pad with an enormous cramp. The kind that made you double-up and brought tears to your eyes. It only lasted a few seconds but it felt like an eternity. You slowly straightened back up, then shuffled just as slowly toward the door. You reached it just as a third knock came. Whoever this person was, they were persistent.

You unlocked and opened the door to discover Michael standing here, a soft smile on his handsome, bearded face. “There ya are, pet. I was startin’ to think I had missed ya.”

“Mikey!” you said, torn between delight and embarrassment. You were happy to see him, of course, but you were also a mess. Crazy hair still wet from the shower, wearing old sweats, oversized tee shirt, and one of his hoodies. The one that you had shamelessly stolen from his house the last time you were over there.

Your unattractive messiness felt especially stark today. Michael’s hair and beard was neatly combed. He was wearing jeans, the ones that displayed just how fine that very fine ass of his was. And that sage green sweater that you had bought him, that really brought out those little flecks of green in his eyes, peeked out from under his jacket.

“I thought you were busy today?” You said.

“Just a few things,” he said. “Can I come in, pet? The coffee's gettin’ cold.”

“Coffee?” you repeated, suddenly realizing that one of his hands was occupied. In it was a drink carrier with two coffees in it. Coffees with the name of the little shop written across the cups. You also noticed a small white bag with the same logo dangling from that wrist. A bag that smelled like fresh-baked pumpkin bread.

Your mouth watered. You hadn’t eaten much today. Just lacked the energy and had been vaguely nauseous. You had nibbled on a cereal bar with some tea hoping that it would stay down. It did. But the nausea remained and nothing sounded appealing . . . not until your nose caught a whiff of that pumpkin.

“Pumpkin bread?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “And yer pumpkin spice latte.”

“Really?!”

“I know ya love yer pumpkin,” he said.

He was right. You loved pumpkin. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin pie. Pumpkin cookies. Pumpkin spice coffee. One of your favorite things about autumn was all the pumpkin things you could find. Michael had teased you about it, said it was very American. You had retorted that his snobbiness about whiskey was very Irish of him.

Remembering that he was still standing on your doorstep and it was a rather brisk autumn day, you moved to the side and ushered him inside. You watched him move through your living room. Particularly when he bent down to put the coffees down on the little table. As predicted, his ass looked incredible in those jeans . . . you felt a spark of irritation at the universe. If only you weren’t on your period right now . .

As if to remind you of that little fact, you got another cramp. It wasn’t quite as bad as the last one but it still had you pressing your hands against your abdomen in a vain attempt to stop the pain. A pointed reminder that you needed to take that ibuprofen and put the heating pad back on. While Michael sliced off a few pieces from the loaf of pumpkin bread, you slipped off to the bathroom to take those painkillers.

“How are ya feelin’ pet?” Michael asked as you settled back on the couch.

“I’m grand,” you said. “Why do you ask?”

While his lips did give an amused twitch at your borrowing of his phrasing, his eyes flickered over to the heating pad and the blanket piled on the couch. “Ya were wincin’”

Of course he had noticed. Michael was nothing if not attentive.

You fidgeted. He had never exhibited any disgust for periods. Never made any crude jokes, reacted with calm practicality every time it had come up. Anna had been more embarrassed by her dad buying her tampons than he had been going to shop to buy them. But your period wasn’t something you enjoyed talking about. You really didn’t want to talk about it with Michael.

For some reason, he seemed to think you were beautiful. And you didn’t want anything to destroy that particular delusion of his.

On the other hand, you didn’t want to lie either. You and Mikey were trying to build something solid here. Something that would last. Honest communication was key to that goal. And . . . well, your periods weren’t going to stop anytime soon.

“It’s just my period,” you muttered, staring at your feet. Your socks didn’t match. One was a bright pink. The other was black. You hadn’t even noticed before now. Tears filled your eyes. Couldn’t even dress yourself properly. You really were a disaster.

“Pet?”

His voice was closer than you expected. It startled you into looking up. Seeing your tears, the concerned frown deepened. “Can I sit with ya?”

You nodded. He sat down next to you, then turned so he was mostly facing you. He held his arms open in clear invitation. One you couldn’t resist. You slide into his arms, borrowing your face into his chest. The sweater might not have been the chest hair you had been craving earlier but you still had his strong arms around you. You had his cologne that smelled like a blend of whiskey, coffee, vanilla along with notes that you couldn’t describe as other than Mikey in your nose. Which was pretty damn good.

It got even better when one of those wonderfully warm hands began massaging your lower back while the other helped maneuver the rest of you into a more comfortable snuggling position. Michael was so warm. He was just as good as your heating pad. Better. Because your heating pad couldn’t murmur sweet nothings into your ear.

One of these days you were going to have to ask him what mo ghrá meant. Everyone had refused to tell you. Just smiled and told you to ask Michael.

You did eventually manage to drink your coffee and eat your slice of pumpkin bread, followed by more snuggles with Mikey. You felt your eyes getting heavy as the combination of comfort and warmth lulled you into sleep. The last thing you felt before you drifted off was lips pressing against your forehead with another soft mo ghrá.

END NOTES

mo ghrá is Irish for "my love".

[bellaxgiornata]

Because I've been sick almost nonstop since September, I decided to make headcanons this morning for all of our men about when they're sick that absolutely nobody asked for. So below the cut are some of my thoughts on how Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Jax Teller, and Michael Kinsella would act/react to feeling under the weather and being taken care of.

Matt Murdock

Matt would never admit to being sick when he first started coming down with something. Doesn't matter how many times you called him out on it, he would play it off like he's just fine. "Sweetheart, you know I don't get sick."

Despite your protests, he'd still throw on the Devil suit and go out at night running around on the rooftops trying to keep Hell's Kitchen safe, even if he's got a runny nose and the beginning of a sore throat - and his Devil voice would be even more painful to put on because of that.

But in the morning when Matt woke up, he'd be a miserable mess. He would become a full on baby Capuchin monkey, wrapping himself around you in bed in search of comfort almost immediately. And when he'd hear you open your mouth to tell him "I told you so," he'd stop you with his nasally, "Don't even say it, sweetheart" before he buried his face against your neck and groaned in agony.

And he would be in agony because of his heightened senses, but he'd also be a bit disoriented when he really came down with something. The illness symptoms would mess with him - head/sinus congestion would throw off his sense of smell, taste, and hearing, all things he's used to using in order to navigate the world around him. On top of all of that, sore throats would feel like he was genuinely swallowing glass, and while he's already used to his whole body constantly being in pain from what he puts it through, the whole body ache from illness would just be another thing to make him desperate for comfort.

Matt is so used to no one caring for him since he's always the one looking out for the whole of Hell's Kitchen, that you'd most likely see a few genuine tears shed as you brought him glasses of water and medicine throughout the day (that he would make the most ridiculous faces at the flavor of). And you'd be subjected to repeated thank you's murmured against your skin because he'd be clinging to you wherever you went in the apartment for the duration of his illness.

Frank Castle

It would always be difficult to tell when Frank was coming down with something because the man would never admit to it. He'd still be waking up at the ass crack of dawn making a pot of coffee and going about his day like usual without giving a single thing away that let you know that he wasn't feeling good. So you'd have to learn the signs yourself - extra tissues suddenly filling the garbage, the sight of him wearing hoodies around the house when you know he already runs hot, showers that last just a few minutes longer than usual as if he was using the steam to clear up his congestion.

He'd deny it vehemently if you called him out on coming down with something, getting a deep furrow between his brows and that particular tone to his voice that always gave him away because it was just too sharp. "I'm not goddamn sick, honey. Stop fussin' over me, would ya?"

And he absolutely would hate it if you fussed over him. Trying to get him to take some medicine? "Don't need that shit. Told you I'm fine, alright?" Trying to take his temperature? You'd have to fight him to put the damn thing in his mouth for at least five minutes first and he'd be grumbling the whole time (and you'd have to keep reminding him to keep his mouth shut so you could get an accurate reading). Telling him to stay in bed or on the couch to rest for the day? You'd catch him out of the corner of your eye carrying a tool box through the house and have to do a double take and tell him to go sit down. "Tired of sitting down, doll, I've been doing it all damn day! "It's been twenty minutes, Frank! GO LAY BACK DOWN!" Bringing him tea with some honey and lemon in it to soothe his throat? "The hell is this shit? You know I only drink black coffee."

Frank is used to just powering through illness because of his time in the marines. His mentality is that he's got a job to do and he's going to do it, he doesn't want to sit around all day taking medicine and sleeping, he wants to be up and taking care of you and things around the house and something so small like being sick isn't going to stop him from doing exactly that.

Jax Teller

Even sick with a cold, Jax would still be stubborn as hell. He'd wake up in the morning and roll out of bed before hopping in the shower with every intention of going to the clubhouse to deal with business for the day like nothing was wrong. Except he'd be moving slower than normal and communicating in strictly grunts and grumbles instead of his usual "Mornin', baby" sleepily and affectionately muttered against the back of your neck which you usually always either heard in bed as he's spooning you when you woke, while you're making the morning coffee in the kitchen, or as you're getting dressed for the day.

The only way you'd get Jax to stay home, take care of himself, and relax would be to out-logic him. "You know I gotta go in, darlin'. The guys need me, I've got shit to run. Can't just take a goddamn sick day, SAMCRO ain't like that." "And what happens when all of the patched members get sick, hmm? Or when all the girls at Diosa or Redwoody get sick and they can't film or fuck? Then what, Jackson? Chibs and Bobby can handle things today."

Jax would absolutely hate having to make the call to tell the guys he was taking a day at home because he's sick. He'd be sitting out on the back porch talking on the phone with a cigarette in his hand, rolling his eyes in irritation as they called him a pussy. But instead of some insult in return, you'd overhear him snap back with "Gotta problem with it? Then I'd like to see you take it up with my ol' lady, brother." And you'd know damn well that would have the guys quieting down because they knew better than to mess with you when it came to Jax's wellbeing.

Despite the fight he'd put up in the morning, Jax would actually love a whole day sitting around at home with you fussing over him. He'd be sprawled out on the couch with a lazy little grin on his lips as you brought him glasses of water, medicine, and soup all day. He'd chuckle warmly and always give you a "I'm fine, darlin', really," but deep down he'd be so goddamned pleased to have your constant attention. And he'd find any excuse to grab you and force you down on the couch to cuddle with him, sighing softly when your fingers gently carded through his hair as he held you close. But you can damn well bet that even sick, he wouldn't miss the opportunity to slide his hand down to palm you over your pants at some point, chuckling when you shot out a "You're sick, Jackson!" and responding with "Never too sick for that, baby."

Michael Kinsella

Michael would be the literal suffer in silence type. You'd know he was sick - he wouldn't deny it if you asked because he'd never lie to you - but he also wouldn't ask for any help. He'd still get up and try to do the laundry and dishes even when you tried to shoo him away to his bed. "M'fine, pet. Don't wanna leave ya to do everythin' fer me 'cause I'm comin' down with somethin'. S'no big deal, really."

He's not used to having someone wanting to fuss over him and care for him because no one in his family ever really has besides Birdy. Trying to take his temperature, bringing him soup that you made, and making sure he's taking medicine around the clock would have him feeling awkward, which would result in him always trying to brush you away because he feels like he's just adding to your list of chores for the day. And if there's anything Michael would hate, it's feeling like he's a burden, so you'd have to repeatedly reassure him that caring for him when he's sick is normal.

Michael would try to avoid you throughout the day as much as possible because he'd be worried about getting you sick, so much so that it would drive you nuts. "Sofa is fine, love. Don't wanna get my germs in the bedroom sleepin' in there." "Shouldn't be tryin' to kiss me, pet. Don't want ya catchin' what I have." "Ya shouldn't be sittin' out here with me watchin' television. I'd feel like shite if ya got sick 'cause of me, pet."

The Kinsellas would still be calling him while he was trying to rest at home and every time you heard the phone ring, you'd feel compelled to pull it out of his hands and tell them to leave him alone for the day. Because you know even sick, Michael would pull himself together to go help with whatever was asked of him for his family. But you would delight in telling them off for his sake - especially if it was Amanda.

[kendallsroyco]

Gray sweatpants whore VS Black boxers DILF

[mattmurdeaux]

CHARLIE COX CHARACTERS + Their Weapon of Choice

TRISTAN THORN (Stardust) - Sword

MATT MURDOCK (Daredevil) - Billy Club

MICHAEL KINSELLA (Kin) - Gun

[pastafossa]

Please tell me I wasn’t the only one feral about him faking the Irish accent in the walkie? HELLO MICHAEL KINSELLA FUNNY SEEING YOU HERE

I WAS READY TO BITE SOMEONE (probably Matt). LIKE it's hot enough hearing Matt normally, but then he pulled out that accent and oooooooh shit, there go my panties. 😩🤌 That was the soft Michael Kinsella voice, that lilt, and I'm as weak for it as EVER, thanks, my two men just met in the middle and I was ten kinds of puddled.

[shiorimakibawrites]

Shiori's Tuna-Tober 2024 Masterlist

Starring:

Matt Murdock (Daredevil) Frank Castle (The Punisher) Michael "Mikey" Kinsella (Kin) Peter Parker (Spider-Man) Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) Sam Winchester (Supernatural)

It's show time!

Day 1

Why? [Frank Castle] [angst] [1: Falling Asleep in the Hospital]

Sleepover [Matt Murdock] [fluff] [18: Pillow Fort]

Day 2

For Better and For Worse [Matt Murdock] [angst, hurt/comfort] [2: “Why? Why do you love me?” + 10: “I'm not good enough.”] [Mrs. Murdock series]

Forget-Me-Nots [Frank Castle] [fluff, hurt/comfort] [2: Flower Crowns]

Day 3

Broken [Sam Winchester] [angst, hurt/comfort] [3: Broken + 5: Self-Loathing + 18: Scars]

Sleeping Beauty [Matt Murdock] [smut] [1: Somnophilia]

Day 4

Dusty Rose [Matt Murdock] [fluff] [4: “Are you blushing?” + 6: Love Bites]

Compromise [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [4: Sixty-Nine]

Day 5

Sunlight [Michael Kinsella] [fluff] [5: Water Gun Fight + 17: Tickling]

On the Brink [Frank Castle] [smut] [5: Begging + 8: Overstimulation]

Day 6

Ghosts [Frank Castle] [hurt/comfort] [6: “Shh, I've got you now. I'm here.” + 7: Nightmare +8: Shaking]

Kneel [Matt Murdock] [smut] [9: “Open your mouth.” + 27: “Let me see what that pretty mouth can do.”]

Day 7

Distant [Frank Castle] [hurt/comfort, fluff] [7: Honest Apology + Alt: “I’m in love with you, and that scares me.”] [Companion to Why, You Are to Me, and Proof of Life]

Sundress [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [7: Nothing Underneath]

Day 8

Winter [Peter Parker] [fluff] [8: “You can sleep here tonight.” + 12: “You remembered?”]

On Display [Frank Castle] [smut] [5: Mutual Masturbation + 17: “Touch yourself for me.”]

Day 9

Can't Sleep [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort] [9: Anxiety + Alt: Insomnia] *

Goals [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [12: Deep-Throating]

Day 10

Best Hugs [Michael Kinsella] [fluff] [10: A Hug That Lasts A Little Too Long + 21: Flustered]

Pretty Woman [Frank Castle] [smut] [Alt: High Heels + 31: Stockings/Thigh Highs]

Day 11

Till Death Do Us Part [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort] [11: Tears + 11: “I’d be lost without you.”] [Mrs. Murdock series]

Proof of Life [Frank Castle] [smut] [6: “Spread your legs for me.”] [Companion to Why?, You Are To Me, and Distant]

Day 12

Fractured [Matt Murdock] [angst, hurt/comfort] [12: “I did it for you.” + 29: “Talk to me, please.”]

Close Quarters [Peter Parker] [smut] [14: Accidental Stimulation + Alt: Scent Marking]

Day 13

Nobody [Peter Parker] [angst, hurt/comfort] [13: Loneliness + 3: “I feel real when I'm with you.”]

Jealousy [Frank Castle] [fluff] [13: Playful Kiss + 15: “Are you jealous?”]

Day 14

Inheritance [Matt Murdock] [angst, hurt/comfort] [14: “Please look at me”]

Simple Pleasures [Michael Kinsella] [fluff] [19: Touch starved + 1: Reading to each other]

Day 15

Dislocation [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort] [15: Hiding An Injury + 20: “Who did this to you?”]

Curiosity [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [23: Toys + 13: "Beg me for it."]

Day 16

Sick and Tired [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort] [16: Exhaustion + 28: Chronic Pain]

Panorama [Frank Castle] [smut] [16: Against A Window]

Day 17

For Richer and For Poorer [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort] [17: “I'm not leaving you.”] [Mrs. Murdock series]

Hot Cross Buns [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [Alt: Ass Worship]

Day 18

Cardboard Boxes [Frank Castle] [hurt/comfort] [Alt: Moving In Together]

Acts of Service [Michael Kinsella] [smut] [18: “I’m so proud of ya, yer’re takin’ me so well.”]

Day 19

Confessions [Matt Murdock] [fluff] [14: Sleep Talking]

Lacing the Boil [Michael Kinsella] [angst, hurt/comfort] [30: Healing]

Day 20

The Visitor [Michael Kinsella - angst, hurt/comfort] [Alt: “You’re not alone.” + “I’ll always be there for you.”]

To Have and To Hold [Matt Murdock] [smut] [20: “You were made for me, weren’t you?”] [Mrs. Murdock series]

Day 21

Countdown [Matt Murdock] [angst, hurt/comfort] [Alt: Bound/Chained + Alt: “Take me instead.”]

Office Hours [Matt Murdock] [smut] [26: Under The Desk + 28: Hair Pulling + Alt: Almost Getting Caught]

Day 22

Moral Injury [Bucky Barnes] [angst, hurt/comfort] [22: “You haven't done anything wrong.” + 4: “This isn’t you.”]

Hairbrush [Matt Murdock] [fluff] [25: Playing With Their Hair]

Day 23

Shadow [Michael Kinsella] [fluff] [Alt: Adopting A Pet]

Self-Care [Frank Castle] [smut] [23: “If you won’t take care of yourself, I will.” + 22: “Was that an order?”]

Day 24

In Vino Veritas [Michael Kinsella] [fluff, hurt/comfort] [24: Drugged + 24: Drunken Confession + 29: Forehead Kiss]

Paper Thin [Sam Winchester] [smut] [24: “Shh, do you want them to hear us?”]

Day 25

Older [Matt Murdock] [angst] [25: “What's Wrong?” +  23: Father] *

Leave Me Breathless [Bucky Barnes] [fluff] [22: Breathless Kiss]

Day 26

I'm Grand [Michael Kinsella] [angst, hurt/comfort] [26: “You're not fine.”]

Eavesdropping [Frank Castle] [fluff] [26: “Shut up and kiss me.” + 27: Overheard Confession]

Day 27

You Are To Me [Frank Castle] [angst] [27: Near-Death Experience + 21: Fainting/Collapsing] [companion to Why?, Distant, and Proof of Life]*

Very Horny Rabbits [Matt Murdock] [smut] [22: Aphrodisiacs]

Day 28

Sharing An Umbrella [Michael Kinsella] [fluff] [28: Sharing an Umbrella + 16: Accidental Kiss] *

Sandwich [Frank Castle, Matt Murdock] [smut] [15: Threesome]

Day 29

Checkmate [Frank Castle] [fluff] [Alt: Playing A Game Together]

Turnabout [Matt Murdock] [smut] [29: Restraints + 11: Breast Worship]

Day 30

In Sickness and In Health [Matt Murdock] [hurt/comfort][9: “You don’t need to do that.” “I want to.”] [Mrs. Murdock]

The Beach House [Sam Winchester] [fluff] [30: Road Trip + 20: There Was Only One Bed + 31: Blanket Hog]

Day 31

Worthless [Matt Murdock] [angst, hurt/comfort] [31: “Why wasn't I enough?”]

Little Black Dress [Bucky Barnes] [smut] [30: “Take it off. Slowly.”]

*Previous work

[bellaxgiornata]

"I can fix him!"

Okay, well I definitely can't, but I'm pretty sure him and his dick could fix me.

[kendallsroyco]

A Guide to Charlie Cox's Kissing Method:

1) It will look like he's starving and wants to consume you

2) It will involve the grabbing of necks and chins

3) At times, involves tongue

[mattzipmua]

CHARLIE COX as MICHAEL KINSELLA

RTE KIN 2.05

[pastafossa]

"You’re who I want." (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader)

Time for Day 3 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Three, I chose to combine the fluff and angst prompts ("I feel real when I'm with you" and 'Broken'), and I also decided to try my hand at one of Charlie Cox's other characters for once, that being our favorite sad, tragic, sweetheart of a mobster Michael Kinsella! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: mentions of blood, kiss at the end, angst (but with a happy ending obvs)

It was Birdy that called you right as you were getting ready to settle in for the night, the heavy downpour a drumbeat against your windows that you’d hoped would lull you into a peaceful sleep. But that wasn’t in your cards tonight, it seemed. 

“He’s headed yer way. Things… didn’t go well tonight.” 

Not for the first time, you quietly cursed the way the Kinsellas had dragged Michael back into their business as you dug out the first aid kit, setting it beside a change of clothes and a few clean towels to help Michael dry off from the rain when he arrived. You didn’t care what the Kinsellas got up to on their own time, who they sold to and what their family business was. What you cared about was whether Michael had actually wanted this. You knew he'd had different plans when he'd finally gotten out of prison, plans of a quieter, more peaceful life. But he was a loyal man, one who was endlessly devoted to his family, and that loyalty, that devotion was something Amanda was all too happy to take advantage of. 

You had thoughts on her, too, but much like your night's rest, it would also have to wait. 

 “We lost a few o’ ours. He managed ta turn it around at the last second, but… Well, the family argued after. Things were said to him, and…”

Some nights, nights much like these, you wondered just how long Michael had left before he broke beneath the weight of expectation and grim responsibility. It was a burden he shouldered without complaint, even as it became clear he was destined to crumble beneath it. In the two years since you’d met that beautiful, quiet man in a small coffee shop, you’d watched those brittle cracks form, line by line. Over time, as he'd gradually begun to let you in, you’d discovered far deeper fissures that lay buried beneath his fractured armor. Your lack of fear, your absence of judgement over what he’d done in the past, had only pried open that door further until he sought you out with regularity, just as you did him. Time passed, and your orbits revolved closer and closer together, spiraling planets caught inescapably in the pull of each other’s gravity.   

Neither of you had named what this was between you. But if he could find comfort here, safety here, then you’d happily give it. 

 “Just… be gentle with him, dear.” 

Somehow, even the quiet knock at your door sounded exhausted. You hurried out of the kitchen where you’d been filling up the kettle—you’d learned very quickly how important it was to have it ready at all hours when you’d moved to Ireland—and headed down the warm hall to the front door. You unlocked the door and tugged it open, letting in the roaring sound of the pouring rain and a gust of chilled, bitter wind. 

“Oh, Michael,” you whispered. 

He was soaked down to the bone, his dark hair plastered against his skin as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. What was worse: even with the rain, you could still see traces of blood on his shirt and his hands, with more of it leaking steadily from a ragged split on his lip. Fortunately, only the blood on his mouth seemed to belong to him. He tried to throw you a small smile, but it was far too crooked, too brittle to be real, and you had a feeling his eyes weren’t red because of the rain. The moment he realized you didn’t buy the act, that shield fell away, and you were left with just Michael at his most exposed, empty and limp on your doorstep. 

“That bad, eh?” he asked tiredly, trying for dark humor and missing by miles.

“Shit, get in here before you freeze.” You caught his sleeve and tugged him forward until you could shut the door behind him. He didn’t fight you on it physically, for which you were grateful, but he couldn’t seem to resist at least a little verbal stubbornness. 

“I’m gettin’ yer floors all wet,” he said distantly. Without the need to pretend, his tone had gone empty and lifeless, drained of all energy as if he’d used up what little he had left on the walk over. He dropped his head slowly, staring down at the growing puddle of rainwater on the floor, his face twisting through an unreadable expression. “‘M sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have—”

“Floors can be dried, Mikey.” You waved the objection away, locking the door before turning back to Michael where he was still standing shivering in the hall, curled into himself as if he were reluctant to take up any further space, as if he feared he were unwelcome. And something about it, about the way he seemed to barely be holding himself together, just… broke your heart. “Come here.”

He shivered again, even as he shook his head, arms wrapped around himself. You could almost see him changing his mind, a wave of regret rearing up inside him, flashing in the dark of his eyes, eyes still looking too damp for just the rain. “I’ll… I’ll get blood on ya.” “I don’t care.”

He clenched his jaw, still refusing to meet your eye, a sign of just how bad things had gone for him. Some of the blood on his clothes and skin had joined the puddle of rainwater at his feet, the pale tile darkening to a tinted, rusty pink. And that only seemed to make him feel worse, as it seeped into the grooves and lines between each tile, staining it. “No, I-I shoulda stopped ‘a home first, cleaned up. And it’s late, yer clearly dressed for bed. We can talk another time—”

You crossed the distance between you both before he could take a single step towards the front door. He went stiff and rigid, closed off the moment you pulled him into you, but you let him work through it as you wound your arms tightly around him, hooking the fingers of one hand in his belt loops. You had to make it clear you weren’t going anywhere. You used the other hand to stroke gently down his back, heedless of the water and blood that began to dampen your clothes, breathing in the scent of warm whiskey and leather, of gun oil and fresh rain and blood. “Stop worrying about my clothes or the floors, you silly man,” you said softly, setting your chin on his shoulder. His breath hitched at your voice, his arms still locked between you, a barrier you knew he needed help to break down. “I don’t care about those. I care about you, Michael. No matter what happens, that won’t change. I’ll stand here all night with you if I have to.”

He choked out a shaking breath against your hair, and you could feel it the moment he began to break, his arms tentatively unwinding so his hands could find their way around your waist. Almost as if he were still convinced his touch, his need for comfort would be rejected. Something far warmer than rain dripped against your neck. “Why?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. I have nothin’ to give ya. To give anyone. I keep tryin’ to be what everyone needs, but I can’t even do tha’ right. Why do ya keep openin’ the door for a broken man, pet?”

“You might be hurt, but you’re far from broken,” you murmured, turning your head to lay it on his shoulder as his hold gradually tightened around you, his hands fisting in the fabric of your shirt. Another shaky breath rattled out of him, more of his tears rolling down your throat until he finally let his head fall to your neck, accepting what you’d offered. “I open the door because I just need you, exactly as you are. You’re who I want. So you can let go, Mikey. There’s nothing here you need to fix, no one else you need to be.” 

That was all it took, and between one breath and the next, he crumbled in your arms, the entire terrible night, terrible year, terrible life tearing its way out of him in choked, ragged sobs, the sounds of someone who hadn't been able to let go for some time. You held him as tightly as you could, soft, comforting whispers in his ears, your hands running gently down his back and back up through his hair as he let fall every last wall he’d put up between him and the outside world. 

It took time for that cresting wave of emotion to ease, time you spent with your head on his shoulder, with your chest to his, until eventually the shaking of his body began to slow, his breath easing against your throat into something slower and gentler. Only then did you guide him to the bathroom, setting him down on the side of the tub so you could clean him up. He accepted the care in silence, his eyes half closed, his form slumped and exhausted, drained after the emotional release. You knew better than to press before he was ready—and besides, people had demanded enough out of him tonight without you adding to it—so you let the quiet have its place as you bandaged him up, cleaning the blood from his hands and drying him off without so much as a hint of judgment. Whenever his breath grew a little shaky again, you’d lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles to remind him he was safe.

You left him alone just long enough for him to change, and you were grateful you'd both decided he should keep a few changes of clothes here. It was another unspoken intimacy between you both, this knowledge that your home was a retreat for him just as his home sometimes was for you, even if neither of you had said as much. Once he was changed and he stepped out of the bathroom, dark eyes immediately seeking you out, you tipped your head in a request he follow you before heading towards the bedroom.

He hesitated, and you paused in the doorway, waiting.

It wasn’t every time he came here that you both wound up curled up together. So far, it only seemed to happen on those bad nights, those nights when one of you needed the other’s presence to act as a shield against nightmares, against waves of grief or bloodied hurt. Until now, however, those moments had always taken place on the couch, the two of you dozing off together under the excuse that you’d never intended to fall asleep at all and well, it was late, wasn't it? It was expected. Tonight, however, you just… thought he deserved a bed.

That you and he had never taken this step before hung heavy between you, weighted and intimate as he considered you, his gaze shifting over your shoulder to the open doorway in thought. Neither of you had dared offer access to the other’s bed until now. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet, though there’d been… moments when you’d both come close, dancing along that edge, driven by adrenaline or alcohol or just a quiet moment when you both seemed to be drawn into it. But there was no alcohol now, no mistaking the shift in the air. There’d be no going back after this, no more pretending, even if no one had believed either of you before now when you’d both sworn you were simply good friends.

After a long moment… the soft padding of his footsteps began to follow. 

The bed came first, soft sheets and the gradually returning warmth of him, one of your arms draped over his waist as he buried his face in your hair, the two of you twined together so closely that there was no space at all between you. 

Then came his voice, the soft lilt of it soothing you as much as your touch seemed to be soothing him. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without ya,” he murmured, his breath slowly easing down into something like peace, like contentment. He nuzzled at you gently, and you tipped your head up to meet his eyes. The warmth in them stole your breath away, filled with tender light and a devotion so deep you knew you could spend the rest of your life searching for the bottom and never find it. “Every time I think I’ve lost who I am again, yer there to bring me back. I just… I feel real when I’m with ya. I…” 

His eyes searched yours for a moment before he seemed to make a decision. He dipped his head down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair as his lips finally met yours. 

Your first kiss with him was a soft, new thing, fragile as spun strands of glass. His lips still tasted a little of copper and whiskey, skin chapped from the cold night air, but his breath was warm, and his mouth moved against yours with a growing confidence as you leaned into him, using your fingers in his hair to pull him in closer, his beard a pleasant scrape against your skin. His name on your lips was a sigh, a gift to him, one he breathed in as if he wanted to draw it down into the very heart of him. When he finally pulled away, he laid his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as he just... breathed with you. You reached up to stroke your fingers warmly against his cheek, and he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, though he didn't seem ready to open them just yet. “Wanted ta do that for a while, now,” he admitted. “Since not long after we met, if ’m honest.” “I may or may not have wanted the same thing,” you huffed softly, his smile growing wider. 

“Can I take ya to breakfast tomorrow?”

You made a contented noise as you curled into him, and he wound around you, the two of you getting comfortable for the night. It felt… permanent, as if you two had simply been waiting to find your way here, this place you were both meant for. 

“I’d love that.”

And maybe tomorrow... you'd tell him you loved him, too.