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yarrystyleeza · 2 months

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You Can Keep It (M.K)

Michael Kinsella x female!reader

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

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

Word count: 2.11k!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, you just know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were completely besotted by this gentleman.

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

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

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

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

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farfromstrange · 2 months

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Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 25: Wondering If I Just Lost The Love Of My Life

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader (she/her)

Summary: After your conversation with Frank, you start spiraling, and you find yourself at Jimmy's house, looking desperately for answers. Michael isn't too happy about that.

Warnings: ANGST, cursing, snooping around, snakes, allusions to child abuse & PTSD, Michael is pissed (and maybe a bit mean), rough grabbing of the arm (Is that a warning?), fighting, crying, semi-break up

Word Count: 8.6k

A/n: WOHOO I'M BACK!! Anyway, this chapter is only the beginning of this angst plot line, so... Don't hate me.

Tick, tick, tick…

One hour turns into two. Two hours turned into three. You’re alone, stuck in a house that isn’t yours, holding pictures of your sister who you haven’t seen in years in your hands because the man you chose to fall in love with has a family set out to destroy you; and for what? Because they aren’t happy with an adult man’s decisions?

Your life feels like it was written by a sadistic author; far more sadistic than yourself. You can’t keep up anymore.

Just a few months ago, you were somewhat happy working your ass off for some money at the Butterfly Effect. You made the process of brewing coffee for customers your life, and you enjoyed it. You fled your home to chase your dream of being a writer. What else are you supposed to do with your degree, anyway? And you were on a good path, saving money and trying to find an agent, but then Michael walked into your life.

You don’t want to say that he ruined everything. You love him. You love him more than you have ever loved anyone, which is horrifying in itself, but you can’t deny that your life may have been a little easier if he hadn’t come into the shop that morning. If you hadn’t allowed yourself to get attached. Now, you’re involved with a family who is swimming against the flow of legality—and what scares you most about all of this are the thoughts you keep having that perhaps the Kinsellas could help you in a way not even the police ever could.

You’re pressed against the wall next to the dining table, and your lungs keep forgetting that they are supposed to supply your body with life-sustaining oxygen. Every now and then, your eyes drift to the pictures in your hands. A tear rolls down your cheek, landing on the paper. It magnifies the size of your father’s face, and the memories that hit you at full force leave you clawing at the wood of the nearest chair.

You were doing so well. You were an awkward barista with a safe future to look forward to. Now, you’re a barista using up all of her sick days because she isn’t allowed to leave the house of her Irish boyfriend—who just so happens to be part of an organized crime family. It sounds like the plot of a bad novel, but to you, it is very much real.

Time was on your side until it wasn’t, and you have reached a point where desperation seems too kind of a word to explain what you’re feeling. Raw, unbridled anger fills your veins; the need to take the next plane out of Dublin is all-consuming, but you can’t be irrational. Not now. Michael was right about that part.

You can’t help who you fall in love with, you know as much. Michael is damaged, but he’s yours. He is so human, you wish you could wrap him up and shield him from the world forever. From his family. From the pain. From the uncertainty. You wish you could grab him, your bags, and his daughter and run far away from this city. But those are wishes that seem too far away to even grasp.

If you have to get involved to prevent the worst from happening, you don’t have much of a choice but to do so. You only have one more thing left to lose, and she means the world to you. Breaking the rules—the law—seems like the lesser evil compared to waiting for the hourglass to run out of sand.

With shaky fingers, you dial the number you have dialed a few days ago. It’s still in your caller list.

The line clicks, and the woman at Scotland Yard’s front desk answers again. It’s the same as last time. “Uh, hi,” you stammer into the speaker. “I called a few days ago, but I haven’t received an answer yet. I need to speak to Inspector Jones. It’s urgent. Would you mind connecting me with his office?”

Silence follows. Either she is taking a very pregnant pause to tell you something completely opposite of what you want to hear, or she is checking something in her system. You do hope it is the latter option. But of course, luck is still not on your side.

The woman utters your name in the lowest tone possible. “Inspector Jones told me to inform you that he does not want to take your call,” she says. “He put you on his, uh, no-call list. I’m sorry, Miss. I wish I had better news.”

Her apology doesn’t bring back the hope he so mercilessly crushed in his bare hands and left it there, dying on the side of the road. Her apology doesn’t bring back your sister or supply you with the information on the case only Richard Jones has. He used to be so helpful when it happened. He told you that you could always call him.

The question that nags you is, what changed? You haven’t called him in years, and now he suddenly acts like you’re the plague personified? It doesn’t sit right with you, but as soon as you’re on the no-call list, there is no way you can get through to him.

You don’t wish her goodbye. You don’t tell her, ‘Oh no, it’s alright,’ because it isn’t alright. You hang up without another word, your phone slipping from your hand onto the floor.

Swallowing a sob, you decide to pull yourself together. Michael keeps his laptop in the living room—though you suppose not always. You flop down on the couch with a huff. Of course, the device is password-protected. A picture on one of his shelves catches your eye, and you reach for it. Part of you is screaming to stop because looking at a picture of his daughter feels like an invasion of privacy, but you can’t listen to the left side of your brain. You turn it around, in search of the right combination of numbers.

Anna’s birthday. It sounds so obvious—too obvious for a man as careful as Michael—but as soon as you type the numbers into the bar and hit enter, his laptop unlocks.

“So predictable,” you mutter.

Instead of finding his desktop though, you stare right at an open folder you are sure is not meant for your eyes. It is also protected by a password, which you can tell by the little lock following the icon, but Michael must have forgotten to close it.

You should close the folder, open a browser, and do what you intended to do—write an email to forego the no-call list and guilt-trip Inspector Jones into finding the balls to contact you back. It is a desperate attempt that might get you a restraining order, but you have to try. For that, Michael would surely not be mad at you. If you start snooping though…

Your eyes have a mind of their own, following an instinct as old as time. You can’t help yourself. You tilt the screen back, and you take a closer look.

The idea is so maddeningly risky your stomach churns at the thought of the possible consequences of your actions, but who else is going to tell you the truth if you don’t find out yourself? Michael doesn’t want to drag you into his mess as you’re dealing with your own, and while you get that, you are so far beyond common sense that you need to know what the man you love is involved in. You need to know what his family is involved in. If you don’t, you’re sure curiosity might actually kill you.

You tried to avoid getting caught up in the dangers of the Kinsella family; you should have known that trying and succeeding hardly ever go hand-in-hand when it comes to your mess of a life.

You know Michael. You know how careful he is when it comes to dealing with delicate matters. He told you he didn’t want to get swept up in his family’s bullshit again, but as you look at what’s in front of you, you’re not so sure he told you the truth.

The file contains mostly recollections of the family business. Drugs, weapons, larceny—not that it would ever change the way you feel about him, even if he did lie to you. This is not the worst you have seen, and it surely won’t be the last piece of dramatic information that will ever pass before your eyes.

What catches your attention is the mention of Jamie, the record of his death, and a stolen autopsy report. And among all of that, you find a name Michael and Jimmy threw at each other’s heads the other day. Your hand still hurts just thinking about it.

A loud thud echoes through the house when you forcefully shut the laptop. Every nerve in your body is burning itself alive. Your soul can’t withstand the storm of your emotions. The truth hits you. Around you, the world is falling apart, and you are unable to move anywhere but further into the chaos.

Michael came into the café months ago because he was in desperate need of a reprieve—he was the butterfly that flapped its wings over in Asia—and now you are on the verge of getting caught up in something that you will never be able to get out of again; it is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

Destiny and karma are very real phenomena, but so is the Butterfly Effect. Instead of innocent coffee though, you are staring into the face of disaster, and you have no idea what to do.

An idea pops into your head. You shouldn’t seek out trouble. You really, really should not, but not even five minutes later, the door to Michael’s home falls shut behind you as you take determined steps next door. Not across the street, not to your car but next door.

The realization that Michael might never forgive you for putting yourself in this position moves to the back of your mind. You promised him not to do anything stupid while he was gone, but you knew from the start that you would never be able to keep that promise.

Your feet are rooted to the ground as you ring the doorbell. At first, you receive no response. Just when you figured that you must have misinterpreted the movements in the neighboring home that you caught through the bedroom window earlier this morning, the gate opens, and you snap out of the endless spiral of your thoughts.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Jimmy asks, his eyes trailing over your disheveled frame on his doorstep.

Your eyes are red and swollen, and your outfit consists of a pair of Michael’s sweatpants and a shirt, but you weren’t planning on winning a fashion contest anyway. Jimmy deserves to see how miserable you are. Maybe then he will let you in.

He raises his eyebrows. “What? Came to hit my wife again? Last time wasn’t enough for ya?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, trying to hold contact with his dark eyes. “I need to talk to you,” you state matter-of-factly.

He eyes you again. “You look like shit.”

“Then I look better than I feel.”

“Hm. Does Michael know yer here?”

You expected him to snap at you—to lecture you—but that moment never comes.

You swallow thickly, then shake your head. “I’m here for answers,” you say. “And I feel like out of everyone in this family, you’re the only one who’ll be honest with me.”

“Why d’ya think I’d do that?” Jimmy asks.

“‘Cause you don’t like that I’m fucking your brother. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you couldn’t care less about what happens to me, which means that you also don’t feel the need to protect me or my delicate feelings.”

His lips curl into a smirk. As different as they are when it comes to their behavior, it is obvious that Jimmy and Michael are related.

“I’m so sick and tired of not knowing. Not understanding. Not…not being in control.” Your lip quivers, and you bite down on it for a moment. “You didn’t act on Frank’s offer to threaten someone you don’t even know, so a twisted part of me feels like I can trust you. I won’t apologize for falling in love with your brother because despite what you all believe, he is an incredible man and he deserves the world. But loving him put my sister’s life at stake, and I need to know what I’m getting myself into before I lose her too. I–I just...I need five minutes. Please. And then I’ll be out of your hair, I promise.”

Against all odds, Jimmy steps aside, motioning for you to enter. The house is as luxurious as you expected. High walls, big windows, and cool tones. The nature of your visit, however, only fills you with a sense of uneasiness.

You close the door behind you and follow Jimmy down the hallway. You wouldn’t dare push your luck by saying something uncalled for.

Now that Jamie’s dead, you understand why Michael always seems so stuck in thought. The stakes are higher. You try to find a sliver of understanding for why Birdy was so cautious with you and asked you all the questions that you saw as a personal attack. She wanted to protect you, and maybe that is true, but she let Frank’s actions slide for a little too long and you don’t know if you can forgive her for that.

She ended up attacking you personally even if that was never her intention, and she let her brother attack everything you hold dear by trying to protect her own family, and that is not something you can let slide.

Jimmy walks up to a set of stairs that lead into the basement. You’re hesitant at first, standing at the top of the steps and staring down at him with narrow eyes. “Are you going to kill me?” you bluntly ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Unarmed,” he says. “You can check me. I’m not carryin’.”

“What if there are guns down there?”

“There are, but I’m not gonna use ‘em to hurt ya. Michael would cut off my head and feed it to the dogs.”

You huff, but you eventually cave and follow him down the stairs. You hear him mumble something about you being complicated, and maybe you are, but can anyone blame you? You feel like you just walked into the lion’s den. Perhaps you are insane.

You function on a very determined autopilot that wants you to do things you would never have done a few weeks ago, and you have no choice but to follow or else you will bang your head against the wall; Michael really shouldn’t have left you alone.

The basement resembles a second living room. A leather couch stands against the wall to the right, and Jimmy has a collection of free weights to choose from to work out. There is even a pool table and a fridge you suppose holds liquor only. It must be the family’s layer for when they get together and discuss whatever a family like them has to discuss.

Looking further, you notice the terrarium in the middle of the room. It’s gigantic. You step a little closer. The yellow anaconda is easy to spot. You don’t doubt it could strangle you if you put it around your neck. It is surely thick enough to crush your windpipe in an instant.

“Drink?” Jimmy asks from somewhere behind you.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

He hums. You can hear the sound of ice cubes hitting a glass, and he pours whiskey over it.

“You like snakes?”

You look at him, and then back at the snake. “I find them fascinating,” you state.

“They’re fascinatin’ creatures, alright,” he says. “You wanna hold her?”

You don’t miss a beat, “Absolutely not.”

“Okay.”

You stand there in silence for a while, just watching the anaconda move her large body around her transparent living quarters. She sticks out her tongue. If you could talk to animals, you wonder what she would tell you. What has she witnessed in this room? The snake knows all the answers to the questions you are asking yourself.

“Why Michael?” Jimmy breaks the silence.

“He’s a good man,” you answer. It doesn’t require much thought. “I told you. He’s a much better man than you give him credit for.”

“A good man has no place here.”

“Who are you to judge that?”

He scoffs. “You have any idea what yer gettin’ yourself into?”

“I knew from the moment I found out who he was. That doesn’t change how I feel about him.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“If you’re going to tell me that it’s my fault that I got caught up in all of this, save it. I’m well aware of that.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because I love him!” your voice echoes in the spacious basement. “I love Michael with all my heart. So much it hurts. I would do anything for him because you failed him over and over again, and he deserves so much better than you useless lot.”

Taken aback by the force of your words without actively yelling at him, Jimmy lowers his glass. He stares at you with a mixture of surprise and bewilderment in his eyes, and you’ve seen that look in Michael’s eyes one too many times. You want to smash something, but that would only make matters worse, and you really didn’t come to cause a scene.

Jimmy infuriates you in a way not many men have managed. You want to hit him, give him a shiner that will rival the one his wife is probably carrying, but realistically, you don’t stand much of a chance against this man. He is strong. He could feed you to his anaconda if he wanted to. Even if Michael would behead him, he would do anything to save himself. He is the epitome of selfishness, and you refuse to stoop low enough to be on his level.

You take a deep breath, lowering your voice again. “But I’m not just here because I love Michael. I’m here because your uncle decided that he had to let out his disdain for me on an innocent child,” you say.

“I’m not okay with that either,” Jimmy cuts in. “I don’t have control over Frank’s actions. I lost my son–”

“I’m aware, and I am so sorry for your loss, I am. I know how it feels to lose a child because my father killed my little sister and while she wasn’t my biological daughter, I was the one who raised her. And I raised Maya too. So, even if I left, even if I broke Michael’s heart and gave you what you so desperately want, my sister would still be in danger. My father would still be running free. And I’d still have no choice but to stay here because thanks to you, I am in danger too and Michael refuses to let me leave.”

A sigh leaves his parted lips, and he empties his glass.

“This isn’t about me, Jimmy. It never has been. Not for me, at least. This is about Maya as much as your insecurities are about Michael. Except that Maya is a human being who has nothing to do with any of this. Not with Michael, not with you, and not with your godforsaken family. You don’t have to remind me how awful of a human being I am—I’m well aware of that myself, trust me, but I won’t stop trying to get answers until I have found a way to make sure she’s okay. That she’s safe. That I can get her back and end this once and for all because Frank didn’t leave me a fucking choice.”

You pull the pictures out of your coat. “He came to the house earlier. Gave me those. He said he told his men to leave her alone, but who’s to say that he didn’t already do irreversible damage?” you say. “I don’t know why Michael being happy is such a huge inconvenience to you, but I don’t care. I care about my family. Now, you can either help me or not, but don’t act like you have any right whatsoever to lecture me. You don’t even fucking know me.”

Jimmy takes the photographs. His eyebrows furrow slightly as he stares down at them. A drop of condensation from his glass drops on the paper, the same spot your tears dried into.

Your chest still heaves with every breath you take. “Jimmy,” you growl. The silence drills into your skull.

When he finally opens his mouth, his voice resembles a steady tune. “I don’t stand behind Frank,” he says. “Not on this. He shouldn’t have done it.”

“I am well aware of that, thank you.”

“None of us knew yer story. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For Frank, for Birdy—hell, I’m even sorry fer how Amanda treated you. If I’d known…”

“Would you’ve stopped her?” you counter.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me.”

“There are ways to get rid of someone without puttin’ anyone in unnecessary danger. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

His expression is set in stone. You can’t determine whether or not he’s lying to you.

“Did Michael offer ya his help?” Jimmy asks then. “Regarding your, uh, father.”

You blink a few times, wondering if he really just asked you that. But you swallow your doubts, straighten your shoulders, and you nod. “Yeah, he did,” you say.

“Offered t’put a protective detail on her? Kill the bastard?”

“Something along those lines.”

“Then why hasn’t he?”

“Because death would be too kind for that man.”

The faintest smirk starts playing on his lips. “Can’t blame ya,” he states.

“Of course not,” you retort. “I won’t stoop to my father’s level. He deserves to be put in prison for the rest of his life. A bullet to his head would end his suffering, and I refuse to let him down that easily.”

“Is that why you came here?”

You shake your head again. “I need answers.”

“Why wouldn’t Michael give them to ya?” Jimmy cocks an eyebrow. “He’s fuckin’ obsessed.”

“He may love me, but he has a protective instinct that makes it almost impossible for me to get the whole truth out of him,” you explain. “Michael wasn’t there when Frank came over. Perhaps because he knew Michael wouldn’t be there. He caught me off guard. I was vulnerable, and he used that against me.”

He tilts his head. “What did he say?”

“Just that he put an end to what he started. But I can’t believe that, now can I? He’d already started it.”

“You’re a lot smarter than I thought.”

Your lips part in a bitter scoff. “I found some things on Michael’s laptop,” you tell him. “I need to understand what I got myself into here. Maybe find some common ground. In my mind, after everything that went down at Birdy’s house, you’re the least untrustworthy, and while we may not be the best of friends, I can’t limit myself to what Michael thinks is right. Take it as a compliment or don’t, but I’m desperate here.”

He murmurs your name as he makes his way over to the open bottle of whiskey to pour himself another glass. His steps are careful.

You are well aware that you should tread carefully, and Jimmy seems to be on the same page as you that this is a bad idea, but you were desperate and you saw no other choice. You would have crawled up the walls of Michael’s empty house if you had waited, staring at the bullet holes in the walls and wondering if you would end up dead at the end of this the same way his wife did; or if you’d merely lose everything you’ve ever loved and be left with nothing else left to give.

“Who’s Eamon?” you blurt out.

Jimmy stops dead in his tracks. You hit a nerve. Seemingly with a sledgehammer, too.

“Because from what I heard and what Michael has on him, he’s a perilous man.”

“Fuck!” Jimmy curses under his breath.

“Please, I just want to know. What is Michael caught up in?”

“We’re all caught up in it.” The tone of his voice has changed and switched to a more dangerous octave, and it sends shivers down your spine. “Eamon—Eamon fuckin’ Cunningham had my son killed, and Michael thinks he’s too good to help us get back at him because of Anna. That’s what.”

Your eyes soften. “I’m sorry, I—”

“He’s our supplier. Drugs. If ya really wanna know. Changed his business model. Wants us t’be his bitches. He’s a power-hungry bastard, that one. I didn’t wanna cave, but then Jamie—and Frank—”

With an animalistic growl that resembles a string of curses, he wipes the small table before him clean. The contents shatter on the ground, scattering millions of pieces of glass around the basement floor. You flinch.

The echo of his shout remains stuck to the walls. One of the shards scratches your forearm—not nearly enough to draw blood—before hitting the ground. The force causes the bottle to implode, and the crystal glasses break beyond repair the second they hit the ground.

You want to tell him that Michael doesn’t owe him anything. You want to tell Jimmy that none of this is Michael’s fault, but you have enough empathy to know when to speak and when to just be silent.

Grief is an unpredictable monster.

Jimmy takes a deep breath, then turns back around to face you. “I dunno what I can tell ya, but this family isn’t safe for someone like you,” he says. It sounds as though he actually cares, but you see right through him this time.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you answer, trying to pick your words with an incredible amount of care; don’t raise your voice, don’t shout at him, just tell him what’s on your mind in a way that is respectful and he might not lash out at you. “But Michael is fresh out of prison, trying to find himself a place in this world. I understand why he said that he can’t help you execute whatever revenge you have planned for whoever did this to your son. And I understand that this business you’re in is dangerous for every party involved, but that doesn’t deter me.”

Across the room, he meets your eyes.

“I knew what I was getting myself into from the start,” you emphasize. “Michael promised me I’d be safe, and I trust him with my life, but now your family put my sister in danger, and we have to find a way to put an end to this mess because I refuse to let your little family dispute ruin my life. Michael can’t help me as he promised when he can’t manage to separate himself from you. Finding that file proved to me that he may have said that he’s done, but he isn’t, so I might as well accept that I’m not getting out of this either.”

He exhales, wiping his sticky hands on his trousers. “I underestimated ya,” he says. “But I suppose that’s what happens when your father’s a bastard.”

You shrug. “I just can’t run when you’re my only hope.”

Jimmy chuckles. “If we’re your only hope, I feel bad for ya.”

“Believe me, I feel plenty bad for myself already, but if I’d waited and told Michael about my plans, he wouldn’t have let me come here, and I still wouldn’t be much smarter than I was this morning.”

“Would you do somethin’ for us then? If we helped ya?” he asks.

One hand washes the other, right?

The words for an answer get taken out of your mouth by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“Where is she?” Michael’s voice breaks through the ceiling.

Your eyes widen. You have heard him feral before—when he was holding the gun to Frank’s head and threatened him, his voice lowering, barely above a whisper but every word as forceful as the next. His silent anger is the most dangerous form. It did something to you to see the man you love so livid because he saw your life at stake.

You weren’t scared of him, you couldn’t possibly be, but the thought alone spikes the adrenaline in your veins, and your mind screams for you to run. It is the kind of effect he wants to have on people when he is angry; it is the type of effect he has on everyone because one looks at his fuming self and anyone would want to cower in the corner and cry. And maybe it makes your thighs clench just a little because no amount of fury could take away from how attractive this man is. But that is not the first thought that crosses your mind now.

The stairs creak with every heavy step Michael takes into the basement, and you hold your breath. Fuck.

Jimmy stares at the mess on the floor, then back at you. You wonder if he’s scared that he might be the next in front of Michael’s gun. He surely didn’t hesitate when it came to Frank. Who knows if he would draw the line at his brother, but from what you have gathered from their relationship, there is a chance he won’t.

“Jimmy,” is the first word on his lips when he makes it downstairs. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and his fists clench at his sides. The cuddly teddy bear you said goodbye to this morning has disappeared completely under an iron veil.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Michael sneers.

Your first instinct is to step between him and his brother. Only then does he seem to take a look at you. You meet his brown eyes, your palms extended to press against his chest.

“Easy,” you murmur. You don’t see the need to snap at him.

He takes you in, his clothes hugging your curves just right, and in an instant, his large hands are cupping your face. “You alright?” he asks, and the fury is gone for a moment as he checks you for injuries. As though he truly believes that his brother would hurt you.

You nod. “I’m fine, I promise. I—”

Michael cuts you off. He pulls you to his side, almost behind himself, glaring at Jimmy. “Why’s she here with ya, huh?” Again, his demeanor changes. “She didn’t do anythin’! Frank put her life in danger, and you still treat her like a fuckin’ intruder?”

“Hold up, Michael. No,” Jimmy says. His shoulders broaden as he takes a step forward. “I didn’t–”

“Yes, ya fuckin’ did,” Michael interrupts him. “If you hurt or threatened her in any way, I swear to God—”

“No!” you raise your voice slightly, only enough to catch his attention. His head whips toward you. “He didn’t ask me here,” you confess. “I came here to talk to him, not the other way around. Jimmy…he didn’t do anything. I’m okay, baby. Please.”

His eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of your words, and he slumps. He turns to you, his hand on your bicep, and he asks, breathlessly, “You what?”

The emotions in his eyes are a whirlwind that burns through the guilt in your stomach. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I had to.”

“Had to what?”

“Come here. Frank came over, and he gave me the pictures he was planning to use to blackmail me, telling me about how he told his men to back off, but—”

Michael snatches them from Jimmy’s hands, his knuckles white with how hard he is gripping them.

“I was going crazy,” you say. “I called Scotland Yard, but Inspector Jones put me on his no-call list, so I thought I would write him an email. I was going to use your laptop, but you…you must’ve forgot to close one of the folders, and I accidentally started scrolling, and—”

“Jesus!” He shakes his head. “And you went t’ Jimmy about that?”

“I didn’t have a choice, okay? You said you didn’t want to get involved in anything illegal again, for Anna’s sake, but you lied to me. I don’t blame you. I know I’m not getting out of this, and I don’t want to because you mean the world to me, so I thought I could talk to Jimmy and we could find a compromise. After Frank…I didn’t think there was time to be rational about this. I’m sorry, Michael. I know you told me to sit tight, but I had to.”

“Five hours,” he growls. “You couldn’t wait five hours?”

Jimmy pipes up. “She was curious about Eamon,” he says. “I gave her the answers she was lookin’ for because you wouldn’t.”

Michael’s grip on your arm tightens, and it stings. You try to free yourself, but he won’t let you.

“Whatever you two discussed,” he snarls, “It’s off the table.”

You glare at him. “What?”

His fingers dig into your sensitive flesh. “Off the table, pet. You’re not gettin’ involved with this family.”

“What do you mean, I’m not getting involved with this family? I already am!”

“The fuck you are.” He drags you toward the door.

“Michael,” you choke out, “you’re hurting me.”

You have never seen him like this, and you never would have thought he would grab you like this.

He loosens his grip, but it’s still not enough to free you from his grasp. “I’m sorry,” his voice is barely above a whisper.

You scoff. He may be sorry for hurting you, which you know was unintentional because he often underestimates his power, but he isn’t sorry for treating you like a child because he is still pulling you toward the stairs.

“Michael,” Jimmy stops him. “Maybe we could talk ‘bout this?”

“No. You can get fucked!”

“Jesus,” you snap at him.

“Home,” Michael tells you. “Now.”

His house isn’t even home to you, but you don’t have a choice. And as you make your way next door again, a feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. A feeling that makes you sick.

Are you actually scared of him? Meeting his eyes once the door is closed behind you though, you can’t stop imagining your father in front of you, and it makes your heart race up to your throat.

Michael raises his hand to his forehead, the other resting on his hip. “Fuck!” He doesn’t say it to you. He would never.

He is trying to get rid of his anger to have a normal conversation—to talk this through because he doesn’t understand why you would put yourself at risk like that—but your brain doesn’t function the way it did this morning. To you, he is cursing at nothing but you.

You see his hand out of the corner of your eye, and you flinch. Your entire body recoils, and the air changes. He seems to realize what he did almost instantly. You hug your arms around yourself, avoiding his eyes, hoping you won’t cry, but the tears are treacherous as they start to pave their way forward. It burns.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is soft again. His hand is gone, but oh, you can’t open yourself up to him again. “My love, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think.” He takes a step forward.

He didn’t, and he still isn’t thinking, it seems. You take a step back. He is suffocating you.

“I’m not angry,” he tries again. “I just wanna understand…”

You swallow thickly. “I explained it to you,” the words flow out in a monotone line.

“Why Jimmy? Why?”

“If I’d asked you, would you have told me the truth?” You meet his eyes, and it hits him like a strike of lightning. “If I’d asked you about the folder, about what the fuck is going on, would you have answered or would you have tried to keep me out of it?” you ask again.

Michael gnaws at his bottom lip. “I told ya we’d find a way. We’d make a plan,” he says.

He is diverting. He can’t give you the answer you asked of him, and somehow that breaks your heart. It drills a sharp knife through your ribs, causing you to bleed out in front of him.

“There is no other way,” you argue.

“There is always another way.”

“Not in this case, there isn't.”

“I cannot have you doing dirty work for my family. Fuckin’ Christ!” The whisper turns into a desperate plea, “Why can’t you see that?”

You wipe your cheeks with a furious index finger. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you fucked me.”

“Sorry?” He is taken aback by your tone of voice.

“You made me fall in love with you, knowing that being with you would put me in danger,” you cry. “I’ve always been okay with it, but you have to stop coddling me like I’m a child. I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions.”

“This isn’t fair,” he says. “I’m just tryin’ to keep ya safe.“

“But I’m not the only one who matters.”

“You’re the only one who matters to me!”

The silence that washes over you is charged to the maximum. Michael’s words echo in your mind.

“I know you love your sister,” he murmurs, “but you promised not to make any rash decisions.”

“I know,” you reply coolly.

“You should’ve waited. You should’ve talked t’me.” Michael shakes his head.

You sniffle. You can’t look at him. “So you own me now, huh?”

“No, that’s not—”

“You say you want to protect me, to keep me safe, but has it ever crossed your mind, even for a second, that I don’t want to be saved?”

His chest heaves with the breath he inhales. His hands remain on his hips. He fiddles with the fabric of his sweater—he always does it when he’s nervous, or when he’s fuming. You watch his body language and read it like an open book, but there is a distance between you. You thought maybe he would be a little pissed, but this behavior is worse. It tears your soul apart, piece by piece.

Again, he inhales, and he exhales again. “You’re reckless,” he states. Somehow though, he makes it sound like an accusation.

“So what?” you retort.

“So what? Are you even listening to yerself?”

“Don’t snap at me.”

“I’m not—” he clenches his jaw. “Trust me, if I snapped at ya, it would sound a lot different. I’m just tryin’ to figure you out ‘cause I can’t fuckin’ read ya right now.”

You offer a sarcastic hum. You don’t have to think far to find the words. They are right there on the tip of your tongue. “Maya’s living with a monster who would raise hell if he found out the truth. The same monster who tortured me. The same monster who murdered my sister. Now, I feel like I’m being followed everywhere I go,” you say. “The family of the man I love would rather see me fall than accept me. I can’t go back to London. I can’t go home. I can’t…I can’t even go back to work.”

You sniffle again. “Brewing coffee used to be my life. I was working toward being something more. Someone more. I was writing, I was being creative, and I was somewhat happy. I had a plan, you understand?” With every word out of your mouth, your voice rises to new volumes. “I had a plan to get my revenge eventually and move on, but now...now my life is whatever this shit is, and I hate it. Okay? I hate it.”

You’re not angry; you’re broken, but saying it out loud won’t move mountains, and when the last word passes your lips, still nothing has changed. It won’t change. You can pray, you can beg, and you can scream at the sky in hopes that someone—anyone—will hear you, but it is a losing game. Life is a losing game.

Michael whimpers in the back of his throat. “Don’t,” he begs.

“I hate—” You stare up at the ceiling. The tears taste salty on your tongue.

“Stop it.”

“I hate it here, Mikey.”

God, he knows that you only call him that when you feel like you have reached a dead end, but this time, he can’t save you; he, himself, has reached a dead end that he can’t escape from, and the ocean between you is far too broad to cross. You sob, and he wants to sob with you.

“I hate what my life has become,” you cry softly. Your soft cries are the most painful to listen to. “And I hate that loving you hurts so fucking much I can’t breathe.”

This conversation feels oddly familiar. As if you have had it before. As if it is a daily occurrence as your demons fight against each other for dominance.

“I wish I could change that,” Michael whispers back to you. He is so far away, yet you still hear him perfectly.

You shudder. “Make me hate you, you mean?”

“No, not that. Although yes, sometimes.”

“I wish I could hate you sometimes, too,” the admission rolls off your tongue like a bullet from a gun.

He nods. His eyes never leave your fragile frame, barely holding on by a thread. “I wish I could take it all away from ya,” he says. “The fear, the pain... And I wish it were easier to protect those you love. But I dunno how. And I dunno how t’be…better.”

A better man, he wanted to say. Better for you, better for Anna, and better for anyone else. Michael feels unworthy of your love. He had hope; for a few days, he had hope, but hope never lasts long with him. It always dies because everything he touches eventually withers like a fragile flower. He doesn’t say it though. He doesn’t know how.

You sniffle, shaking your head. “You don’t have to be better. I just need you to understand,” you say.

“I do,” Michael insists. “I do understand.”

“I’m glad you do, but I don’t. I need a chance at ruining the life of the man who caused so much damage I don’t even know what has become of me. I want to ruin his life the same way he ruined mine. I want to put him away for the rest of his miserable life so maybe my mother can get the help she refused to get when I last gave her the chance, and provide my sister with a normal life. That’s what I need.”

But what you need and can have are two different pairs of shoes.

After a deep breath that lasts several seconds and allows the silence to stretch into a pregnant pause, you find your words again to continue. “The file I have on Ellie’s death is circumstantial, we both know that,” you say. “It won’t be enough. We won’t be enough—” Your voice cracks. “A security detail or killing my father won’t fix this. You telling me you love me won’t fix this. And saying ‘we will figure this out’ while you keep a folder on your family’s dealings that might as well also impact me now that Frank has painted a target on my back from me won’t fix this.”

He says your name in a way that sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine.

“I just couldn’t wait!” It is unlike you to yell, but you have reached your limit.

Again, Michael curses, running a hand over his face and through his beard.

You lean back against the wall, defeated beyond relief. “What do you want from me, Michael?” you plead. “Because I feel like no matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

“C’mon,” he breathes, “I never said that.”

“No, but it certainly feels that way.”

“I don’t want to lose ya, alright? That’s all I’ve got.” He sounds like a broken record. “I…I just found out that I probably have no chance at gettin’ Anna back, even after all I did, and I can’t…I just can’t…”

The urge to reach out and take him into your arms is overwhelming. Tears glisten in his eyes now, and his body is quivering with agony. He’s holding back. He’s trying not to show you just how scared and in pain he truly is, but he can’t hide the truth from you.

On any other day, you would have crossed the room and hugged him with the promise of never letting him go, but can’t bring yourself up to get any closer because he is not the only one close to falling apart.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp out.

“I can’t lose you too,” Michael whispers. “If I get involved again with my family—if I choose to fight—that’s another story. I am who I am, and I can’t change that, but yer not; you’re everything to me. And I won’t put the goodness of yer heart at risk. I can’t—”

You silence him with your hand. “I am not Anna.”

“I know, but—”

“I am not Anna,” you repeat. “I can’t replace her. I won’t replace her. I am not a consolation prize, and I am not yours to command.”

Your steps are heavy as you reach for your bag. “No,” he grunts. He reaches for your arm again, but you elude him.

“Don’t touch me.”

You’re not even sure if this can be called fighting. You were arguing until you weren’t. It’s a quiet storm, but it causes the most damage.

The door is calling for you. You can’t stay here. You feel like you’re drowning—like he is taking all the air out of your lungs. You can’t stand here and argue and fight, and you definitely can’t stay and be quiet with him. That hurts a lot more than being yelled at. Silent anger kills, and you’re not sure if you can come back from this.

How did you get here? When he left this morning, he kissed you. Now, there seem to be a million worlds standing between you, and you can’t find common ground. You’re floating in space, and Michael can’t haul you back, but perhaps that is not the problem. The problem is that you don’t want to be hauled back.

His hand finds your waist, and he pulls you against him. “You’re not leaving,” he says. The gruff sound of his voice used to be your favorite.

“Let me go,” you murmur.

Michael shakes his head. You suck in a sharp breath when he presses his forehead to yours. He smells of whiskey and rum. Did he have a drink on his way here? Did he drown his sorrows in liquor and God knows what else? You don’t want to think about how miserable he is. You don’t want to think about what could happen. You just don’t want to think at all.

“Please,” he begs. “Talk t’me.”

For a moment, you bask in the feeling of his skin against yours, but when it starts to hurt, you have to pull back. “I have nothing left to say.”

The arrow hits him straight through the heart.

“I’m sleeping in my bed tonight.” You throw your bag over your shoulder, and you turn away so he won’t see you cry. “We’re no good for each other right now.”

He scoffs. It is a bitter sound that laces the air like a toxin. “We’ve never been good for each other.”

You ignore the sting his words leave behind. “Then maybe it’s a good thing I’m leaving,” you say.

The sound of the wall breaking under the weight of his fist is the last thing you hear before you step out into the cold evening air.

Your cheeks are wet with tears, but you don’t look back. You get into your car; you don’t even take another look at the house. You turn on the engine, and you pull out of the parking lot.

Michael’s house and the rest of the Kinsellas disappear behind you, your sobs echoing in the small space of your car. You might have to do this on your own, after all, and with that comes the realization that you might have just lost the love of your life, too.

The question is just, was it worth it?

Tagging: (let me know if you want to be tagged, too!) @bellaxgiornata @mattmurdocksscars @ms-murdockswift @your-not-invisible-to-me @shouldbestudying41 @glowstick-lesbian @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @norestfortheshelbywicked @1988-fiend @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattkinsella @schneeflocky @harperdoodle @ravenclaw617 @lunaticgurly @mattmurdocksstarlight

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella #michael kinsella x f!reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella angst #kin rte #kin amc #kin bbc #reader insert #charlie cox #chaos theory

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she-likesorchids · 7 months

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Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Warnings: None, just tooth rotting fluff.

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

Word count: Just over 700

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

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

“M’upstairs!” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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sunflowersandsapphires · 3 months

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My fellow Kin fans:

Don’t think about how much Michael would love cats ok. Don’t think about how touched and emotional he’d be when he gained a timid kitten’s trust. And definitely don’t think about him rescuing strays he finds and begging you to let them stay.

That is all.

#yah I’m obsessed with him #what about it #michael kinsella #mikey kinsella #kin amc #kin #kin rte #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you

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siampie · 3 months

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Chapter List for Finding You

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Warnings/tags: 18+ contains smut, parental death, grief, idiots in love, angst, fluff, eldest daughter syndrome.

After your father passed and after sorting out his affairs, you made the move to Dublin, Ireland. You were happy to have found a two-story house at a cheap price. You didn’t think much of it. And then you realized why the price was so low, you were living next door to the notorious Kinsella Clan. A knit tight family that dealt in all sorts of crimes. And had made headlines a few times. It went from murder to drug dealings. Upon learning this, you made yourself as scarce as possible. You kept your interactions with the Kinsellas as little as possible. You kept away from them, and they seemed to keep away from you too. Not having the means to move out of this neighborhood, you took it in stride and lived your life despite your proximity to the Kinsellas. You made sure not to be seen by them and kept out of their way. That was until your next-door neighbor; Michael Kinsella; is released from jail and moves back into his home. You’ve sworn to yourself to stay away from him. You knew what he'd done to his wife. You knew why he had been in jail for eight years. And yet, you find yourself drawn to your quiet and dangerous neighbor.

List of Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 (Coming soon)

#michael kinsella #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x fem! reader #michael kinsella fluff #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella smut

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shiorimakibawrites · 7 months

Text

A Heated Discussion (Kinktober Day 8)

Personal Masterlist for Kinktober 2023

FlightlessAngelWing's prompt list can be found here.

Day 8 - Rough Sex

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x AFAB! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1,267

Warning(s): reference to a mugging with threat of knife violence, rough kisses, spanking, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, clitoral stimulation, overstimulation, reference to possibility of voyeurism, dirty talk

Tagging: @flightlessangelwings-updates

A Heated Discussion

You weren’t fighting. Fighting implied disagreement. This wasn’t a disagreement per se. Michael wanted you alive and safe. Well as safe as you could be dating him. You also wanted those things. But how to accomplish those lofty goals . . . well . . . you were still working out the details.

One of those details – namely how late was too late to call him to walk you home after work – had resulted in this . . . not an argument . . . a heated discussion. Probably because you had walked through the front door without your purse and shaking from having a knife waved in your face. With Michael already worried because it was well past time for you to be home and you hadn’t been answering your phone . . . because it had been dead and now it was stolen . . .

To say he was unhappy about these events was a bit of an understatement.

Having Michael crowd you against the kitchen table, boxing you in with his arms, his eyes dark with restrained fury, speaking in a low but intense voice, should have been frightening. Especially since you knew perfectly well what this man was capable of. Key words being should have been. Because the feeling coursing through you wasn’t fear.

Not with thoughts like ‘Wow, he is so pretty when he’s angry’ running around your head. Not that Michael isn’t always pretty. Because he is. But there was something about his angry face that was making your cunt ache with need. It was rather distracting.

“Are ya even listenin’ to me?” he demanded, sounding frustrated. Which was . . . fair.

You weren’t sure when the switch was flipped. One minute, you were having your heated discussion. The next thing you knew, Michael was kissing you. Rough kisses that involved just as much teeth as they did lips and tongue. Kisses that soon had you frantically trying to get his pants off. You had partially succeeded. You had managed to unbuckle his belt as well as unbutton and unzip the pants. You were in the process of yanking them down when he lifted you into the air and deposited you onto the table.

He tried to slotted himself between your legs but ended growling into your mouth when the tightness of your skirt restricted the spread of your legs. He tore his mouth away from yours with a frustrated growl.

“Lift ya hips for me, pet,” he ordered, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt. You never noticed him doing it but the closures had been undone. So when you eagerly lifted your hips, he could immediately start pulling down your skirt. Along with your panties.

You expected him to do the same to his own jeans and boxers but he only pushed them down far enough to free his cock. His hands gripped your hips and yanked you over to the edge. The movement was so abrupt that you barely managed to remain upright. Michael slotted himself between your legs, using his body to spread them apart until he was pressing his groin against yours. Not trying to come inside you – just grinding his hard cock on your wet cunt.

“So fuckin’ wet, pet,” he rumbled, moving one hand away from your hip. You gasped as that hand smacked your ass. Not especially hard but it only fueled the fire between your legs. Something that did not go unnoticed by Michael.

“And that got ya even wetter,” he observed, grinding against you. “Like it when someone spanks yer arse, pet?”

You felt your face flush. When you didn’t answer, he smacked your ass again, a little harder this time. Which only made you let out a strangled moan. It stung but it also felt good.

“Answer me, pet,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

“Y-yes,” you manage to pant out and are rewarded with another smack. His hand rubbed the skin, soothing the tingling skin. That it also allowed him to grope your ass was just a bonus.

Then you felt the head of his cock prodding your entrance. But he didn’t come inside you. Just pressed the tip to your entrance. You whined and bucked up, trying to get him actually in you. Or rather you wanted to do that but his hands were back on your hips almost immediately. He used the hold to press your hips back down onto the table. They stayed there, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Mikey, please . . .” you whined, trying to squirm out of his hold. But it was useless. He was too strong.

“Ya want me to fuck ya, pet?” Michael asked, pushing himself in. But only a little. Barely far enough get the head of his cock inside you. Just enough to give your aching cunt a taste of what it wanted. What it needed.

You whimpered. “Mikey-”

“Then promise me that ya’ll call me when ya get off after dark. Promise me no more walking alone at night,” he demanded.

“But what if” you started to protest but cut yourself off when he started to withdraw his cock. “Okay, okay! I promise! I promise! I – fuck!”

With one powerful thrust, Michael had pushed the rest of his cock inside you. All the way without letting your cunt adjust along the way or the usual foreplay of fingering or eating you out. It didn’t hurt but there was a sharpness that told you that you were going to sore later.

But that was Future You’s problem. Present You was deliciously full, moaning at the sensation of your cunt fluttering and twitching around his cock. But you needed more. You wrapped your legs around his hips and dug your heels into his bare ass. You both groaned as this action pushed him little bit deeper inside you.

“Move!” you ordered.

Michael did as he was told. No slow build up this time, he was immediately thrusting at a hard and fast pace. You rose your hips to meet each thrust as best as you could. Your hands clung tightly to his shoulders, your nails biting into his shirt.

Your fear from the mugging on the way home. The stress of arguing with Michael. The knowledge that anyone who walked into the backyard would be able to see Michael fucking you on the kitchen table. All of it faded into the background.

All that mattered was Michael. The look of fierce pleasure on his face. The taste of his skin as your mouth kissed and nipped at his neck. The sound of his loud grunts and quieter moans as he fucked you. The way his cock felt, how perfectly he fit inside you, how deep each hard thrust was. How with a slight shift of his hips he started hitting that spongey place inside you that had the pleasure building and building. Until suddenly the dam burst and you were screaming his name.

You fell back on the table, unable to keep yourself upright. Michael barely missed a beat, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm. The waves had almost abated when his hand abandoned your hip in favor of toying with your clit. You cried out and soon found yourself falling over the edge of your second climax. That soon on the heels of your first, the pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. You couldn’t stop sobbing his name as his thrusts began to falter, until with a deep groan, he thrust in one last time and came.

#fawktober2023 #kinktober 2023 #kin amc #kin rte #michael kinsella smut #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #fan fic #fan fiction

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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 10 months

Note

Hello, I have a Michael Kinsella x reader request. Mikey and you are fighting because you want to start a family with Michael, but he thinks it's too dangerous because of the family business. You have to go away for a few days and you stay at a friend's house. You find out that you are pregnant, but are very afraid to tell Mikey.

Hi Nonny!

Thank you so much for the request -- hope you like it!

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: Smut, Angst, Fluff (this has everything, y'all), Pregnancy, another additional surprise at the end.

Word Count: ~2800

A/N: Trying my hand at writing in 2nd person and not using Y/N -- let me know how y'all like it!

"...Fuckin' hell, love, ya feel so fuckin' perfect," your boyfriend, Michael Kinsella, groaned as he drove his long, thick cock in and out of you. "Yer cunt's always so good fer me."

"Mikey, darlin'." You were so close to the edge of ecstasy and just needed that tiny little push to get you there. "Need it, love, please."

Michael groaned, his hips stuttering slightly. "Love ta hear ya beg for me, pet, such a good lass."

You sucked in a breath, willing to do just about anything at that point as long as Michael would let you come for a second time. "Please, Michael, please. Need yer cock, love, wan' ta feel it deep inside me."

Michael grabbed onto the headboard and drove into you even harder. "Gonna make sure ya remember who this cunt belongs ta while yer' away, who it is tha' makes ya feel this good."

You whimpered, digging your nails into the hair on his chest. He had already littered your chest and inner thighs with an array of love bites before eating you out so damn thoroughly that your legs were still shaking. "Yes, Mikey, love, give it ta me."

Michael thrust so deep into you that you were sure that you'd feel his cock inside you for days -- which is what you supposed he was going for. "Wan' ya ta think about wha' it feels like ta have me inside ya, pet," he growled as he repeatedly slammed into you. "Fillin' ya up with me cum until it's fuckin' drippin' outta ya. Don't wan' ya ta so much as look a' another man while yer' gone."

"Fuck -- yes, Mikey, fuckin' ruin me, love," you moaned. "Fuck a wee one inta me, show everyone that I belong ta ya."

The thought of carrying Michael's child inside of you was enough to send you hurtling over the edge. "Michael --"

"Shit --" Michael groaned out your name as he slammed into you one last time, releasing rope after rope of his hot seed inside your quivering cunt.

He reached down to circle your clit with his thumb, prolonging your orgasm until you were shaking with oversensitivity.

You weakly pushed at his chest even as your greedy cunt milked his cock of every last drop of cum that had been offered to it.

Michael collapsed on top of you, his cock twitching inside you as it was spent. "Fuckin' hell," he breathed, turning his face to nuzzle your neck.

You hummed as his beard scratched deliciously against your sensitive skin. "Mmm."

Michael leaned up and eased his way out of you, pressing a kiss to your lips before laying at your side.

You turned to face him. You and Michael had been in the middle of a very important discussion about the future of your relationship when he had distracted you with sex. "Are we at least goin' ta talk about it?"

Michael shook his head. "There's nothin' ta talk about. I don' wan' another baby."

Your eyes welled with tears. The topic had been a point of contention between you and Michael for the past several months. As much as you loved Anna like she was your own, you wanted a biological child -- specifically with Michael, who had been staunchly refusing to even consider having another kid but wouldn't give you a reason why. "You don' wan' another baby, or you don' wan' a baby with me?"

Michael said your name mournfully. "Pet--"

You shook your head. "Don' ya 'pet' me, Michael Kinsella. I'm good enough ta keep in yer bed and ta tell that yer' not gonna let another man even so much as look a' me, but ya can' give me a reason why ya don' wan' ta marry or have a baby with me."

You climbed out of bed. "I have ta get ready ta go or else I'll miss my flight."

Michael followed you. "Wait, love--"

You pointed at him angrily. "Do not, Michael. I don' even wan' ta hear whatever half-arse excuse yer' tryin' ta come up with."

You slammed the bathroom door and locked it, and when you came out after taking a brief shower Michael was nowhere to be found. Instead there was a note on your bed in Michael's neat script. I'm sorry, love. Can we talk about it after you get back? I'll explain everything, I promise.

You sighed, the anger draining and leaving a deep sense of disappointment inside you. You knew Michael truly did love you -- getting married or having a baby together wouldn't change that.

You dressed then grabbed your phone off of the charger and sent Michael a message. Yes, we can talk when I get back.

A reply came immediately. Thank ya.

Where are ya?

You looked up as Michael appeared in the doorway. "I was givin' ya some space," he explained. "Wasn't sure if ya wanted ta tell me goodbye or not before ya left fer yer holiday."

You shook your head. "Of course I wouldn't leave without tellin' ya goodbye."

Michael walked over to you and wrapped his arms around you. "A month is too long ta have ta go without ya."

You nodded. "I'm sorry, love, but I promised Caitlin that I'd come visit her and it's been years since we saw each other in person."

"I know, I'm just gonna miss ya." Michael gave you a kiss. "Have a safe trip, darlin'. Call me when you get there?"

You nodded again. "I will, Mikey. And be careful while I'm gone, okay?"

"I will, pet."

A cab honked outside.

You grabbed your suitcase. "That's my ride. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay."

Michael helped you bring your suitcase downstairs and out to the waiting cab, then gave you one last kiss before you climbed into the cab and headed to the airport.

Your best friend squealed your name as she saw you come around the corner at Boston International airport.

She wrapped her arms around you in a hug. "Hi!"

You hugged her back. "Cait, it's so good ta see ya."

"It's good to see you too. How was your flight?"

"It wasn' tha' bad. I got ta rest on tha plane, a' least."

You had met Caitlin in college when she had done a semester abroad in Ireland and had become immediate friends, staying in touch through everything life had thrown at the two of you.

Caitlin gave you a knowing smile. "Your hot Irishman been keeping you up at night?"

You grinned. One of the wonderful things about Caitlin was that the two of you could talk about literally anything. "He definitely kept me up this mornin', tha's fer sure."

Caitlin huffed out a laugh as you headed out towards her car. "Get it, girl."

You shook your head. You'd tell her about the rest of it over a glass of wine later. "So, how are things with ya?"

Caitlin snorted. "Well, the dating life is dryer than the Sahara desert, but at least work is going well."

She grinned. "I sold 2 more full manuscripts and another one just based on a synopsis."

You gasped. "Cait, tha's amazin'!"

Caitlin nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, thank you. Gotta actually write that one now, but hey, it's a good problem to have."

"I'm so proud of ya."

Caitlin smiled. "So tell me more about Mr. Perfect."

You shook your head with a chuckle. "Oh he's far from perfect. We actually had a big row right before I left."

Caitlin's face dropped. "Oh no, what happened?"

You shook your head as you loaded your suitcase in the backseat and the two of you got into her car. "I tried bringin' up maybe havin' a baby but he flat-out refused, no explanation, no discussin' it, nothin'. And then when I pressed him about it he distracted me with sex -- fuckin' phenomenal sex, but still, he said tha' there was nothin' ta discuss. He avoids the topic of marriage too -- we were talking with his cousin tha other day and he said somethin' about Michael makin' an honest woman outta me and Michael jus' froze and changed tha subject."

You sighed. "He acts all jealous and possessive sometimes -- and I don' mean in a bad way, like he's never threatened me or accused me of anythin', it's more like he likes ta mark me up durin' sex and talk about how I'm his -- but yet he completely avoids all talk of commitment."

Caitlin frowned. "Do you think he's afraid of commitment?"

"I don' know. Maybe it's jus' me tha' he doesn't want ta commit ta." You shook your head. "Anyway, we had a row, then I left ta go shower and get ready fer my flight, and when I came back out of tha ensuite there was a note on tha bed apologizin' and askin' if we could talk about it after I got back from my holiday."

"Well that's something, at least."

You shook your head again. "Yeah, if he actually decides ta talk instead of jus' distractin' me again."

You powered your phone up. "Actually, I promised Michael I'd let him know when I arrived. Let me do tha'."

You sent Michael a text. Arrived in Boston. Caitlin and I are on our way to her flat.

A few seconds later, your phone chimed with a reply. Okay. Love ya.

Love ya too. Have a good night.

You put your phone back in your pocket.

Caitlin looked over at you. "So what are you going to do if Michael doesn't want to commit?"

You sighed. "I don' know. I wan' a child, but if he doesn't then I guess I'll have ta give up tha' dream."

Caitlin shook her head. "I'm sorry. I know you always wanted to be a mom."

"Don' get me wrong, I love Anna, but I guess I don' really feel like she's mine. She's always been sweet ta me, but it's definitely been in more of a stepmum kind of way rather than a mum mum kind of way." You took a deep breath. "Michael isn't even tha' close ta her, ta be honest."

Caitlin reached over and patted your arm. "Well, no worrying about all that while you're here. We're going to catch up and see the sights and have fun and drink cheap wine like back in our college days."

You huffed out a laugh. "Exactly." Nothing was going to ruin your holiday.

"Ugh, why does my body hate me?" you bemoaned three weeks later. You had been feeling tired and ill for the past couple of days and had barely moved from Caitlin's sofa. "It's all this American food ya been feedin' me. Even my tits hurt."

Caitlin chuckled sympathetically. "I have some Tylenol in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, want me to get it for you?"

You waved her off and got up. "Nah, tha's alright. I'll grab it. I have ta wee again anyway."

You walked into Caitlin's bathroom and opened her medicine cabinet, grabbing the bottle of acetaminophen.

You froze as something caught your eye. "Cait? What's today's date?"

"The 18th, why?"

You stared at the box of tampons as you did some mental math. "Oh, fuck. Oh no. Oh no, no no no..."

An hour later you sat on Caitlin's sofa, a positive pregnancy test in your hands. You had been staring at the word pregnant for the past ten minutes. Pregnant. I'm pregnant. How could I have been so forgetful?

You had made a calendar note in your phone to give yourself your birth control injection every three months but had somehow missed the last one, which was supposed to have been almost two months ago, and it wasn't like you and Michael had exactly been careful otherwise.

You were torn between sheer terror and absolute elation. Michael had made it explicitly clear that he didn't want any more children, but you already felt fiercely protective of the life growing inside you.

"Are you okay?" Caitlin asked gently.

You blinked up at her. "What the fuck am I going ta do? Michael is goin' ta be so angry -- he's goin' ta think I got pregnant on purpose."

You let out a shaky breath. "I don' wan' ta lose him, Cait, but I don' wan' ta lose this child either."

"Well you're going to have to tell him eventually, and maybe even make a decision between the two of them." Caitlin squeezed your hand. "No matter what you decide though, I'm here for you 100%."

You wrapped your arms around Caitlin in a hug. "Thanks, Cait."

You had a big decision to make.

Michael, we need ta talk, you recited to yourself as you walked up the driveway to your and Michael's shared home. There's something important I have ta tell ya.

You had kept in touch with Michael the entire time you were gone, of course, but there was no way you were going to tell him that you were pregnant over the phone.

You stepped inside and gasped.

LED candles and rose petals lined the entryway, making a red carpet leading to the stairwell.

Michael stood at the end of it, a single white rose in his hand. "Hi, love," he said.

You blinked at him. "Hi."

He approached you. "I need ta tell ya something."

You opened your mouth to say "okay" but what came out was "I'm pregnant."

Michael froze. "Wha' did you just say?"

You grimaced. That definitely wasn't how you had planned on breaking the news to him. "I said I'm pregnant."

"How long?"

"Probably six weeks or so? I just found out a couple of days ago though, I hadn't been feeling well and I thought it was something I had ate, but then I realized my cycle was late, and I --" You faltered at the unreadable expression on Michael's face and looked down at the floor. "I realized I had missed my injection, but I didn't mean ta, Mikey. I wasn't tryin' ta get pregnant, I swear ta ya."

Your eyes welled with tears. "I understand if yer' angry with me, but I want ta keep this baby. I won' expect ya ta be responsible for it or anythin', so ya don' have ta worry about me comin' after ya for support --"

"Yer' leavin' me?"

You looked up at Michael in surprise, his broken tone shattering both your heart and your resolve. "No, no, I -- I just figured ya wouldn't wan' me now since ya made it clear tha' ya don' wan' another baby."

"It's not tha' I don' want a child with ya, love, I --" Michael shook his head. "Here, come sit with me."

He led you over to the sofa.

You sat, watching him as he gathered his thoughts.

He took a deep breath. "The reason I told ya I didn' wan' another baby is because my work -- my life is dangerous, and I don' wan' ta put anyone else in harm's way. I've already lost Jamie ta this life and I almost lost Anna because of it, I don' wan' ta lose another child."

Your heart broke for him. "Mikey…"

Michael shook his head. "However, I've had a lot of time ta think over tha past month and I've decided tha' my fear of losing another child is not worth losing you over."

He slid off of the sofa and got down on one knee.

You reeled back. "Michael, wha' tha fuck are ya doin'?"

He took your hand in his and reached into his pants pocket. "Somethin' I shoulda done long ago."

He pulled out a ring. "I actually bought this tha day after our first date. I knew right then tha' I wanted ta spend tha rest of my life with ya, I've just been waitin' fer tha right time ta give it ta ya."

He breathed out your name. "Will ya marry me, love?"

You nodded, tears springing to your eyes once again. "Yes, yes, of course, Mikey, I love ya so much."

Michael slid the ring onto your finger and gave you a kiss. "I love ya too."

He sat back on the sofa and pulled you into his lap, his hand creeping under your shirt to caress your stomach. "So, yer' carryin' my child in there, hmm?"

You giggled. "Yeah, if the very clear 'pregnant' on the test I took at Caitlin's was any indication."

He stood and carried you towards the stairs. "Maybe we should go try again, jus' ta make sure."

#lotmf writes #michael kinsella x female reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x reader #kin amc #writing request fill

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cellophaine · 6 months

Text

Dark Paradise

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Word Count: 1841

Warnings: Hurt and comfort. Fluff.

Author's Note: Guess who did not work on her WIPs and started a new one? This idea struck me when I was scrolling through Twitter and I came across a photo of Charlie with his big bulky arms and my head went hmm no thought just feel. Then it took shape in my head, and now it's here! I do have more of this to make it into a small series if there is a demand for more!

P/S: This is my first time writing for Michael so it's still a foreign land for me, any characteristic is my personal interpretation of him. This takes place in season 1.

GIF Credit: @pajamasecrets

The night had pulled its inky shade over the sky, dying the clouds and its backdrop a dull shade of gray. The wind sunk its biting claws into the exposed skin on your neck and hands, which meant if you didn't press harder on the pedal, you might catch the brunt of the rain. You squared your shoulders and revved the clutch, letting the engine roar louder and carry you further away from the city.

Your eyes were on the road, but your mind was elsewhere, working to stave off the emotions from resurfacing. You could feel yourself gradually shutting off from the arduous day, putting distance to everything that happened. It numbed the pain somehow despite the taste of copper still lingering in your mouth. It was your defence mechanism, and with where you were heading to, and who you were seeing within the next minutes, you would need it.

The first few droplets of rain fell and clung to you by the time you made it to the familiar neighbourhood. The street was empty, void of sound and people, making for a surreal experience as you were so used to the noise of Dublin. It was the exact reason why you and him chose this area. Close enough to others, yet secluded enough to preserve privacy and raise no suspicion. Both of you could come and go as you pleased.

Your motorcycle pulled up at the house, and you took a moment to observe its exterior as the rain fell, dying the bricks a darker shade. The curtains were closed, but the light at the door was on.

You shut off the engine and hopped off, opening the latch of the low iron gate before guiding your motorcycle into the small front yard. You placed the helmet on top of the seat and closed the gate. Before you could place your hand on the knob of the dark green door, it flew open, revealing the man behind it. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

He looked worse than when you saw him last, which was a week ago. His hair was tousled as if he had run his hand through it so many times. His stubble had grown slightly thicker. A spark of relief flashed in his sunken eyes when they settled on you. They roamed and explored and you knew he was looking for any sign of injury. You felt the same ease. He looked tired if not injured, and you would rather take the first than the latter any day. For a long moment, you said nothing to each other, taking in the sight of the other person, silently assessing.

"Are you hurt?"

You finally found your voice, small with an edge of shakiness. Relief washed over you as Michael shook his head. He asked.

"Are you?"

You mirrored him. It was a harmless lie, one you could handle and one he didn't have to know. His features softened. He stepped back, allowing you to come in and closing the door behind you.

The house was lit in dim lights, and even though it looked cold and lacked almost everything personal, it had provided you with such great consolation for the past few months. Maybe a part of the appeal was Michael being there with you for most of your time here. You draped your jacket over the chair and turned around to meet his eyes.

"Do you want anything to drink?"

You shook your head at his offer.

"I’m fine."

You walked to the couch and sat down, pointedly leaving a space beside you so he could join you. He accepted your wordless invitation; the couch slightly dipped, bringing you closer to him. Your shoes were off, and Michael's house slippers were off too as you made yourself comfortable. One arm hung on the couch's back, the other on his lap, his body opened itself to you and drew you in for comfort. But you ignored it, wanting to distract yourself with something else. Something stronger than a soft cuddle, and louder than a comforting hug. You needed to feel a different type of heat, one that didn't originate from anger and bloodlust.

You crawled to him, settling yourself between his thighs. Michael stayed quiet, patiently waiting for your next move when you moved into his space, and took his face in your hand. You caressed the stubble, feeling its roughness and his soft exhale on your lips when you erased the distance and kissed him.

It was soft and teasing at first, then it grew harder, and greedier as you gave into your greed of him. One week without him was one week too long, and even though you knew it was a bad idea to get so attached, you couldn't help it. It was never your intention to get so hooked on his touch, his voice, and everything about him, but perhaps it was your selfish want that decided that for you. Your primal instinct, your desire that said you deserved something of your own, even when it was something unnamed, undecided by both of you. Perhaps it was just a fleeting infatuation since it couldn't possibly be love, because if it was, it would be detrimental for both of you. You knew better not to start the fire, not to give into temptation, yet you couldn't help but dive head-first into this unknown territory. That all it was, you told yourself, a guilty pleasure you allowed yourself in your situation in which what you wanted was forbidden.

Your kiss grew needy, and you pulled away for some much-needed air. You made your way down his throat, nipping and kissing at his skin, pleased to hear the soft moans reverberating in his throat. Michael's hands grabbed at you, at your clothes, and found their way under your shirt. You were so deep in the taste of his skin on your tongue that you didn’t pay attention when his hand grazed the bandage on your side. Upon the discovery, Michael pressed his fingers to it, and you gasped out of surprise more than pain. He immediately pulled away and looked at you inquisitively.

"You’re hurt."

"No, I’m not. Please–"

Another press of his finger and you hissed. Michael sat up straighter, pulling at your arms that were wrapped around your torso out of reflex to shield yourself.

"Let me see."

"No."

"Let me help you–"

"I don’t need your help."

You jerked yourself out of his reaching hands and darted to the other side of the couch. The distance wasn't much, but it made you feel protected somehow. You kept your face turned away, embarrassed that he found out the very thing you were trying to hide. Your hand found your side, touching the gauze and sighed in relief to find the gauze dry. For a little while, the air between you was tense with silence.

You could feel the frustration warm in your blood. You just wanted to forget about today, but Michael was a reminder of why what happened to you happened. It could be worse if it wasn't for his warning. You could bleed to death in a parking garage right now.

The couch dipped and moved again before you felt Michael's arms wrapping around you. He pulled you toward him like you weighed nothing, and settled you between his thighs once more. Your body was still tense, rigid to his handling. His hand wove into your hair, grasping just enough and pulling gently so you fell into him. You melted completely into him as he found the sensitive spot behind your ears and kissed it. He kissed your temple next, like an unspoken apology. You let him hold you, let his finger draw a soothing pattern on the skin of your arm, let your breathings join as one, let the weight of your day slip away from your shoulders.

"Was it Eric?"

His voice was small, timid as if he didn't want to confirm it himself. You shook your head.

"Eric could never get this close to me. Try again."

A soft chuckle and a brief pause later.

"Jimmy?"

You shook your head again. Michael was unsure now, you could tell by the way his pattern on your skin was disturbed.

"Amanda?"

You nodded.

"I know. Surprised me too."

You fell silent again. The memory of everything that went down this afternoon became fresh cut again, and it stung as reality set in. Michael spoke; his words sobered you up quickly.

"You know, my offer still stands. If you come with me, my family will know that you’re with me. They won’t touch a hair on your head. I’ll see to it myself. I’ll protect you."

You sighed heavily. Michael hadn't given up on the idea that was so fantastical that it would never come true. After all, this was real life, not a fairytale.

"And who will protect you from Eamon, Michael? He is nothing if not a vicious man who would stop at nothing just to prove a point."

At his silence, you advanced.

"He would destroy your family to get back at you for meddling with his bastard daughter."

The paradoxical nature of your relationship was a secret only the two of you knew. Beyond rivals, you were supposed to be enemies. But amidst the vendettas and vengeance between your families, you found solace in each other. In a time like this, when your families were at war with one another, if the knowledge of your clandestine bond got out, it would be a death sentence for both of you. Yet, you were willing to put your heads in the noose, waiting and holding your breaths for the moment the floor underneath your feet would give out. You were doomed from the start.

You turned in his hold to face him. You touched his chin, urging him to look at you. His expression was guarded, and his eyes were full of the sadness he tried to keep at bay. But you saw it. You saw through him as you went through similar emotions yourself. His suffering and yours were one and the same.

"Can we … not talk about it tonight? I just … want to be here, with you."

It took him a moment, but eventually, Michael nodded, and you thanked him with a soft kiss. You returned to the old position, his hold on you tighter now as you unconsciously shifted closer to him, craving the close contact. Under this roof, within these walls, neither of you was your family. You were simply two people who shared the same thoughts you wouldn't dare to name, feelings you wouldn't dare to acknowledge, because to do that was to accept that you cared about each other more than you should, that you should have never been involved in the first place. In this house, you bore no names and obligations. You could just be yourselves.

You were on borrowed time, and you knew it.

*Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!* Follow my side blog to receive notifications whenever I post! @cellophaine-archives

#michael kinsella #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x f!reader #michael kinsella x y/n #kin amc #amc kin

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everythingsf1ne23 · 2 months

Text

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐌𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫? |

𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 (𝘒𝘪𝘯)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 💌:

well my last Michael piece flopped and I wish that it hadn’t ‘cause I really loved it, but please give me feedback in the comments of this one, I’m actually begging you all so I can make my writing better ~Jess

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 📝:

in which, Michael assumes that the girl who once loved him, won’t love him again (inspired by ‘How Much Longer?’ - Alexander 23)

𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭’𝘴 𝘗𝘰𝘷:

I couldn’t help but stare at her across the table at Amanda’s dinner, she broke up with me ages ago and she’s only at our dinners now ‘cause she does work with Amanda.

ɪ ᴛʀʏ sᴏ ʜᴀʀᴅ

ᴅɪᴅ ɪ sᴄᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴡᴀʏ?

I love her and I think that I will forever love her, I watch her as she laughs along with Jimmy at a joke, I assume, I wonder will she ever love me again.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴘɪɴᴋʏ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇ

ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ

From what Amanda has been saying, apparently she has found someone new but apart of me hopes that’s not true.

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴅ

I notice her and Viking clinking their glasses and cheering,

I can’t be bothered to look at her being happy so I get up out of my seat.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ

ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ʜᴀɴᴅ

ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴄᴀɴ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ᴡʜᴇɴ, ʙᴀʙʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ?

“Are you not eating anymore dinner Mikey?” Amanda asks me and everyone turns in my direction.

“No I’ve lost my appetite so I’ll just go home” I down my water and I put on my jacket, then I look in her direction once more although this time she was actually looking at me with a bright smile on her face.

#kin rte #kin bbc #charlie cox #michael kinsella #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella angst

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bellaxgiornata · 27 days

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Safe Haven [Chapter Seventeen]

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3.9k [Series Masterlist]

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

a/n: Finally y'all get the other part of the night after that meeting with Birdy, Frank, and Jimmy! Feedback is always appreciated!

Tag list: @loveroftoomanyfandoms @farfromstrange @rotscinema @1988-fiend @shouldbestudying41 @shiorimakibawrites @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattmurdocksstarlight @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @mattkinsella @ms-murdockswift @theetherealbloom @24hflower @mattmurdocksscars @schneeflocky @the-nursery @lionalsowrites @harperdoodle @kmc1989 @danzer8705 @mattys-rat1989 @kezibear

Arms wrapped tight over your chest, you began to make your way down the drive as the bitter wind blew around you. Behind you, you heard the sound of Michael closing Birdy's front door before his heavy footsteps soon caught up with you along the pavement. Your anticipation of an angry outburst from him only rose with each thump of his boots, the hammering of your heart pounding in sync with them.

“What were ya thinkin’ goin’ out like that alone, Grace?” Michael hissed out between his teeth as he fell in step beside you. “D'ya have any idea how reckless that was? How close ya could've been to gettin’ yourself killed tonight?”

You blew out a rough breath in frustration, your eyes focused on your own feet as you walked. Of course you were aware of how stupid and dangerous it had been for you to meet that Serpent alone, but you hadn't really had another option. And it certainly wasn't like you wanted to go to that meeting, either.

Glancing over your shoulder, you took in the sight of Michael beside you. Despite the way the tension had eased from his body and the way the fire had mostly left his eyes once he'd gotten away from his family, you could still see the fear and anger lingering in them as the lights from the Garda car parked farther down the street lit him in a wash of blue and red.

“Of course I damn well know that it was dangerous,” you told him. “But I didn't have a choice. He knows who I am. And not only that, but Birdy was the one to see him leaving the letter to meet him in my sister’s letterbox , Michael. Meaning he knows where both her and I live. What was I supposed to do?” you asked, irritation in your own voice. “Was I just supposed to ignore the letter and put my sister in danger? Because that seemed like the far more reckless and stupid option.”

“No, I wouldn't expect ya to just ignore it,” he snapped back, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “But ya saw me before ya were headin’ out. Ya should’ve damn well said somethin’ to me! Ya shouldn't have dealt with this alone!”

“It was my problem to deal with!” you snapped back, keeping your voice low so as not to draw attention from the Garda. “I didn't come to Dublin expecting help with my situation! And I'm sure as shit glad I didn't say anything to you because I'm sure that Serpent would've happily shot you on sight if you'd come with me tonight!”

Michael loosed an irritated grunt at your words as he followed you up your sister’s drive. Her car was parked in front of the house and the sight of it shot a pang of guilt through you. You'd told her you were going out to work at a coffee shop before her shift at the hospital ended, and that had been quite awhile ago now. With everything that had happened tonight, you'd forgotten to let her know that you were alright. She was probably worried about you by now, wondering what coffee shop was open quite this late at night.

“I can take care of myself,” Michael said, his tone sharp. “It isn't your job to look out for me.”

Your teeth grit together as your hand dug into your pants pocket, feeling for the key to Megan's house as the pair of you approached the front door. As much as you'd felt safe with Michael lately, your situation wasn't his to take on. Especially with what he already had going on with his family and his health. You weren't going to dump your problems onto him, too.

“Well it isn't your job to look out for me, either,” you shot back. “I'd been doing just–just fine on my own for years, Michael. I don't need you or your family risking your lives for me.” Your hand shook as you inserted the key into the lock, intentionally keeping your focus away from him. “I don't need anymore people’s lives weighing on my conscience.”

You twisted the door handle with more roughness than necessary, pushing the door open and eager for a chance to get away from Michael’s wrath for the night. You just wanted to end this shitty day already, but his hand darted out and grabbed you by the wrist, halting you in place on the front step. Your head turned sharply in his direction, prepared to tell him to leave you alone tonight, but the unexpected softness on his face immediately gave you pause.

“Grace, I–”

“Oh my God ,” Megan's voice rang through the house, cutting Michael clean off. “You've been gone for hours! Where the hell have you been? I was starting to get–”

Megan appeared around the corner from the kitchen and immediately stopped dead in her tracks when she saw you. Her eyes darted from you to Michael and then straight to the bandage on your forehead. Her mouth fell open as her eyes grew wide.

“What the hell happened?” she asked you. Her panicked gaze shifted to Michael before you could even answer as she roughly demanded, “What the hell happened to her? Why is she coming home with a bandage?”

“Nothing to worry yourself about,” you grumbled as you stepped into the house, slipping loose from Michael’s grasp before you began to take off your boots. “So leave him out of it.”

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Megan’s face contort into something stern as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her hardened stare fixed on Michael as he stepped inside the house a moment later, closing the door softly behind himself. Inwardly you braced yourself for another outburst–this time from your sister.

“Like hell I'm leaving him out of this!” she exclaimed, throwing a hand in his direction. “I’m not stupid, Grace. I know you weren’t at a coffee shop writing tonight. You don’t even have your laptop with you! And then you come home late with a bandage on your forehead that I damn well know wasn’t there the last time I saw you! So what the hell is going on? How’d you get hurt? And one of you better fucking answer me with the damn truth!”

“A low ranking Serpent discovered who I actually am,” you said with a sigh, pulling your last boot off of your foot. “He left a message for me to meet with him tonight in the letterbox. Birdy saw him. I didn’t exactly have a choice to not go considering what he already knew. I didn't want to worry or involve you which is why I said I’d be at the coffee shop.”

Megan immediately sucked in a sharp breath, her entire body freezing. For a moment the only sound was Michael behind you, slowly taking his own boots off. Apparently he wasn’t done reprimanding you for the evening.

“So does that mean you need to leave again? Find somewhere new to hide?” she breathed out, her body still stiff. “Is he telling the entire charter? Is Victor on his way?”

You shook your head, running a tired hand along your forehead, careful to avoid the wounded side of it. Everything was finally beginning to catch up to you from today, your body starting to feel completely exhausted from all the stress and fear. You just wanted to collapse on your bed and maybe–if you were lucky–fall into a dreamless sleep where you could forget about absolutely everything for just a short while.

“I’m not leaving, not just yet,” you assured her, brushing past her and making your way down the hall to the sitting room. “He’s after something else and he’s just trying to threaten me with calling in Victor for now.”

“And is that supposed to make me feel any better?” she asked, following closely on your heels. “What could he possibly want from you?”

You sunk into the cushions of the sofa, your body aching as you did. As your attention shifted towards your sister, you spotted Michael entering the room just over her shoulder. He leant against the doorframe to the sitting room, hanging his head almost shamefully as he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Me,” Michael muttered. “He wants me.”

Megan’s brows arched up onto her forehead in surprise, her head turning over her shoulder to focus on Michael curiously.

“I can’t give ya any details–family business and all,” he explained, his voice quiet. “But he’s after me. It’s my fault he’s after your sister, that he even knows who she is.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you shook your head. “No, that’s not true,” you disagreed. “He’s after me because of my psychotic ex. This has nothing to do with you.”

Michael’s head rose, his sad eyes meeting yours from across the room. The frustration you’d felt towards him a few minutes ago quickly dissipated at the sight of the pain visible on his face.

“But he was the one tailin’ us after I took ya out for coffee, wasn’t he? That’s how he found out ‘bout ya, isn’t it?” Michael pressed. “He was after me and found ya in the process. So it's my fault he knows who ya really are.”

You pulled a face immediately, your mouth opening to counter his argument. But Megan held out her hands, the gesture quieting both of you.

“Let's not turn this into a battle of who's to blame,” she said, turning her focus back on you. “So the problem stands that someone in the nearby charter knows you’re Victor’s ex and that you’re here. What the hell is being done about that? Because I’m guessing you’re not about to give up your boyfriend to the MC.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you corrected her, your cheeks heating as you avoided Michael’s stare. “And yes, something is being figured out. Like I said, you don’t need to worry about anything right now. I’ll handle it, okay? But honestly after tonight, all I want to do is go to sleep. I’m fucking tired and I just…don’t want to think anymore. It’s late.”

“Fine,” Megan relented. “But are you okay?”

“Yes,” you assured her.

Megan’s eyes narrowed at you before she turned, focusing on Michael across the room. She threw a thumb in your direction and you rolled your eyes when she spoke.

“Is she really alright?” she asked him.

“Took a good hit to the head with the butt of a gun,” he told her, pausing when Megan let out a hiss. “But I think she’s alrigh’ despite that. Though I…was plannin’ on offerin’ to stay the night here if ya didn’t mind, Megan. Sleep on the sofa down here just to make sure that Serpent doesn’t show back up in the middle of the night or anythin’.” A sheepish smile crossed his lips as he added quietly, “I’d feel better knowin’ ya weren’t both here alone.”

“You know, I’d probably actually feel better if you stayed here too after finding all this out,” Megan told him. “So it’s fine by me. I can try to find some more comfortable pillows–”

“What’s there is already fine,” he assured her. “I don’t need anythin’ more, really.”

“Okay, well,” Megan began awkwardly, her eyes darting between you and Michael as she took a step back towards the staircase. “I’ll just go get ready for bed now that you’re finally home safe. I’ve got another early shift in the morning tomorrow.”

Michael nodded his head, smiling at her and murmuring a soft ‘goodnight.’ You watched as your sister made her way quietly up the stairs, shooting you a curious last glance over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. And then it was just you and Michael in the room.

A silence fell over the pair of you as he remained standing over by the sitting room entrance. Your gaze fell to your hands nervously fidgeting in your lap, aware of the weight of the gun in your jacket pocket once again. Most likely in a few days you’d have to use it. And you certainly hoped you could, when the time came for it.

“I think I’m just going to head to bed,” you eventually said, breaking the silence when it started to feel suffocating.

“Alrigh’,” Michael replied softly.

For the second time this evening you felt your stomach sink to your feet as you rose from the sofa. You were certain you’d somehow gone and messed things up with Michael when you’d lied to him about where you were going earlier and he’d found out. He'd certainly seemed pissed at you for that.

But maybe that’s for the best, you told yourself as you made your way up the stairs. Maybe I shouldn’t get attached. If I need to run again soon, feelings would just make that harder.

Gasping for air, you woke up with a cold sheen of sweat covering your skin. Your eyes flew around the mostly darkened bedroom as you tried to orient yourself while your heart thundered away in your chest. Fear spiking within you at the lingering memory of his voice in your ear, you swore you could feel the cold blade of a knife pressed to your stomach.

Feeling like the bedsheets themselves were trying to hold you down, you began wildly flailing in an attempt to throw them off of you, swinging your arms and feet as you tried to free yourself. A few tears slipped out of your eyes as you did, your panicked mind still replaying threats on repeat.

It was a few moments before you’d finally untangled yourself from the sheets, scrambling backwards against the headboard and sitting upright. Your chest was heaving as you tried to catch your breath, the back of your hand running along your sweat-dampened forehead gently.

“Just a nightmare,” you whispered to yourself. “Not real. He’s not here.”

But he’s looking for you. And this time he’s probably going to do more than add another scar if he finds you.

Bottom lip rolling between your teeth, your right hand reached down, sliding the hem of your shirt upwards a little. You lightly brushed your fingertips over the three gashes on your abdomen that had scarred over. A brand to your skin that you’d never be able to remove, permanently marking you as his . A strangled noise slipped out of you and you clamped your teeth down harder, trying to quiet the sound.

“Grace?”

You audibly gasped as your head spun towards the sound of your name, your pulse speeding at the fear of an intruder. But in the faint light filtering in past your curtains, you could make out the sight of Michael standing halfway in the doorway, a look of concern etched across his features.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” he whispered. “Just thought I heard somethin’ from downstairs and I figured I’d make sure things were alright’.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, quickly lowering your shirt. “Just had a bad dream but I’m fine.”

The bedroom door swung open just a bit wider and you watched as Michael stepped slowly into the bedroom. The corners of your lips curved downwards as you continued to try to calm your breathing. If he was up here to lecture you again, you certainly weren’t interested in hearing it.

“D’ya wanna talk ‘bout it?” he offered.

“No,” you answered simply.

Michael nodded, taking another hesitant step into the bedroom and closing the door partially behind himself as he did. His other hand ran over the back of his neck as he ducked his head. You watched him wordlessly, drawing your legs up towards your chest.

“‘M’sorry ‘bout the way I went off on ya earlier,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that. Ya were scared and tryin’ to do what ya thought was right. But ya…ya scared me, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Your tongue darted out, licking your lips nervously. That was not what you’d expected to hear him say after the way things had played out earlier.

“If somethin’ had happened to ya–especially because o’ me–I don't think I could forgive myself,” he murmured, shifting back and forth on his feet as he focused on the bedroom floor.

“I told you already, it wasn't your fault,” you replied.

“Except it is,” he stated firmly, glancing up at you through the darkness. “That Serpent is lookin’ for a way to get to me. To kill me . And unfortunately you're gettin’ dragged into all my shit because of the things I did. And I can't forgive myself for that.”

You hugged your arms around your knees, guilt flooding you as you pulled them tighter to your chest. You realized that he had probably reacted the way he had tonight because of the accident which had resulted in his ex-wife's passing. Something he didn't know you knew about yet. It made sense then why he was so determined to protect you, and why he refused to let you be the one to take the risk killing the Serpent. He didn’t want your death on his conscience, either. Because it was apparent he'd find a way to blame himself for it no matter what.

“How about we both agree this mess is a combination of both of our problems?” you suggested quietly.

“I would, but the difference is that I actually did things to deserve to be in this mess,” Michael told you. “Whereas ya didn't do anythin’ to deserve the fuckin’ shitty situation your ex has put ya in.”

“Okay,” you said, shooting him a sad smile, “I think I agree with what Megan said earlier. Let's not play the blame game. Pointing fingers at ourselves won't change the situation anyway.”

“Mmm,” Michael hummed. “I s'pose ya got a point.”

Another silence fell between the pair of you, though this one was vastly less uncomfortable than the previous one in the sitting room. You chewed your lip nervously as Michael stood beside your bed, his eyes clearly focused on you through the dark. His presence was beginning to soothe you the longer he stayed and you soon found yourself not wanting him to go back downstairs. Especially not after that nightmare. Despite your better judgment, you found yourself wanting to ask for what you really wanted for once.

“Can I…ask you a favor?” you whispered.

“Always,” Michael replied immediately.

Eyes falling down towards the bed, one of your hands dropped down to your side. Nervously your fingers fidgeted with the sheets, twisting them as you tried to find the courage to ask him to stay here with you. Part of you knew it was safer and smarter to stop letting him get closer to you, especially with danger already looming on the horizon. But the other part of you craved the comfort he always somehow managed to bring you, something you hadn't felt in a long time.

“Could you maybe…stay with me?” you asked, shyly looking back up at him. “Just for tonight?”

“O’course,” he answered. “I'm here whenever ya need me.”

Michael made his way around the foot of the bed, your eyes following his form through the darkness as he did. You saw him pull something out of the waistband at the back of his jeans, realizing a moment later it was the gun he'd had earlier. He set it onto the nightstand before he turned, adjusting the rumpled mess you'd made of the sheets on the bed and pulling them back up before he climbed onto the mattress himself.

You began to slide back down along the headboard, rolling onto your side towards him and slipping back beneath the sheets. As he settled onto the mattress next to you, he turned onto his side, facing you in return. A bit of moonlight crept in just around the edge of your curtains, a thin ray of it illuminating part of his face in all the blackness. The corners of his lips were curved upwards just the faintest bit.

“Didn't think ya would want me with ya tonight,” Michael murmured.

Your stomach fluttered at his words and the position you'd found yourself in with him. Both of you were barely half a foot apart from each other now, eyes locked on one another. You could feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him and heating you beneath the sheets. Your hand clutched tighter to your pillow as you fought the urge to wrap it around him and pull yourself closer to him instead, desperate for connection.

“You make me feel safe,” you confessed, the words falling out of your mouth before you could stop them. “And less alone. For the first time in a long time.”

Gradually Michael’s hand slipped up out of the sheets, reaching out towards you and gently landing on your cheek. His fingertips lightly brushed away a few strands of hair before they affectionately began to lightly stroke your skin. You could feel your heart beating harder in your chest under his touch, the sound of it loud to your own ears. Your skin was beginning to heat beneath his fingers and your own only curled tighter around your pillowcase.

“Ya do the same for me, pet,” he whispered back.

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. You hadn't expected him to tell you that. You also hadn't expected it to feel so good to hear him tell you that, either.

Michael shifted on the bed, sliding closer to you as his palm cradled your cheek. Your eyelids fluttered shut the moment you felt his soft lips press a lingering kiss to your forehead. A warm, pleasant sensation felt like it was racing up your spine the longer his mouth remained pressed against your forehead. It was a feeling that felt a lot like safety and acceptance.

Without thinking, your hand released the pillow and darted out, wrapping its way around Michael as your fingers clutched at his back. You drew your body in tight against his, raising your head from the pillow as you did. Michael’s lips faltered along your forehead at the movement, but you quickly caught his lips with yours in his brief surprise.

He didn’t pull away or hesitate. Instead, his own mouth molded itself to yours, his hand sliding its way down your cheek and resting along your neck, pulling you in closer to him to deepen the kiss. He kissed you back with such intensity that your fingers fisted his shirt in your grasp, your mind going blank to everything except how good this moment felt. How good he made you feel.

But unfortunately the kiss ended far sooner than you'd have liked.

Michael pulled away only a fraction from you, the tip of his nose affectionately brushing the tip of yours. You could just make out the little smile on his lips in the dark, the sight almost leaving you as breathless as that kiss had.

“For what it's worth,” he whispered, thumb caressing the line of your jaw tenderly, “I'm glad ya found yourself here in Dublin.”

Your hand released the tight grip on his shirt, sliding its way up from out of the sheets and up towards his face. Your own fingertips gently toyed with the dark hairs of his beard, your eyes watching the smile on his face grow wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners. What you wouldn’t give to always see him smile like that.

“I'm glad I found you,” you whispered back.

For however long I can have you.

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella fluff #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #kin bbc

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yarrystyleeza · 2 months

Note

Ok actually I didn't have to think long, lol.

What would your ideal first date with Mikey (aka our favorite Irish mob daddy) consist of??? 👀

I am really really REALLY sorry it took me (5) months to finish this piece, a lot of stuff was going on (my life was a complete mess, still tho). But since it's Valentine's day, I HAD to post something, and what's better than a date with Mikey for a Valentine's gift?

Something else I had to say, is that I had no idea how to write HCs—which is the vibe that I got from your ask (hehe), so, I improvised, and made up a whole story of what would your first date with Mikey would be (with a back story as well).

That being said, let's jump right into the act! And thank you, thank you, thank you, so much, for submitting this request and for your patience, please enjoy! 💖💖💖

It's Always Raining In Dublin (M.K)

Requested by @loveroftoomanyfandoms

Pairing and dynamic: Michael Kinsella x female!reader (reader is a bookshop owner), strangers to friends (?) to lovers

Prompt: fluff, first date goes wrong but then perfect, rain, rain, and more rain.

Word Count: 4.3k!

Writer's note: this was supposed to be finished back in September, which was five months ago, but I was struggling for a while with both a terrible writer's block and life and then BOOM I got the inspiration to finish it. Also, this is the very first time I ever write anything for Michael, so I'm a little nervous, I hope it's good enough though.

(I proofread this almost a thousand times WITH my bestie as well, so if there's anything wrong with the grammar and/or the lexical content, we were really exhausted and couldn't see shit—we're sorry T-T).

It was a rainy morning when you truly met him, it rained almost everyday in Dublin but that day was a core memory. You had just unlocked the door of your little bookshop and started to sort things out before your costumers arrive.

Usually, your first client doesn't show up before nine-thirty in the morning, which gives you spare time to dust off the shelves and pick up a big cup of coffee from the nearby coffeeshop down the street—in this never-ending autumn.

That morning was no different. It was pouring heavily but you're used to opening your shop on rainy days, it's always raining in Dublin anyway, and if you had to take each rainy day off—you'd end up with a couple of fingers on your hands as you count the days you worked on per year.

You were organizing the children's books section when you heard the sweet chime of the little bell hanging on your front door. It was barely eight and you happened to just finished your coffee and breakfast, getting ready to start your day. But it began earlier than you expected it to.

Your costumer was a man, you assumed he was in his early forties, maybe for the dark thick beard that covers most of his face. His face was strangely familiar to you, you just couldn't exactly remember when it was when you saw him.

But you're sure that this was the prettiest face of a man you've seen in a while. His greenish hazel brown eyes sparkled like a kaleidoscope with a hint of an exquisite permanent-sadness, and his flushed skin and dampened hair glistened due to the torrent outside.

You felt your breath stuck in your throat for a moment before you could clear it to speak.

"good morning, sir, how may I help ya today?" you faced him fully and your skirt swirled—following your motion with a swoosh in the air, you catch him glance down at it for a second before returning his eyes on you.

"I... The book ye suggested ta me the other day..." he starts gently and the memory comes back rushing immediately. You remember that warm tone, you had indeed met this gentleman before.

A week ago, he came over to your shop and you recall how lost he was in his search for the perfect book to read. And you, being a bookworm, and also the owner of this little corner bookshop— you had to help him. You gave him a suggestion for a book out of his box—out of his comfort readings.

And from the gentle look on his face, you suppose that he liked it.

"I'was grand," the man smiles softly and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little, you find yourself grinning back at him.

"Ye finished it quickly!" you commented in excitement and he looked a bit puzzled, a smile softly drawn on his lips with a little crease of confusion. It was adorable.

"I mean—I'm glad t'was grand that ya finished it quickly." He lipped a silent "oh" before his cheeks burn red as he smiled and his eyes almost disappeared.

"Are ya here for another book?" you asked when the silence fell on the place, raindrops kept knocking on the glass front nonstop, music to your ears with this handsome man smiling and radiating joy to your eyes.

"Ye can say that..." his voice was quiet but you can hear it in this downpour noise, he tilted his head to the side and shrugged, and it was impossible for you to not aw at it.

"How about we go with somethin' even newer for today?" you suggested, he nods to the side with a little smile, you walk and he follows you down the aisle.

"Romance or crime and mystery?" you stop at the novels sections, "pride and prejudice, I guess ya must've heard of it before," you pick the book off the shelf, he gently takes it from your hand and examines the cover thoroughly with his amber eyes, and he looked so interested.

"Or, we can go with Agatha Christie's illustrious murder on the orient express," you take the book and hand it to him, "or... Take a whole new genre and check Mary Shelley's horror Frankenstein? It's one of me favorites," you hand him the third book after strolling down the aisle a little more.

The man looked puzzled now, he seemed interested in each one of these books. But you patiently wait for him to speak.

"Have ya made up yer mind yet, sir?" you ask.

He shrugged with a sigh, raising his brows high, "they all look grand— can't lie t'ye," he answered.

"They are— but I can make ya an offer, I'll give ya the three books with the price of one and a half—and in return, ye're gonna write me a review of each book to add to me list of reviews and suggestions here on me wall," you tilt your head to the side, eyeing his beautiful features and almost forgetting you were waiting for his answer.

"Tha' seems grand ta me," he chuckled.

"I'm glad it is!" you walk him back to the cashier check, you get back behind your computer to scan the books and add in the discount.

"That'll be 18.46 after the discount," you lean against the wooden surface with your arms supporting you up.

He nods and hands you the money. "There ya go--" you're about to hand him the change. He shook his head, "no, keep tha change, miss..." he cuts you off gently, looking down at the little pin with your name on it.

You tell him your name to catch his eyes back up and he nods with a little smile, "Michael." he says, only taking the receipt and the paper bag of books.

He turns and makes his way to the front door, "Michael?" you loved the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. He stops and turns with a puzzled face, "thanks fer the tip," he smiles and you can see the blush on his face a mile away. He leaves and you watch him take a turn to the right before he disappeared under the northern downpour.

The next week, Michael shows up at your shop's door on a Saturday afternoon, a big smile drawn on his face. You were dealing with a little kid trying to choose a book, you turn to see him and he immediately waves at you, a little sweet grin splits the darkness of his thick beard. "Ya can take the book now, pet, momma's gonna send me the money later, 'kay?" The two of you watch the little kid waddle out of the shop.

"Sorry t' interrupt yer work," he says as he crossed the distance between you. You shake your head, "at all, Michael. How was yer read? Which book did ya read first?" you asked, leaning against the shelves.

He smiled wider when you said his name, almost startled to speak. "Um, the-- the mystery one, murder on the orient express," he answered.

"And did ya like it?" you ask him again with enthusiasm and butterflies crowding your lungs. He rubs the back of his neck with a sigh and an apologetic smile. "Ya don't seem like ya liked it, did ya?" you chuckled.

He scrunched his nose and tilts his head to the side, "the ending was unexpected at all ta be honest with ya," he shrugs.

You nodded and hummed to his answer, "Christie is never expected, that's why we love her," he nods back.

You notice the two paper cups of coffee he held in his hand when the smell of freshly baked-and-brewed coffee beans hits your nostrils. You were so confused why you never noticed it before, maybe you were distracted by Michael's presence as a whole, or his always-glistened ambers if you were specific. Michael notices the confused smile on your face. "I— thought I should bring ye coffee, as a thank ya."

Your smile grows with a blush as he hands you a cup, "thank ya, Michael, that's truly sweet of ya," you coo, his face blushes and shyly drops his eyes to the ground.

The sky thunders and you nearly jumped out of your place, both of you stare at the other and you burst out laughing. "Did that scare ya off, pet?" Michael asked with a worried smile, you kept giggling.

"Not really but... It was... Unexpected?" you answer after taking a deep breath.

"Like Christie?" he chuckled, you burst out laughing.

"Like Christie."

The weeks turned into months and Michael began to show up more and more often, and you eagerly waited every morning to see his shiny hazel eyes and his beautiful smile, one that you keep daydreaming about until he steps into your shop with two hot cups of coffee.

He turned from a regular client—to be a resident of this little bookshop. Michael started to stay in with you and help you organizing and monitoring the place—he would even help the little kids in choosing their books, too.

Once, you found him sitting on the oak floor, the little boys and girls gathered and sat around him, while he narrated a children's book. Your heart melted at the sight, and luckily that wouldn't be the last time.

The kids would come into your shop asking you if uncle Michael was there to read for them; Michael was now a part of your place, and you're happy to have someone like him to keep your company.

One evening —after three months of seeing each other daily— when the sky was cloudy and the sunset light was becoming less visible. The weather broadcast had warned about an upcoming rainstorm tonight—so you had to call it a night and leave.

You made sure everything was in the right place and order before you left. You put your autumn coat on and stuff your phone inside your purse. You take the keys out and you make your way towards the exit. Michael was waiting for you by the front door. Both of you get out of the shop and you turn to lock it up.

Michael calls your name gently in a tone barely louder than a whisper before you head on your way home and it makes your stomach churn in the most beautiful way.

You turn to look at him, he's shifting in his place, hands stuffed inside his leather jacket pockets and face all flustered and burning red. "Can I walk ye home tonight? It's a lil' darker than usual, I'd be worried 'bout ye, pet," he asks, voice so desperate. Your heart skips a beat—but it comes back pounding.

Your smile doesn't leave your face and it starts to hurt your cheeks. "Sure thing, Michael, I'd love to," you nodded, he grins and his eyes crinkle and his orbits shine.

The sky darkens but you could still see the perfect smile on Michael's face, little raindrops started sliding against your skins and it was a scene out of a painting, so magical and calm.

You make it to your place and you exchange goodbyes. You watched him walking down the concrete path and disappeared behind the brick wall.

You made your way to your doorstep, almost taking your keychain out when Michael calls out your name, you turn to face him, he's all soaked in water but his beautiful grin never left his face.

"Can I take ya out fer dinner tomorrow night?" your jaw dropped and your head screamed 'yes, yes, yes'.

"Yes! Yes, y'can, Michael!" you could barely make out his silhouette as your grin almost shut your eyes. He's almost jumping in his place, he sighs with a big smile.

"I'll pick ya up tomorrow at seven, is that grand fer ya, pet?" he shouts.

"Of course, Mikey!" you shouted back.

You walked into the warmth of your house soaked and giggly, you ran upstairs straight to your bedroom to plan an outfit, you didn't care about messing up the carpet, you'd deal with that later.

You quickly made up your mind about a floral day dress you had bought recently and you recall thinking of Michael while buying this dress.

You guess he's going to love it, he usually complimented you when you wore dresses and let your hair down and that's what you're going to do.

You took the next Sunday morning off as you started to prepare yourself for the date, pampering yourself with all the skin and hair care products you can find in your house.

You wanted to look perfect for him.

You felt overwhelmed with happiness, making up the scenarios of your evening. Where will he take you out? Is it a fancy restaurant or a local diner? What would he bring you? Flowers definitely, he's a flower-gifting man, as you realized, it was definitely his way of showing affection. He brought flowers every couple days for the shop.

Now it's nearing seven and you happened to just finished your look. You put on your dress and you fix your hair, adding a little floral accessory to the side of your braided bangs. You looked stunning, you hoped that you'd give the same impression to Michael.

The doorbell rings as you slipped into your heels, you look at your mirror for the very last time tonight before opening the door. He looked so fine though he wore his shirt and trousers casually with his leather jacket. You could kiss him already.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours for a brief moment before he exhaled with a stunned smile. "Y—ya look magical, pet," he breathed out and it made you turn completely red.

"I tried me best..." you shyly drive your eyes away and tuck a stray strand back behind your ear.

"Y'don' even have ta try, love, ye're always lookin' good," he shyly says and you could see his cheeks prickling red as he drove his eyes down to his shoes.

"I um... Brought ya these," he revealed a bouquet from behind his back, it was of red roses. It matched your dress perfectly. His head tilted to the side with a smile as he handed it to you.

"They're so wonderful, Mikey, loved them, thank ya," you take the bundle. "Ya look great too, Mikey, loved yer shirt," you had to compliment him, he deserved it.

His face reddened beneath his beard, "thanks, love."

"Ye're ready, aren't ya, love?" he asked with a smile.

"I am, let me get me purse and coat first—"

He shook his head, "take yer time, pet," he countered.

You turn behind the door and take your coat off the hanger. Sliding inside it, you take your purse, grab an umbrella and widen the little crevice of the door to pass outside.

Michael hesitantly held your hand but when he noticed how you instantly wrapped your palm around his—he intertwined his fingers with yours, with no plans on letting go.

You walked down to the main street where Michael tried to stop a taxi for the two of you. "We don't have to take it," you stopped him with a gentle hand on his back, he was a little confused, "I'd prefer walking with ya, Mikey," you explained yourself. A big smile breaks the darkness of his beard and you could swear he beams at you.

As you strolled down the concrete path, the sky thundered vigorously, the voice rumbled and echoed in the air, and it wasn't long before it started dropping tears upon the two of you.

You could see Michael's face turning dark, he cursed under his breath, you rubbed a pat onto his bicep, and pulled the umbrella over your heads, offering him a soft smile. He smiled back but you still felt how uneasy he was.

"It's okay, Mikey, I love walkin' in the rain," you comment, and that kinda eases the tension of his demeanor.

The walk is silent, and you could still feel him timid as you held his forearm, you know he can't control the weather, but you don't really mind if it's sunny or gloomy, as long as you are with Michael, it's all what matters to you.

The two of you made it to the restaurant, and Michael's face turned even darker. A sign on the glass door reads 'electricity outage, sorry for disturbing' was hung on the glass door. You turn to look at Michael, his eyes are glaring with fire.

The receptionist types something on his phone and sticks it to the glass, "it's coming back in a few minutes, we're working on the issue, we truly apologize for such occurrence... See, Mikey? We can wait a few more minutes," you smiled back at him, but Michael wasn't really buying it.

He gulped and closed his eyes, huffing out a stream of hot air. "It's okay, Mikey, we can go somewhere else if ya don' wanna wait..." you suggested.

He shook his head, "no, I booked us a table in there a week ago and I ain't takin' ya anywhere less than that!" he tried to remain calm but his tone was getting angrier, "I can't let this day go wrong like tha'!" he expressed, wiping his mouth and tugging onto his beard, something you noticed he does whenever he feels tensed.

You rubbed his bicep and squeezed it a little, your hand unconsciously walk up to his face and you scratch his thick beard. He smiles a little, but his eyes are glistened with tears like glass balls.

Things weren't going his way, for years and years, and today he wished he could finally do something he wanted. You didn't mind if you got the chance to dine at the restaurant or took your date home, what you only cared for was Michael's presence with you. But to him, it seemed like today too is going wrong and he has no clue how to fix it.

And you truly hated to see Michael angry or sad, he doesn't deserve to feel any of that. He's a sweetheart, he never put you down, so you have to keep him up.

"Have I told ya about the one time I almost died?" you ask him, and he clearly shifts demeanor to your question, you hide a smile waiting for his answer. Your ways might be effective after all.

He shook his head with knitted brows, you nodded and hummed. "Well, that day, I was picking up coffee from the shop I'm a regular for," you start, and you notice him directing all his being to you, "that day, me favorite waiter wasn't there to get me order, and another one got it," you leant onto the glass, after getting closer to him so the umbrella would cover the two of you better.

"But, when me order arrived, it was a wrong one, and I was really mad, I told the waiter to change it, but he couldn't, they can't give the drink to someone else and they're not allowed to throw it away," you got closer, and Michael was so integrated into the story.

"So I had to accept it, but I was still so angry at that, I wasn't seeing things clearly, and I was crossing the street and a car almost hit me!" you tell animatily, Michael was shocked.

"Ya didn't hurt yerself pet, did ya?" he was worried and you loved his face when he was.

You huffed a chuckle and shook your head, "I didn't hurt meself, and didn't spill me coffee either, and when I arrived to the bookshop and took a sip of it, I discovered that it was so much better than me regular order," you shrugged, Michael smiled but he wanted to know more, "and now it's me new regular."

Suddenly, the lights came back, as the night had already fallen. Michael's face lit up a little and you grinned to that. You walk into the place and the receptionist leads you to your table with plenty of apologies. Michael helps you into your seat and settles down his, released a breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

You reach out for his hand across the table, pulling him out of the cloud forming over his head. "It's okay, Mikey... We're inside now," you offer him a smile, he smiles back, you rub his knuckles with your thumb.

A waitress approaches your table with a note in hand, Michael took a deep breath and looked up at her. She asks for your dinner of choice. You look at Michael, informing him that you want him to order for the two of you, that you want what he wants.

"Two Seared Scallops with Pomegranate and Meyer Lemon," Michael answered after taking a glance at the menu then you. You nodded with a smile.

The waitress nods and takes her way back to the kitchen. Michael smiles at you, but his face drains of all blood when he sees the waitress approaching your table with an apologetic smile. "We truly apologize, sir and ma'am, but we're out of scallops and they won't be arriving today. Ye're gonna have ta change yer order," she tries to break the news as gentle as possible.

Michael is frustrated, his thick brows are firmly knitted over his gentle eyes, you caught them lose their shine, and you had to do something about it.

"It's fine, we can have steak, mashed potatoes, and wine, right Michael?" you had to give him a choice too. He looks up at you, you tilt your head to the side with a soft smile. He nods.

"Alright, two steaks... How d'ya like yer steak, ma'am?" the waitress asks. "Medium well," she nods to your answer and turns to look at Michael.

"And how d'ya like yer steak, sir?" you sneak your hand and place it on his, sending a supportive smile his way. He respires, "same as hers." he answers.

The waitress nods and walks back to the kitchen once again. You turn to face Michael, "I wouldn't mind if we never ate here, I just enjoy sitting with ya, Mikey," you hold his hand, he almost sobs, you reach out for his other hand, now fondling both of them. "It's you Michael, I ain't here fer the fancy dinner or the expensive wine, I'm here fer ya Mikey baby."

He finally smiles. "Thank you, pet," he whispers. You shake your head, "t's notin', Mikey."

Another waiter arrives with a tray of wine and globular glasses. The waiter pours your glass first and turns to pour Michael's—when he accidentally smacks your glass and he spills it onto your dress.

You hiss at the sudden cold wetness, trying your best not to curse or cry—because you too feel the world isn't working its best way with you today.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to stop the tears from forming.

The waiter keeps apologizing, and you already know how Michael's reaction might be without even opening your eyes and looking at him.

But you can't let this day go bad, you still have a chance to fix it, you can make it 100% better with your reaction, you can stop the chain of bad occurrences.

You open your eyes and look up at the waiter, "it's alright I... I just need a towel..." he rushes back to the kitchen. You grabbed a napkin off the table and tried to absorb the wine spilled on your dress.

"Tha' fuckin' idiot..." Michael curses.

You chuckle, "it's okay, Mikey, me dress is red, it won't change notin', I'll be fine."

Once you made sure most of the dampness was gone, you readjusted yourself in front of Michael, wearing a beaming smile on your pretty face.

His eyes fondly meet yours and you're flustered, looking down at the silverware displayed on the table.

"How are ya like tha'?" Michael asked, resting his cheek in his palm. You looked up at him, and he's got the sweetest smile you've ever seen him doing. His eyes beautifully sparkled to the golden lights of the candles.

"Like what?" you answer with a question. He gestures at you with his chin.

"How're ya such a beam of light?" you turn red at his question, "how are ya, after all tha', still smilin' and tryin' ta make it work?"

"Well," you swallowed with a smile, "bad things won't stop happenin' t'ya, Mikey love, that's somethin' ya should keep in mind, but they can't stop ya from looking at the bright side of it all." Michael furrowed in participation.

"Y'know? I'll never get a chance ta make that day perfect more than it is now," you simply say, "and if I would get a chance ta fix anythin', I wouldn't, because it's already going perfect f'me."

The two of you spend the rest of the evening on nibbling and chattering. Your dress was now cold and sticking to your thighs but you didn't mind, the food turned stale and cold but you didn't care; as long as it was Michael with you, you didn't mind anything else in the world.

Michael pays for the dinner and accompanies you to the exit. The two of you look outside, the rain is heavily pouring over the city, and it's loud enough you could hear it from behind the glass door.

You turn to look at him, he smiles and nods, pushing the door and escorting you with an arm wrapping you to his side.

You step into the street under the rain and you're immediately showered. You snicker, holding Michael's hand and looking at him, your eyes asking him to join you. Michael giggles as he follows you, now holding the two of your hands softly as the skies decanted its whole heart on the two of you.

"Y'know ya can't wait for the rain ta stop. It's always raining in Dublin anyway, Mikey." you whisper, he smiles and cradles your cheeks and he pulls you into a kiss, warming your hearts under the cold downpour.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, thank you for coming to my sleepover celebration! 💞💞💞

#yarrystyleeza #michael kinsella #charlie cox #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella fanfic #michael kinsella fluff #fic request #yuna's 2h sleepover celebration #yuna's sleepover #kin amc

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farfromstrange · 11 months

Text

Butterfly Effect | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Masterlist

Chapter 2: Butterfly Pea Flower On Ice

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Barista!Reader (afab)

Summary: Michael has a rough night. When he finds his way to you after only barely keeping himself from making a mistake, he’s miserable and you are… well, he’s not quite sure what you are, but it involves two rusty nails and a wooden sign that just won’t stay where it is, so in need for a distraction and slightly worried about you, he decides to help you out. You reward him by making him yet another extraordinary coffee drink from the menu. Or, you make another sneaky move at Michael after he’s so kind to help you out, hoping he will someday act on your hopeless flirt attempts.

Warnings: Angst (18+ MINORS DNI), past trauma, self-harm, blood, panic attack, Mikey just hates himself, but then there’s some fluff, bad flirting, attempt at humor, and then some angst again.

Word Count: 7.7k

A/n: This time, I dive more into Michael’s mental state. So this is angsty, then he gets some comfort from you, but then it gets angsty again because well, it’s Mikey. He’s stuck in an endless cycle, it seems. I feel so bad for him… but at least he gets a lil' hug?? I hope you like it!

Read Part 1 Here...

His sleep is restless. The memories cage him in like a wild animal. One second, he can breathe, the next the world around him turns into a blur and the oxygen in his lungs gets lost. It’s like someone is sitting on his chest and he can’t escape their claws as they tear him to shreds.

He wakes up drenched in sweat and tears. The sheets stick to his clammy skin. On weak knees, he makes his way to the bathroom. The floor seems to disappear as his past pulls it out from under him.

Pictures flash across his mind. His thoughts start a downward spiral again, one he can’t seem to stop. He’s panting, pathetically so. The cold water he splashes on his face does little to soothe the burning ache that seems to burn through every nerve like acid.

Michael clings to the edge of the sink. He wants to shut it off; he wants to stop thinking. He wants to stop remembering. He wants to stop being him. The things he did… every time he closes his eyes, he sees the blood that once covered the floor of his apartment, the bullet holes in the walls. He thinks of Anna. It’s his fault she lost her mother. It’s his fault she’s traumatized. All of it – all of it, his fault.

As he stares at himself in the mirror, he finds only a shell staring back at him. So many people have tried telling him that he’s the victim, that perhaps he is sick, but the only sick thing about him is his mind, and he feels entirely responsible for that.

His fist lands in the glass of the mirror. It cracks. The glass is thin and the shards instantly scratch the surface of his knuckles, some of them digging into the skin and painting the sink beneath him red with his blood.

Only when the sharp pain reaches his consciousness, Michael finds a way back to himself. He stares at the split skin, watches the blood pool out of the wounds, and the tremor turns into a quiver of shock. It burns, but it burns so good.

He catches the blood with a towel. The first-aid kit isn’t far. Though for a second he considers if he should even allow himself to do so. The pain reminds him that he is alive, and the blood writes a poem on the tiles. A poem of hate, broken love, and self-destruction. There is no hope, only pain, and the blood is a reminder of that. He may be only human, but all the destruction in his life, he caused himself. His blood is a reminder that no one controls him quite like himself, even though he likes to blame it on his surname.

A few doors down, the light at Jimmy’s and Amanda’s place is still on, though they don’t hear the ear-piercing scream that passes Michael’s lips and leaves him crying on the bathroom floor. It’s something they don’t know and he wishes they never have to see. He’s broken, maybe even beyond repair, and he has no one to blame but himself, and that makes him even more miserable.

The pain eats him alive, slowly but steadily. He can’t move, he can’t speak, he can’t breathe. His hand is bandaged now, though only poorly. There is not much more he can take. The tiles are cold, but he can barely feel them. The scream still echoes minutes later, and his voice sounds deafening in his ears.

He just wants this to stop.

As the pictures start flashing slower, the blood loss and fatigue settling into his bones, he remains on the floor. He doesn’t have the strength to get back up. His tears stain his cheeks and wet his beard, and the blood from his knuckles starts seeping through the bandage and back onto the floor. He can’t be bothered to clean any of it.

His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t fall asleep. He’s not sure what state he is in, but he’s not alive. He can’t be alive. Everything’s surreal. The pain hit him hard and now he feels nothing. In a matter of a few seconds, everything stops and he becomes numb, but the numbness hurts even more, and that makes him scream until he has no voice left. And then he gets quiet again.

Ever quiet, and shy Michael who’s only like this because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to say because he’s scared of himself, and it’s best to keep himself locked away than hurt someone he cares about again. He loves his family, but this is his future he’s talking about, and his daughter… Anna needs a father, and he’s failed her before. He doesn’t want to be the same failure anymore, even though he knows that by lying on the floor and forcing himself to bleed out a wound he inflicted on himself, he has already failed her again because he just wants to give up. And he’s starting to think that there might not be much more he can do, anyway.

Michael wallows until the sun comes up, then he gets up as if nothing happened.

He sits in a restaurant for a while, staring out of the window. Anna looks so much older now than when he left her. She reminds him of her mother. With her uniform and her little backpack, she walks across the street Michael is observing, heading toward the school that is hiding behind the trees.

She always takes the bus from home. Home with her grandma, he knows. But that’s not where she should be. She should be home with him. She probably doesn’t even know he’s out yet, and he’s not sure if he wants her to find out before he can even account for the fact that he’s made changes.

He needs to get a job, get his life back on track, and fight for her. He’s sworn himself as much. But as he watches her walk past him without even looking through the window of the restaurant, his heart aches and it breaks because damn it, what was he thinking? He’s her father, but she barely knows him, and he’s far from being a good father figure. He’s not sure he can ever be.

Paying for his one black coffee, Michael heads out. The cold air hits him. He shivers. He’s not freezing, not at all. Truth hurts, and he hates that it does. It makes him feel so small, and useless like he can’t achieve anything other than cause chaos. And the worst part is, he is completely and utterly alone in this.

His feet carry him down a familiar street until he stops in front of the same place he sought solace in the day before.

You’re rearranging the lunch offers sign right by the door, not even noticing that he’s standing on the other side of the street, observing your every movement.

Michael hesitates. It’s not a good idea, but his apartment feels suffocating and he can’t talk to his family because they don’t understand. They know he wants his daughter back, they just don’t understand the sacrifices he’s willing to make, that he has to make, and he doesn’t want to find himself in the same shit position again that even led him to this point eight years ago.

This is where he lands, the Butterfly Effect café and he can’t quite believe his eyes that you’re truly there.

He still has the empty coffee cup from the day before standing on the dining table at home.

You’re completely oblivious to his presence. Instead, you turn back around and walk back behind the counter.

The café isn’t busy yet. You have just opened your doors, and since you’re on the early bird shift today, your job is to prepare everything and make sure everything’s perfect by the time the first batch of customers comes around. The coffee machines are all working, the plants have been watered, and the display with your baked goods is up and ready. Except for the sign with the menu above your head.

Every last drink was handwritten by you, and the place is perfect, right where everyone can see it. You had to do a few minor changes before opening and decided to take it down to make the chalk letters look their best. Ever since then, you haven’t been able to get it back up. The wood is hanging on by a last nail, but you can’t seem to reach it without a proper ladder – you’re currently kneeling on a very high counter – and to you, it seems straight until you move away and it no longer does, and the fact that the sign keeps slipping infuriates you. If you can’t keep it up there, you have to find another way and then the aesthetic will be ruined. And your boss will murder you, so you have to try, but every time you try, you find yourself beaten again.

It’s you against a wooden board that’s been written on with chalk and a few rusty nails. You’ve mastered harder tasks. Yet, you keep failing.

You take another step back and look at the sign. It’s still tilted slightly to the right, and keeping it up there might be considered a hazard with how unsafe it looks.

The ringing of the bell above the door goes right over your head. You’re too frustrated to focus. If someone wanted to steal the register, they might as well have succeeded.

“That’s a bit wonky,” a voice pipes up behind you.

You jump. You had gotten so used to the silence of being alone in the café, you forgot that you opened the doors to the public before you started struggling with the sign.

You almost fall off the counter when you turn to look at him. “Jesus!” you curse.

Michael takes an instinctive step forward. He’s not close enough to catch you, but he likes to think he is. He could get behind the counter and make sure you don’t trip and break your neck, but that would be pushing boundaries he doesn’t like.

“Careful,” he says.

“I’m alright.” You pray to the rusty nail to hold the sign for long enough so you can serve him – he’s here for coffee, right? “I was just trying to fix the sign, but seems like it can’t be fixed.” You throw your hands up. “This day is going majorly well!”

He looks back at you, the broken expression that has yearned for an escape replaced by a flicker of regret. He walked the streets of the new yet familiar prison that has become his life to get here. He got out, but he hasn’t been able to come home; he wonders if he can even come home when there is no actual home to come back to. Everything feels so strange now, even the walls he’s living in. They hurt the most of them all.

“I can go if this isn’t the right time.” The last thing he wants is to be an inconvenience. He shifts his weight onto his heels, ready to turn around and run. “This was a bad idea,” he murmurs, his eyebrows furrowing close enough to form a deep crease between them, “Sorry.”

You stop and stare at him, your brain processing his face and his words at the same time. He’s wearing a different sweater underneath his jacket today. It’s crinkled and in need of some ironing, but he doesn’t seem to care much.

You see his mind making the decision to leave for whatever reason that you can’t tell, and you reach out. “No!” you’re quick to say.

Something tells you letting him go is a bad idea, and not just because he’s a possible paying customer. There is a reason you wrote the note on his coffee cup the other day and it has never wavered. It persists. You’re surprised to see him, sure, but you also remember telling him to come back someday, and he did.

Your words sound a little more desperate than you intended them to.

There is something different about him today. His eyes are sunken; he looks like he hasn’t slept all night, or he didn’t sleep well, at least. You feel a bubble of concern grow in your chest and spread through your entire body. Like the roots of a tree that wrap around anything they can find. It makes its home there.

Michael stops when you say, “You don’t have to leave. This is an open café.”

He turns back to you, his expression unreadable. He was an easier book to decipher before, now he just seems cold. There is a fire burning bright inside of him and he is about to implode, but he tries so hard to hide it, you can’t see behind the iron curtain he has lowered around himself. He craves coffee, which is why his feet carried him to you, but he also needs more. He hates that he needs more. He hates that he doesn’t know what he needs, but he can’t be alone. He’s lost. He’s all of that and yet it doesn’t even cut close.

The tears weigh heavy behind his eyes. They’re glossed over from the strain it takes for him to stop himself from crying, he has been doing so ever since he laid eyes on Anna only a few minutes ago. He knows what he wants, but he is helpless to get it. It’s a particular kind of pain, not many people can understand, and he can’t describe it, but it’s awful, and it breaks his heart all over again, every damn day. Today has been a lot, and the day is just getting started. He’s not sure how long he can survive this before losing himself.

Fighting is so much harder when you always seem to lose.

You watch him, your fingers fidgeting nervously before you. You often know what to say, but right now, your mind is wiped clean. “You came back,” you eventually speak up.

He smiles, his demeanor reserved but somehow he looks relieved when he hears you talk like that again – kind, understanding, and calm. You’re the only calm thing in his vicinity, and just for a moment, the tornado in his heart transitions into merely a hurricane. The café is empty besides him and you, and part of the stress on his shoulders seems to ease just a little.

“Michael, was it?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You even remember his name.

A smile finds its way onto your face. You try not to let the nerves show, or the fact that you’re overwhelmed and flustered. You’re a mess, and today it doesn’t exactly feel like you can stand by it.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I remember your order. I’m not stalking you or anything, but I remember recommending the toffee nut latte to you,” you say, trying to explain yourself somehow, even though he looks nowhere near as uncomfortable with the conversation as you do. “I thought maybe… maybe that’s why you came back.”

Or because of the note, you think to yourself. Hope always dies last. You almost feel bad for assuming because looking at him, he doesn’t look okay, and you’re utterly selfish for wanting this to be about you. This is about him. It should be. You’re no expert, but you’ve seen your fair share of people in pain, mentally and physically, and he might as well fit into both categories.

You just don’t understand, and it stresses you out. You usually don’t let men stress you out, they’re often not worth it and they use your kind heart for what it is, but Michael has a way of getting under your skin without even trying. Once again, it adds to the stress. It’s a stress you can’t pinpoint because it results in inner turmoil and confusion that drives you up the walls.

“Yeah,” he’s even quieter than the day before.

You’re not sure if he means, “Yeah, that’s why I came back.” Or, “Yes, that’s who I am but that’s not why I came.”

You tilt your head, trying not to prod him with the questions that are burning inside of you. “Did you like it?” you ask. “Or are you here to tell me it sucked and you’re never coming back here?”

The waters you’re treading are dangerous.

“No, I liked it. I–“

Your eyes light up. “Yes?”

“Yeah, it was grand. I just–“ A lot is going on in his head, and he can’t sort it. You’re smiling at him and he’s reminded of the day before, but then he thinks about what happened after that, late at night and the early hours of the morning, and his knuckles start to throb with the cruel reminder.

What is he doing? Why is he here? Why is he so desperate for something he doesn’t even understand?

You eye him again. Etched into his features, the frown only deepens. There’s not much difference about him physically, but the sun is out today and he still looks like it’s been raining in his heart for years. It breaks you and you don’t even know him. He avoids eye contact, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You can tell he’s trying to say something but at the same time stay silent because he’s scared. Why, you don’t know.

You wipe your hands on your apron and take another step forward. “Okay,” you murmur. “Can I help you with anything?”

Your voice is oh so soft. He sucks in a sharp breath. The sound caresses his cheeks, but the touch burns. He feels like he is Lucifer on his way to hell.

“Coffee, maybe?” You’re trying hard to elicit some sort of reaction out of him, to get a sense of what he’s feeling and what you can do to make his day because quite frankly, if he was here because of the note, he would have mentioned it by now.

Maybe he’s seeking comfort, and you’d be the last person not to help a person in need out.

The sign above your head creaks. There is a God, after all, Michael thinks. He looks up at the contraption you failed to save before.

“Looks dangerous,” he states, skillfully avoiding your other question.

You follow the direction of his finger – it’s his uninjured hand. “Yeah, the nails are rusty and it just won’t stay in place, but I don��t have any nails here to fix it,” you say.

He nods. “Do ya have a hammer?”

“What?”

“Just answer the question.”

You blink in surprise at his assertive tone. It’s not particularly harsh, but it also leaves no room for you to argue. Something dark flashes in his eyes, which is instantly replaced by a fear of having gone too far. His lips part to apologize.

“I have a hammer,” you say, and you try to smile enough to ease his conscience.

You’re used to customers being rude to you, and Michael isn’t rude, you would never consider the tone of his voice anything near that, at least not with you; he caught you off guard, that’s all. He sounds so confident when he wants to. He would make a great leader, you’re sure.

It’s not fear that spreads through your veins, you hope he realizes that. You’re even more intrigued now, and maybe you’re a little excited, too. You’re not sure, you know you shouldn’t be, but there is something about his voice and the sharpness of his words that send a shiver down your spine, and it lands right where your legs cross below what he can see on his side of the counter.

He tries to return your smile as much as he can. “Let me fix it for ya,” he says.

You stammer, “Fix it?”

“Yeah.”

The suggestion is a helpful one, and under any other circumstance, you would have said it’s sweet, but this is your workplace and he’s a customer. You’re not allowed to let anyone beyond the small bullpen that separates you and him. If this had been your home or any other place with a wonky sign and not the job you’re dependent on to survive, you wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes.

“I think I know how to fix it,” Michael tells you, “Ya just have to let me try.”

He hardly gets to fix anything. It’s just a sign, but it seems like something he is good at and he doesn’t want you to be frustrated or scared of losing your job anymore. He wants to help. He wants to feel useful. He wants the day to feel less like a waste of his existence and more like he’s making a difference, and an act of kindness that you are in desperate need of feels right to him.

Though when he notices that you’re hesitating, he is about ready to retreat into his shell and bury himself so deep, no one can find him anymore.

You scratch the back of your head. “I don’t know,” you admit. “You get that if something happens to you, I’ll lose my job, right? It has something to do with insurance and the general policy or something. I signed a contract. It’s complicated. I… I love this job. I need it.”

The sign creaks again. He sighs. “What if it drops on yer head?”

Looking behind you, the nail on the right is moving another millimeter downward.

The inside of your cheek is bleeding now from how hard you’re biting down on it. You shouldn’t let the thought of him coming closer to you and pretty much saving your ass and allowing you to maybe get to know him a little better drive you, but it does anyway. Sometimes, you tend to be a little reckless, and Michael brings it out in you.

“Now, will ya let me take a look at it or are ya too damn proud to admit ya need help?”

He’s one to talk.

Fuck it, you think. If the sign falls and destroys all of the equipment below, it’s your neck they’re going to have for the accident anyway because you know it’s loose, but you would have kept it like that if Michael hadn't popped out of nowhere. You don’t even know the guy, but his offer to help is something you can’t turn down. Besides, you’re desperate and know the first regulars will start coming in soon, so time is of the essence. You can’t fix the sign and serve customers at the same time. You’re not a robot, and your colleague’s shift starts in an hour, so you’re alone until then.

Michael is the only beacon of hope to get you through the day with all of your limbs still intact.

With a hesitant nod, you give him the go-ahead. “You can take a look at it if you want,” you say.

“Thanks,” he says.

It’s different to see him fully. He discards his jacket, pulling the sleeves of his sweater up. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath. A gray one. You try not to stare too much, but his right forearm and the tattoos that litter his skin quickly catch your attention. And he’s taller now that he’s standing almost entirely in front of you.

He meets your eyes. Your skin flushes a soft pink, but you can’t look away. He has a hold on you. He’s got you under his spell. His brown eyes look like honey in the sunlight, and the specks of green remind you of an enchanted forest. An ancient tree, maybe. His hair is dark, but whenever the light shines on it, it seems to sparkle just a little lighter. You feel like a psycho with the way you’re staring, but as you meet his eyes, you notice you’re not the only one.

Michael can’t help it, the way his eyes roam so effortlessly over your body. The apron you’re wearing is black, and you’ve changed the butterfly clip, but the look is the same. You’re wearing a dress today and a pair of sneakers. Your hair is tied up half like the day before, the shiny locks cascading down your back. The color of your eyes seems to reflect in the sunlight, and there is a glow on your face that doesn’t get overshadowed, not even when you feel frustrated.

Like the idiot you are, you extend your hand and decide to introduce yourself properly. You tell him your name, your eyes hopeful enough.

Hesitantly, he takes your hand into his injured one. The bandage feels weird against your skin, and your eyes widen a little. His hand didn’t look like that when you first met him.

“Michael,” he says.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, then look back down at his hand that is still in yours. His grip is firm yet gentle, but you can feel the warmth of the injury under your fingers. “What happened to your hand?” you add. It’s a daring question, but you’re nothing if not curious.

He pulls back, hiding his hand behind his back again. “Had a wee accident, nothing serious. I’m a’right.”

The second he pulls back, you feel a sharp pang in your chest. You feel like you’ve scared him away now. “Oh. I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine. Could ya just give me that hammer so I can do my job?”

You nod, rummaging through the drawer next to the coffee maker for the small hammer you keep around for the smaller signs that often switch places in the café. You meet his eyes when you hand it over, but he only briefly brushes you before pulling the ladder you use to reach the spare mugs on the highest shelf above you in front of himself, and he climbs on top of it.

Michael removes the sign with ease, examining the nails on either side. They’re both rusty and the holes in the walls have expanded over time, but he sees no reason to change them right away. He flicks the right one with his finger and pushes it in a little further, changing the angle of the impact. It doesn’t budge.

“Hm,” he murmurs to himself before turning back to you. You’re watching him like a hawk.

“And?” you ask, part of you now terrified of being completely fucked in more ways than one, and none of it the good kind.

He offers you a small smile. “You’ve got customers coming in.”

The bell above the door rings.

You sigh. “Great.”

“I’ve got it,” he assures you.

“If you fall and break your neck��”

His smile turns into a chuckle. “I won’t.” Then, he turns back around and starts gently hitting the nail on its rusty head with the hammer.

You have no choice but to serve the couple that has come in. If Michael knows what he’s doing, you have nothing to worry about, but you can’t help stealing the occasional glance at him as you brew the coffee and manually steam some milk for the woman’s latte. You don’t even try selling any of the new drinks on the menu since it feels wrong to offer diversity when the back of the counter looks like a construction site, but they seem happy and satisfied when you offer them a free butterfly cookie – because on Tuesdays, there are always free cookies. They find their place somewhere in the café and you just pray they’re satisfied enough to keep quiet about the sign.

It’s not even a big deal, you know that. It happens to the best people, and you’re just a barista in an under-staffed, very loved café in a part of Dublin that is known for destroying every small business it can find and plastering the name of an overpriced franchise on it, or simply tearing down the building and replace it with something else entirely. That’s why you can’t afford mishaps. You need this job, you need to find your footing elsewhere before you can even think about quitting, and you need the Butterfly Effect to stay popular so you won’t get another identity crisis and lose not only your job but the entire café as well. You’re an overthinker, and it’s exhausting to be scared all the time, but you can’t help it when the reality of your situation is what it is. And it’s very real. You’re happy and you have enough money to survive. That can’t change, not until you’ve finally got the means to make your other dreams come true and you can leave the past behind.

That might take some time, but you need the time, too. And you know everyone else you work with thinks the same. You can’t blame them. No one can.

You stop sulking to look up, and it’s then that Michael puts the sign with the menu back up. It’s as straight as it was before, if not more. You quickly swallow your sip of water and put the bottle away, staring at him and his handiwork with a mixture of surprise and awe written all over your face.

“No way,” you breathe.

He gets off the ladder, satisfied with what he managed to do, and then he turns to you to get your approval. Your smile is answer enough.

“I managed to get the nails further in,” he says, “but ya need to get them switched out as soon as ya can.”

“I don’t know what to say. You fixed it!”

“Yeah.”

You reach out, placing your hand on his arm. Your eyes drill into his, and he swallows thickly at the intensity of your gaze. Goosebumps form on his skin. He finds himself looking at where you’re touching him. It’s a gentle rhythm your finger is drumming on his skin, but he doesn’t mind. You’re being soft with him, almost like he is made out of glass. Seconds start feeling like hours. The air sizzles like a broken power cord.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Before Michael can answer, your arms wrap around his broad shoulders, and you pull him into a hug. You, the kind-hearted stranger that he knows he doesn’t deserve, are hugging him, and you pour so much affection into it, he shivers and the tears start knocking on the window of his soul again, asking to be let out. It’s the kind of touch that tingles long after it’s gone, but you’re so warm, your skin is so soft and God, you smell divine. You’re heaven on earth, and your hair feels as shiny as it looks.

He hugs you back. He only endures it when other people touch him, even though he craves it. This is the first time he’s felt this comfortable in years, and your touch becomes a remedy he never thought he would be able to find.

You pull away after a moment. “Thank you for saving my ass.”

He hasn’t quite processed your reaction yet, so all he does is nod. As your grip loosens completely, he slips out and reaches for his discarded jacket. He puts it back on, clearly planning on leaving. The coffee he told himself he would come here for is long forgotten. The hug unraveled something in him, and the way it makes him feel is vulnerable. He can feel the guard he keeps high around his heart slowly slipping away. Your kindness is a trojan horse and you’ve almost managed to breach all of his defenses.

Not wanting him to leave, you find yourself reaching for his arm before he can step back in front of the counter. “How about I repay you with another coffee?” you ask. “It’s on the house.”

You hope he says yes, even if it means just a few more minutes with him.

Michael stares at your hand and how close it’s hovering above his bandage. You meet his eyes, moving your gaze lower. He can tell the question once again burns on the tip of your tongue, but whatever curiosity you have, you swallow. You swallow it for the sake of his comfort, for the sake of getting another chance, and not to scare him away. He’s like a deer in headlights to you, and deers are shy.

Why you’re so obsessed with him, you’re not sure. It can’t be healthy, neither for your heart nor for your job, but he is different in a way that redirects your focus solely on the man he is. You don’t focus on his looks, you focus on Michael alone, and he’s not used to the kind of attention you’re willing to give him, so he’s stuck in a stormy, unfamiliar land, and you’ve got him almost entirely exposed.

This is new for both of you, but for him, it’s worse because he’s forgotten what it’s like to be with people that have never set foot into his life before, and you? You’re a breath of fresh air, something he knows he tends to corrupt and disrupt, but he can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s weak, he’s needy and it’s you. God, it’s just you, it’s all of you, and it drives him crazy, it makes him angry and it makes him want to run out of fear, just to protect you, to protect himself, to stop his life from spiraling out of control and hurting any more people, but you’re normal; Michael needs normal because that’s what he needs to learn how to be if he wants his daughter back and start anew, maybe even get a proper second chance.

But it’s hard. It’s so, so hard.

He hears himself talk, but he’s not in control. “On the house, huh?” he answers like he doesn’t understand what it means, or what you’re trying to tell him. Maybe he doesn’t.

The note was nice, but to him, you seem like the kind of person that would do such a thing for about anyone who has a bad day, and he knows he looks like he has bad days rather frequently. Why he can’t admit to himself that you’re making yet another move at him, that’s not entirely clear. It’s good that you’re normal and deep down, he knows you’re good for him, but it’s also the reason why admitting it to himself is such an inner conflict. Everything that isn’t good for him always ends up being Michael’s first choice because the pain is a bittersweet reminder of what he thinks he deserves. And you don’t deserve a man like that.

The hope in your eyes reignites. “I can make you another toffee nut latte,” you offer. You sound a little shy, but you look even cuter up close.

“I was gonna order a—”

“Don’t say double–”

“Double espresso,” he says, and you find yourself uttering the same two words at the same time.

Your eyes meet, and then you find yourself laughing. The clear sound fills the room with its soft melody. He looks away, his blush palpable as he tries hard not to smile, but he can’t help it.

“Yer gonna refuse to serve me a double espresso, aren’t ya?” He looks back at you.

You gnaw on your lip sheepishly. “Maybe,” you say. “But if you don’t want the same as yesterday, I have something else I think you’ll like.”

“I’m not adventurous.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Are ya going to let it be if I say no?”

“No,” you shake your head, “Probably not.”

“And if I say yes?”

“You just have to trust me.”

Trusting you, he thinks, can’t be so hard. You’re an easy person to trust. You’re not the enemy. And you’re also not going to poison him.

Michael sighs. “Yer insufferable,” though he says it with a smile.

You take the glint in his eyes as a silent answer. As he moves back to his designated spot in front of the counter, you grab a plastic cup to your left. “You okay with iced coffee?” you ask.

He raises his eyebrows.

“I take it that’s not something you have thought about often?”

“I don’t drink ice,” he says.

“First of all, it’s not pure ice. It’s just coffee with ice cubes. A Frappuccino would be drinking the ice cubes with your drink because they get tossed in the blender with the rest of the ingredients. And second of all, you must have been curious about iced coffee at least once. Or have you never at least tried it?”

“Never.”

“Well, you just have to really trust me on this then.”

“If I get a brain freeze because of ya–”

You smirk. “Trust me, Michael.”

He caves.

Michael watches you move with grace. You’re completely in your element. Every once in a while, your hips sway to the rhythm of whatever song is playing on the radio, and you seem a lot happier now than before. He’s made your day with a simple gesture, and he feels proud of himself for that. He used his hands for good this time. He succeeded. He made himself useful, even if it was just a simple wooden sign that needed to be adjusted. And now he’s getting a free coffee for it.

Maybe being forced to wash cars instead of getting a proper job with Amanda just because Frank can’t live with him not wanting to do dirty work anymore isn’t something he should settle for, after all, no matter how good it may look on the papers for the court.

After a few minutes of debating whether or not to bring up the courage to ask you, his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of ice cubes clinking together, and you place the plastic cup on the counter before him.

He expected an iced latte or a frappuccino maybe, but not whatever it is that you have just placed before him. The drink is blue, maybe even a little shiny in the sunlight. The ice cubes are dancing around each other inside the plastic cup, and there is a tiny blue flower swimming in the foam on top.

Your smile widens at his surprised expression. He looks impressed, even. You take a straw and poke it through the hole, then push it closer for Michael to grab.

“What’s that s’posed to be?” he asks. He’s a little weary as he eyes the cup.

“Poison,” you deadpan.

He frowns.

You snort at how easily he seems to believe you. He’s… unique. “Kidding! It’s not poison, what kind of person do you think I am?”

“The kind that would poison their customer with a fuckin’ blue potion.”

“Hey!”

It’s his turn to smirk, but when he does, it looks a little dirtier than yours. “Just messin’ with ya,” he says. He tries to imitate you, but he fails miserably.

You roll your eyes, encouraging him to take the cup. “It’s called Butterfly Pea Flower,” you explain, and your voice is no longer joking. “It’s not a poisonous flower. It’s originally from Asia, that’s where it grows, but you can get it in many other countries. And it’s edible. If you buy it to make drinks or coffee, it usually comes like this–” you lift the small package with the blue powder that you’ve used to pour into the milk of his latte, “but don’t let the color fool you because it tastes delicious. The flower itself has a natural blue tint, so the powder does too. The flowers in the foam taste like nothing because they’re just edible flowers, they’re not the same. Oh, and the coffee itself,” you say, “is the strongest espresso we have mixed with some milk and a sweet, sweet layer of foam with a sprinkle of chocolate and caramel. You’re welcome.”

You wink at him. He finally takes it, sniffing the content. “Hm,” he murmurs.

“What now?”

“Smells… normal,” he says.

“You seriously think I’d poison you?”

If only you knew the things he’s encountered before. But no, he doesn’t think that – he would never. Not from you, anyway.

“If you keep thinking of me like that, I’ll give you a reason to think of me like that,” you say. It doesn’t as terrifying now that you’ve said it.

Michael bites back a grin. “Yeah, sure,” he says.

Asshole, you think.

He guides the straw to his mouth and sucks on it. You look away quickly. The way his lips purse around the top shortly after his tongue has traced a circle around it have you regretting your choice to offer an iced coffee instead of a regular latte.

Who would have thought that the shy, almost damaged-looking man who helped you out when you needed it after you helped him out when he needed it would be such a fucking tease.

He leaves the bitter yet sweet liquid to rest on his tongue for a bit. You see the wheels in his head turn, and his eyebrows furrow as he judges the taste. His lips smack, the foam making his tongue feel fuzzy, but the taste itself is unique. Very unique. It’s different than a traditional latte, and it’s not just the color. He doesn’t know what to say at first because even with your first recommendation that you forced him to order, you did not fail, and you also didn’t disappoint with this one, either.

“And?” you ask.

“Hm.”

“Michael.”

“Delicious,” he says.

It’s as good as it gets.

“Told you,” you smile.

He returns the smile in a smaller manner, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “I’ve never had iced coffee before, but ya made it easy to like.”

That’s an even bigger compliment and your sass from before vanishes into a flush.

“Are ya sure it’s on the house?”

“Very much so,” you say.

Reaching beside you, you grab one of the butterfly cookies and place it on a napkin. You hesitate. Looking up at him sipping his iced latte, you ask yourself if you should just mention the note to him and crush your hopes before you can get them up, but it’s still a bold move. And you’re unsure. You’re shy. You don’t trust your voice. So you take the Sharpie and start writing on the napkin before sliding it into a paper bag together with his free cookie and handing it back to Michael.

Maybe he will read it, and if he does, he’ll know that the first note wasn’t a coincidence and that this is meant for him and him only. You don’t do this for everyone. You can hear Sarah laughing in the back of your head, and she would have told you to ask him personally and cut this back-and-forth short, but something tells you that writing notes is an easier way into his heart than confronting him with something that might overwhelm him the same way it does you.

The bag slips out of your hand when he takes it, frowning at you once again.

“It’s Tuesday, and everyone gets a free butterfly cookie on Tuesdays,” you tell him.

It dawns on him. You did the same thing for the couple that’s still sitting in the corner of the café. He nods and takes it. It’s just a cookie, after all.

He turns to leave and he hears you say, “Have a good day, Michael!” It doesn’t sound like the voice you use with your other customers. This is the you he expects you to be outside of work, the you that is even kinder and even more open with the people around her, and his heart swells, his guard continuing to slip ever so slightly.

Michael turns around. He opens his mouth and says your name. It echoes. In his mind, it does. He stops thinking. The words are about ready to slip from his tongue.

You have a nice smile too.

But then you beam when he says your name and you ask him, “Yes, Michael?”

And he forgets. He can’t speak. He wants to, but he also doesn’t, and he can’t. His vocal cords shut down and he’s left with nothing but a weak breath of air. The further he gets from you, the harder it gets to breathe, and real life starts to seep back into his bones. His body aches. The bubble bursts. He’s left there, standing naked in the eye of the storm, and the tornado tears down everything around him and lastly, himself.

He can’t do it, and he can’t do it to you.

“Oh just… Nothin’,” he says. He can see the exact moment your heart drops and your hopes are shattered. He feels like an idiot now, but he can’t change it. “Have a nice day,” he adds your name in hopes to redeem himself, but you only nod with a smile that’s far weaker than the first one, and then you say goodbye to him.

He leaves you behind with a heavy heart. The coffee in his hand and its bright blue remind him of you. To him, you are colorful too. You’re not a gray cloud, you’re a rainbow. You’re the sun. You’re everything good and light, and the blue represents the kind of person you are. You put your heart into it, he can taste it. Even more, does he feel bad for being such an incompetent idiot.

Loneliness follows him home. He ignores Jimmy’s calls and he takes a different route to make sure none of his family sees him. Once the door is locked behind him, the four walls that are supposed to feel safe only fill him with dread.

The coffee cup with your note is still sitting on the table. He takes it. Your handwriting hasn’t smudged. Feeling the tears well up in his eyes, he clenches his fist, and the paper crinkles. Your handwriting disappears. It doesn’t make his bad day better today; the nostalgia makes him feel so much worse. He’s not smiling, and he doesn’t deserve that compliment.

He tries not to cry when he sips the last few drops of his latte and unwraps the cookie. You have been way too nice to him. You made it sound like professional courtesy, but there is nothing professional about it.

The napkin slips out, falling to his feet. He’s about to crinkle it too, his hand already hovering above the garbage, when he notices the same black Sharpie that has written his name on a cup twice now.

“Michael, you’re a good person. Don’t forget to smile 2day. It’s still nice when you do. X – the annoying barista who makes you buy overpriced coffee :)”

This is the first time he sees your handwriting smudge. He wishes he could blame it on the condensation of his cup, but the wetness has already traveled to his cheeks and he can’t hold it back anymore.

The tears start falling. They wet the napkin and the note. The ‘X’ that is supposed to mark a kiss gets lost under the rain of his emotions, and he can barely see your name anymore. Your face blurs.

And then, he breaks.

Tagging: @bellaxgiornata @loveroftoomanyfandoms @acharliecoxedfan @lina-mar @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella

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