#or mikey and sugar

[ambitiouspotions]

BABY DAZE | MICHAEL BERZATTO | ONESHOT

summary — regretting the shotgun wedding, caring for a five-month-old baby, and wondering why your husband likes painkillers more than you

word count — 4.4k

warnings — addiction, angst, talk of recovery and na meetings, arguing, slightly religious connotations, drug/alcohol usage, stress from motherhood, mom guilt, mature language

author's note — i told myself not to write mikey again so soon, but look at me…also i channel some of my family (sicilian american) when i write these

“fak, come on man, you can't put together a damn crib? you gotta get me out of this hole i’m in,” mikey looked at the stray pieces of wood on the floor, screws in a pile, and neil fak’s unorganized toolbox. the instruction booklet was opened and slightly crumpled from the number of times fak had referenced the pages.

fak’s face was slightly distorted as he looked at the pieces and then back to the instructions. “man, look, i don't know what you want me to do this shit is all kinds of fucked.” the handyman simply could not understand why baby furniture had so many pieces and so many varying sizes. if it was so safe, why was the company recommending it all to be put together with a single allen wrench? there was no way he was only using that stupid allen wrench, not for baby berzatto anyway.

mikey was running his hands over his face and to his bangs that were falling, gripping the ends of his hair tightly. he had promised you the nursery furniture would be completed by the time you arrived home after work. he already had the majority of the room completed without you knowing, moving and organizing the junk he had piled into the spare bedroom as if it were a storage unit. the baby shower had only caused the room to be more cluttered, and on top of the clients, you were trying to fit in for their appointments before going on maternity leave, which meant you never had enough time in the day to organize it yourself. the stress of disorganization and ill preparation led to you biting your nails and peeling the skin away from your fingertips routinely. mikey noticed this and now had the perfect excuse to get the nursery finished and elevate your mood at the same time.

“what’d you do this time anyway?” fak questioned as he propped one board of the crib against the wall and rummaged through his varying sizes of drill bits.

mikey didn't want to admit to fak that he was unwilling to defend you in front of his mother, donna, at a family lunch when she had mumbled something along the lines of ‘your child is still a bastard.’ it was unneeded, unkind, and simply unprovoked after you had put on your nicest attitude to agree to have lunch with her and mikey in the first place.

you both already made the mistake. there was no coming back from that fuck up, so why keep dwelling on it? that was the understanding by the rest of the family anyway, but donna wouldn't ever drop it.

“fak, you fucker, i’d love to know,” mikey held the opposite end as fak skimmed the directions again to install the railing. he didn't need to be told he was in the wrong again, best to just skip that shitty conversation altogether.

“they say the first seven months of marriage are always the hardest,” fak tried to console mikey as he began using the drill. mikey was doubtful the moment fak tried to say anything about marriage, especially coming from a single man. mikey, himself, wouldn't have any pleasant advice to give anyone either because his marriage, more like hasty elopement, was only six months old with a wife who was eight months pregnant. any idiot could do the math on why this marriage was legitimized.

“seven years, the first seven years,” mikey corrected him with a groan of annoyance. “i appreciate you doing this though; my back’s been killin’ me.”

another factor of stress added to the plate, almost two years ago, would mark the anniversary of mikey slipping in the flooding bathroom of the beef so violently that he now had permanent hardware in his spine. along with the surgery came the pain and the way to manage pain—opioids. that was a sick joke. one second, he’s slipping on the tile and slamming into the porcelain commode, and the next, he was relying on drugs to get him through a stressful day.

he didn't know if his back still hurt or if he was accustomed to saying it to convince himself that it was enough of a reason to get high. that was the sad part, mikey was popping pills and you barely had any time to notice because you were always asleep before he took a little something to take the edge off. he didn't need you to have another thing to worry about, so sneakily would replace the pills he took and leave the prescription bottle in the same place. you had no reason to question him because the allergy medication you received from the walk-in clinic almost a year ago sat on that same shelf, and you never bothered to clean it out. he was covering his tracks well; why would you ever notice anyway? especially if he was so good at hiding it?

“it's no big deal, happy wife, happy life,” fak rhymed, adjusting his leveling tool against the boards before drilling them together.

the moment the tattooed handyman was able to support the crib by himself, mikey began working on the other projects to make the room more cozy.

fak made himself scarce once it was close to your arrival time. he was going to let mikey take all of your good graces on the updated nursery.

“look at that panica,” mikey greeted, affectionately rubbing your oversized belly the moment you walked through the door. his fingers slipped under your bag and dragged it off your shoulder, setting it on the counter beside him.

you eyed him skeptically wondering where his gentleness was stemming from. he had given you dull responses, impersonal kisses, and compliments, just enough to keep you quiet before you shut the door to leave. his pre-sleep painkiller always caused a morning annoyance when he awoke, but you always chalked his bad attitude up to stress rather than thinking he was abusing any type of drug. it was mikey; he had a lot on the line, stress was his middle name, annoyance ran through his veins. he was a berzatto; of course, he had to have some form of mental illness genetically passed down to him.

“what? i can't love on my two babies?” he asked, pulling you closer to place a kiss on your temple.

“what did you do?” you asked, holding each side of his face, trying to find an inkling of his true intentions. it was teasing in a way, but knew he must've had a plan up his sleeve.

“i'm so glad you asked; close those pretty eyes for me,” he chuckled. the singular lift of the corner of his mouth was always enough to make you melt.

mikey led you blindly to the spare bedroom that had been transformed into a nursery, too bad your crumby landlord wouldn't allow the wall color to be changed or mikey would've had that swatch of fern canopy behr from the local home depot on all four walls.

“alright,” he said, clasping his hands together. when you opened your eyes, you couldn't withhold the emotions that had been pent up for so long. you were staring at the crib like it was a winning lottery ticket. the sheets were made, the embroidered baby blanket natalie and pete had gifted you was draped over the edge, the bear stuffed animals were in the corner of the crib as if they were having their own meeting, and the mattress was at the perfect height for a newborn.

the changing table was assembled, and even with one of the drawers being slightly crooked, it was perfect. it was everything you wanted for your baby. it was safe, cozy, organized, and most importantly, it was something you wanted.

mikey had gone beyond your expectations. he had promised the furniture would be put together, but he gave you more than that. he gave you hope. he gave you a reason to relax. he gave you solace in knowing that although you had an unplanned pregnancy, wedding ceremony at the courthouse, and chaotic reception at the beef you could lean on him for support.

“hey, don't cry,” mikey began rubbing your lower back as you reached over the crib to caress one of the teddy bears.

“i’m sorry…this is just really beautiful,” you sniffled, taking the bear into your arms and hugging it tightly.

“would it make you feel better if i said i got you those apple pie egg rolls?” he smirked when you turned around. your gaze had softened more, more tears falling down your eyes with the most genuine type of comfort.

“you got me egg rolls?” you couldn't help but question him in the sweetest disbelief. the tone in your voice was cracking as you leaned into his chest. mikey berzatto was out of the hole he placed himself in just a few days prior.

you were in survival mode and so was mikey. it was nearing the end of your eighth week out of ten from maternity leave at the salon and mikey had barely any time off from his responsibilities at the restaurant. he was trying to split his time as much as possible, but unfortunately, an understaffed restaurant meant he had to be gone more than he liked.

everyone said once the baby arrived, your life would never slow down, and they were right. gabriel michael berzatto was a healthy, gentle, and happy baby, the one people didn't mind stopping to look at in the stroller as you walked past. he was a miniature mikey if anything with his dark hair, crooked smile, and wide nose.

“is your back hurting that bad?” the question hit his ear like a ton of bricks. “i don't think you can drink on those,” you added, picking up the paper plates from dinner.

“what?” mikey asked, pushing his beer on the coffee table that had already suffered enough of mikey's abuse from not using a coaster.

“your back,” you repeated, looking at him from the kitchen. “i didn't even know you took those things still. i thought they were expired,” that's when mikey realized what he had done. he left the pill bottle on the bathroom counter. a mistake he never thought he would make had been done. by the time you went to sleep, he was in a comfortable state of high, and you were none the wiser. then halfway through prep at the beef, he’d take another little pill, and if he was having a particularly shitty day, then again when he went for a smoke break. he seemed to have a lot of shitty days at the beef because everything was falling apart and everything always seems to go wrong. and who knows maybe the days weren’t that bad, but sometimes it just seemed like too long to wait until you were about to go to bed.

“yeah, hurtin’ pretty bad,” he lied, sitting uncomfortably in his recliner now. “opened this thing without thinkin’,” he was looking at the amber-colored glass of the freshly opened beer.

“didn’t even know you needed them anymore,” you confessed, folding the throw blanket that had been discarded on the floor when you rose from the sofa after nursing gabriel to sleep.

“sometimes, you know that permanent hardware gets pretty damn stiff when the weather changes,” he explained, wiping his hands on his boxers.

“maybe you need to go back to the orthopedist,” you suggested casually, though you were skeptical of his body language. he was tense and unrelaxed, more than he was before you voiced your concern about his well-being.

“you’re right, just need’a find the time,” he agreed, scratching his grown-out beard that seemed to become more unkempt as the days quickly turned into weeks. it was one of the many tasks that got slid to the back burner because the priorities were set on becoming accustomed to demanding needs from the newest member of the family.

“got that big bottle of arthritis tylenol from the costco if you want to take that instead,” you offered, feeling uneasy about the fact that mikey was taking painkillers, painkillers you knew were two years old, though in actuality they were bought from a regular customer at the beginning of the week when mikey went to the restaurant to “check on the gas line.”

“yeah, thanks, baby,” he nodded, clearing his throat. he could tell you weren't convinced, but at the same time, neither of you had the energy to overthink or argue.

gabriel started to cry from the other room, mikey was the first one to move. he was quick with his attentiveness to his knowing he had an easy way to escape the conversation.

“i got this one,” he mumbled, rubbing his face as he slipped past you to enter the nursery. that was the end of that for a while, though it plagued your mind frequently. you started counting the pills in the bottle and it never seemed to lessen. it hadn't become misplaced again after asking him about it. you couldn't prove that he was using unless you were going solely based on your gut instinct.

you were as guilty as mikey. mikey was blatantly lying to you and you were enabling him because you were choosing not to confront him about it. you didn't want to admit to yourself that your husband was abusing painkillers because if you did that meant that your life would already be more stressful than it already was.

it was all making sense now. irritably, mood swings, aversion, questionable decisions, not because he had gotten you knocked up, not because he had to marry you, not because the bills were stacking up, not because he said his family was bothering him, but because he was popping pills.

it was hard some days because you were still figuring out the new aspects of parenting, but a natural and oddly comforting instinct took over you. although you and mikey were able to take care of gabriel and still manage your busy schedules you had an overwhelming amount of dread and guilt hanging over your head. were you doing anything right?

you hadn't known how much weight you were pulling until tonight. five months of night feedings, pumping, juggling schedules, daycare pickups, pediatrician checkups, washing bottles, pump parts, and an excessive amount of laundry which was clean, but piled skillfully on the living room sofa, but you did it because you convinced yourself that mikey was simply too busy to take on all the tasks you were tackling. you believed you had to be the sole provider for gabriel because mikey was the business owner. he was the one that had his valuable time placed on his restaurant, so you refused to mention that you might have needed help.

it was making you have doubts about your marriage. the marriage you consented to because you thought it would make both of your lives more stable and make you more reassured that mikey was going to stick around for you and the baby. the marriage that seemed to put your parents at ease knowing they could pray for the sins of lust and greed that caused an unplanned child. the marriage that at first seemed right, but now felt like a one-sided partnership because you were being stubborn and mikey was being ignorant.

everything seemed to be going wrong tonight (gabriel was fussy the moment you tried to put him down, you wasted eight ounces of fresh breast milk because you didn't seal the bag all the way when putting it in the freezer, and you were on your third shirt change of the night) and mikey was sitting in his recliner drinking a beer. the condensation was beading off the glass bottle and dripping onto his worn spiraled notebook where he kept his business dealings for the beef contained. you were struggling and he was drinking a damn beer.

“mikey,” you finally made him look up, smudges of ink from his pen were on the underside of his hand. “take the baby please,” you said, handing off the teary-eyed baby to your husband who couldn't seem less interested. you were covered in spit-up, from your shirt to your hair because gabriel accidentally grabbed a good chunk of it when he moved his dirty hand. mikey didn't seem present though he was sitting in front of you, loosely cradling his son.

“are you high?” you didn't know why you sounded surprised when you asked that question. you had been avoiding ever talking about that night three months prior. you practically snatched gabriel out of his arms which only made mikey defensive in trying to take him back. “oh my fucking god,” you muttered taking a step back from him.

“come on, i got ‘em,” mikey flicked the condensation that was still present on his hand from the beer, he rose from his resting place on the recliner. he was trying to avoid your line of questioning.

“no, what the hell is wrong with you?” you were placing entirely too much blame on mikey because you were overwhelmed and overworked, well, had been overwhelmed and overworked for months. your anxiety and frustration were spilling over the overfilled glass it had been stuffed into.

“hey, hey,” he warned, noticing your voice had raised sharply when he went to reach for gabriel. “chill out, mammina.” wrong choice of words.

“chill out? you want me to chill out? you're the one sitting on your ass getting high when i've been running around all evening with my head cut off.” you were trying to keep your tone light after your increase in volume had spooked gabriel.

“i didn't mean it like that, dammit, hand me gabe,” he sighed, though when he went to reach for the baby again you shielded gabriel from being taken out of your arms.

“you're bein' ridiculous,” mikey scoffed, following behind you. his inebriated state was affecting his ability to understand why he wouldn’t or maybe shouldn’t be holding his infant.

“and you're high,” you retorted, walking to the bathroom. “can’t even change my shirt because—” you unskillfully managed to open the cap and dump the oxycontin onto the counter. gabriel in your arms none the wiser to the situation. you counted them four times before even looking at him. you had to be sure that you weren’t going mad because the same amount was in the pill bottle as you had counted many times before.

“mammina—”

“where are you getting them?” you interjected, tossing the empty bottle at his chest.

“mammina, give me the baby and go change your shirt,” he insisted, as if you were so easily going to give up the little boy in your arms.

“michael, i am not fucking stupid and you know that. so where the fuck are you getting them?”

“why's it matter where i'm gettin’ ‘em from?”

he had a point; you didn't quite know why it mattered. you knew he'd find a way to continue taking them like he was already doing.

there was a long moment of silence, yet it was saying more than words could. pain, hurt, frustration, uncertainty, and fear were seasoning the bottom of the cast iron pot, and a thick helping of despair was poured over the top. the back of the metal spoon that was used to stir the clusterfuck let everything mingle, and then it had to bake in the oven at 425° until that shit was burnt and stinking up the entire apartment. oh, and then you had to eat that garbage. it was inedible, but you had to choke it down because that was what was happening. you helped enable that mess, and now you, as well as mikey, had to take responsibility for it.

“how long…how fuckin’ long have you been takin’ them?” your nose was buried in the crook of gabriel's neck. your voice was barely above a whisper.

“i dunno,” he wet his upper lip with his tongue, dragging his hand over his face. he couldn't admit that to you right now. that would break you. it would break you knowing you were oblivious for years. he could tell it was already eating you alive that you didn’t confront him properly just a few months ago. you had a general time frame when you thought he started abusing painkillers, but mikey was the only man that knew when his issue truly began.

“you gotta know…” you pleaded softly. your tears were finally falling. you didn't know how they were contained before. gabriel's tiny hand was pulling at the top of your shirt to whine for his nightly feeding. you looked so vulnerable leaning against the bathroom counter, pulling down one side of your shirt and unclasping your nursing bra, allowing your son to nurse. that was life now, having someone that meant more to you than anything else because even if your husband was abusing opioids you had a son that was helpless without you. the world could be ending, but your responsibility would never be focused on anything else except your child. what were you supposed to do in this situation? keep gabriel safe before things get too out of control. that was the answer.

you didn't resent mikey or hate him. he was helpless much like gabriel. though he had unintentionally gotten himself addicted to opioids because of the exploding toilet from the beef, it wasn't his fault. he was caught in a vicious cycle that needed professional help; help you couldn't provide for him.

you couldn't do it on your own either, as much as you hated to admit it to yourself. you couldn't leave him because he was the person that you could lean on when you needed him. he was the man that forced marcus to learn how to make apple pie egg rolls so he wouldn't have to keep buying them from the bakery across from the beef. he was the man that sat behind you as you labored because he knew you felt better when he had his chin on your shoulder; he talked you through the entire thing and you couldn't be upset about it because every word he said comforted you and encouraged you. you could let him lean on you when he needed you most as long as it met that gabriel was safe.

“listen to me,” your voice cracked. “i don't know what to do, but i'm going to figure it out.” you managed to loosen one of your arms from gabriel. you wiped under your eyes. a painful and staggered exhale left your lungs. “ i won't be able to do this forever if you don't try to get sober, and it's not because of me, it's because of gabriel. he doesn't deserve this.”

“i know,” mikey said, reaching his hand out to caress his son's wispy black hair. you knew he wasn't going to take him. mikey needed comfort and gabriel was an easy little one to be comforted by. he was small and innocent. he loved his parents unconditionally because he didn't know the horrors of the world. he was being cradled in the bathroom unaware of anything that had occurred. he was blissfully ignorant. he was protected because he wasn't mature enough to understand the complex emotion that was surging through the apartment.

“i know you're going to have bad days. i know that you're going to relapse, and i know that this can't be fixed in a week, but damn, you have to try or i'm going to leave with gabriel.”

mikey leaned his forehead on yours. a quiet and consoling agreement that he would try his best. he couldn't ruin this with you. he made enough stupid mistakes with you in high school. he was supposed to be apologizing for those times now when he truly cared for you. he didn't reconnect with you later in life to keep being stupid, okay—maybe forgetting the condom a couple of months before your marriage was stupid, but the point was he wants to make things right.

the rest of the night was painful. you stayed up watching mikey sleep off his latest dose on the recliner and studying gabriel's small figure on the baby monitor. tonight seemed like the night that needed some silence even if it wasn't followed with peace.

mikey had taken your consideration of being sober seriously. he knew you were never one to back down from your word, and that ultimatum made him scared. scared enough to try and get his bearings in order, leave the beef to richie before he was past the point of no return. he was going to attend the narcotics anonymous meetings you had found online because they could allow him to find more resources to aid him. he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, hell, he was living through the hardest part, wanting more—another dose—before he even got in the car with you to attend the meeting.

he didn't want to be the dad that wasn't around. he gets sober or you leave with gabriel that was the deal. he couldn't stop this alone but that was the most difficult part—admitting he needed help. he couldn't keep fighting with himself, ignoring his fatherly duties, and he couldn't keep hurting you. he knew he wasn't acting like himself and he saw it most when you gave him that sad smile where your eyes wouldn't crinkle at the edges and your cheeks would barely rise. he knew he had to make a change.

“we'll be waiting for you because we love you,” you whispered in his ear. mikey had his nose buried in the side of your cheek, withholding the tears he so badly wanted to release. mikey was holding the railing to the steps of the church so tightly. his other hand was resting on gabriel's back. he was scared to let go. he knew he had to confront what had been haunting him. it wasn't just a back injury anymore it transpired well past that. it was beyond physical pain. it was an addiction. a festering, evil addiction that constantly gnawed at his entire body.

“i love you too,” he cleared his throat harshly, knowing if he said anything else he would break down. he wanted to do better. he wanted to be better. he needed to do better for the sake of keeping everything he loved.

[dydxzero]

"Leo, look! Raph climbed in!"

The moment I read the sentence "Splinter's little apple pie" from @/goodlucktai's fic a bigger heart grew back I had to draw Raph either in or as an apple pie. But I think baking Raph is a very not good idea so here we are :D

Though I think I might just actually make Raph into an apple pie eventually

Donnie is absolutely losing it in the background lol

Part 2

[girls-gays-theys]

the way that the bear is able to make you feel this oppressive absence before it ever endears you to Mikey. the show starts and he's already dead, and you start to empathize because you love carmy. and then ceres. then Christmas. then napkins. and it just twists the knife because you know how this ends but you still want to go through the screen and save Mikey. save carmy. save sugar.

but you can't. and mikey is already dead. and there's nothing you can do to change it.

[berzaitto]

hi everyone can we please not forget that natalie berzatto is also grieving the death of mikey 😣

[periprose]

Fly Away

Michael Berzatto x Reader

You're a family friend of the Berzattos and you're invited to have fun at their annual Christmas dinner. You think you still harbor feelings for Carmy, but as the evening progresses, you feel something for his brother.

Genre: friends to lovers, former crush on carm, really everything w carm is mostly platonic, unrequited stuff, insecurities, age gaps (reader and carm are 25, Michael is 38), takes place in 2017, takes place in S2E6, lots of angst, anxiety, some fluff, no use of y/n (you have a nickname: Birdie)

Word count: 11k

There’s a bauble and trinket everywhere you look. Festive, Christmas spirit seems to ebb from the very walls of the Berzatto household– and you would be remiss not to compliment it vocally in some way.

Donna is clearly waiting, teetering on a response from you as you take everything in from the front door. And you know how she reacts if you don’t say things in that perfect, supportive tone that she so desperately thrives off of.

“Wow, Mrs. Berzatto!” You clasp your hands, trying not to seem too cloying or ironic. “I love what you’ve done with the house. Such an eye for details.”

“Oh, stop.” She giggles, and lightly taps your shoulder as she takes your coat and hangs it up in the closet. 

“No, really. I wish my house was so… Christmassy this time of year.” You shrug, knowing that your dad isn’t the festive type after divorcing your mother.

“Aw. Well, we have love to spread here.” It’s a strange unseen sympathy coming from Donna, and she pulls you inside, and you take off your shoes, shuffling around in your socks and your comfy, hopefully chic, green loose turtleneck sweater. “Except you might have to wait a bit, because some of these fuckers are late.”

There’s that bitter tone you remember from Donna. You don’t really care for that– you tend to have an avoidant personality especially with how your own mother acts sometimes– and she yells out for Carmy and Mikey to greet you.

“Boys! Birdie’s here!” She calls from the stairs, and you suddenly feel self conscious.

Ever since your dad, a former co-worker and friend of Cicero’s, starting taking you as a teenager to these Berzatto hangouts, you have always had a eye for Carmen. It was hard not to be, seeing this bashful, slightly angry, awkward boy, around the same age as you, with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. You felt like sometimes, he really, really listened to you, and that was all you needed.

You wish you could be there for him too. 

It’s something you’ve never acted on, never bothered to actually approach him about– he always seemed so absorbed by his own thing.

You relished in the fact that he never had a girlfriend. You felt secure in that, because he just seemed safe. And it’s not like he would’ve been mean about rejecting you if he knew– you were always close to the Berzatto siblings. You were Bear and Birdie, ready to head out on a walk together, while the adults gossiped and drank.

Of course, you haven’t seen him in about… two years now. Around after he left to his apartment, and did his chef-education-training (you’re a bit vague on the details, honestly), and ever since then, as far as you know he’s slowly been doing what he loves. He does text you from time to time, but you’d be overstating those texts’ importance if you pretended it really quantified a relationship.

Mikey clambers down the stairs, wearing what looks to be pajamas, or very chill homebody clothes, and he raises his arm in a big, Italian gesture.

“Oh! Is that little Bird I see?” He exclaims, and pulls you into an eager hug. Maybe a little too eager– you think it’s almost as if you’re comforting him as you hug him back, his face coming down onto your shoulder, as he encapsulates you– and he pulls away, grinning.

He actually looks really good. You don’t know when you started thinking that Mikey was good looking, but it’s true– he has a certain, rough around the edges appeal that you find yourself drawn to.

“Merry Christmas. You’ve been keeping away from us.” Mikey points as you, intended as a stern remark, but you snort.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. I’ve been busy with work and law school, Michael. I’m not a kid anymore.” You resist the urge to comment on his beard, and then do it anyways. “Are you sure I’ve been keeping away? You’re the one with a hermit-ass beard.”

“Oh… they grow up and just start taking shots at you, don’t they, Ma?” Mikey places his hand over his heart, as if he’s wounded, and Donna shakes her head in agreement, before heading back to the kitchen, already seeming annoyed about something. “Beards are fashionable in 2017, Bird. Maybe come back to our current time– no reason for you to start dressing like a grandma already.”

You scoff at that, pointing at your sweater. “It’s semi-formal, c’mon! It looks nice. Respect the gathering’s rules.”

“It’s my house, babe.” Mikey leans in with maybe a little too much comfort, his eyes shining with some warmth, mirth even, and you don’t exactly pull away– the guy is like thirteen years older than you, and even if he does kid around, play up an older brother thing, you’ve started feeling like he’s restraining something more as of late, maybe some primal level of attraction that he knows better than to mess around with. You know that the feeling is kind of mutual– but you really don’t know how to quantify it. “I’m man of the house, and I say you should wear something that maybe, uh, shows off the pretty twenty-five year old that you are.”

The last part of this sentence has you swallowing a little, and you feel your face turning warm, and Mikey himself looks embarrassed that he’s said it, that he’s given a bit of evidence to your theories– he seems to brush something off, inside himself. 

You have never thought you were all that. You’ve always been pretty sure you should be glad that you’ve gotten by without having to worry about your looks. The idea of wearing a nice, somewhat revealing dress to the Berzattos’ house has you cringing, because you know it would just be… bad. 

“I’m not–” Mikey scowls at himself and you can visibly see himself fighting something, looking a little anxious, and you tentatively grasp his forearm.

“I know what you mean. I’m not offended.” You smile slightly, making the effort to calm him down a little, because you would never want Michael to beat himself up over you (he really seems to do that as of late and you know you’re not worth the trouble), and he nods and inhales. “You look good, too.”

“Right. Right on, Birdie. You can do what you want, anyways. Not up to me.” He seems to really dial back some of what he said, and before you can respond, Carmy walks downstairs.

“Hi. Hey, Birdie. Merry Christmas.” He says, kind of quietly, and you find yourself somewhat happy to hear him say your nickname again. Carmy looks especially nice– deep blue has always been his colour, it brightens up his eyes– and he has slightly longer hair than you remember. 

He leans in for a brief but firm hug, and glances at your eyes once, before looking towards the floor again.

Mikey nods and proceeds to exit to the kitchen, and you’re left with Carmy grappling with what to say.

“How have you–”

“How’s law sch–”

Carmy coughs awkwardly, and you find your face turning warm as he looks towards you.

“Sorry, Bear.” You let him speak, hoping not to scare him away. “How’s everything? You okay?”

“Yeah. Uh… well, I’ve been training at Copenhagen?” He furrows his brows, runs his hand through his hair. “Just learning as much as I can.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Your curiosity is piqued– you didn’t know he was in Denmark, much to your disappointment– but you want to pry more of an answer out of him. He doesn’t seem interested in talking about it more than that. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Stupid answer, there’s just not much to say.” Carmy shrugs, and then realizes suddenly that you’ve been standing at the foyer of the house for quite some time now, which isn’t very polite or inviting of him. “Wait, hold on. Let’s go sit inside and talk.”

Carmy makes some offhand comment about how you need to speak up sometimes and stop being so nice and accommodating to idiots like him, and you snicker, knowing that this is the Carmy you remember– snarky, ready to fight people on sometimes, even if he is a little weird and bashful. Although he’s short– he makes up for it with his resilience.

Carmy leads you through golden-lit hallways, a certain pepperminty, pine tree scent seeming to overlay the entire house, and there’s bushels and wreathes and mistletoe everywhere, and somehow even more baubles, ornaments, trinkets, knickknacks, all gold and red and warm tones that do make you feel a little fuzzy.

Carmy sits you down in the living room, on the sofa, and you’re next to him, and you place a foot under your knee, trying to feel casual. Not freaking out about him sitting right next to you. Weirdly enough… you don’t think you feel anything anxiety inducing. 

Perhaps you’re just getting more reassured of yourself with age. 

“So? How is Copenhagen, otherwise? I know Denmark is really interesting, but you’re probably busy with chef stuff, huh?” You prod just a little further. Just out of your own personal curiosity to see how far Carmy will go for you, and he nods. “Any friends?”

“Ah…” Carmy winces a little. “Can’t say if he’s a friend yet, but there is this guy that’s out of this world with pastries. I don’t know if I can meet his standard on that.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes. “Bear, you make my dad cookies all the time. Or, well, you used to. You can’t be that bad at it, considering that he always eats all of them.”

“Oh, really? Fuck, man.” Carmy looks at you in disbelief, settling more into his corner of the couch, closer to the tree, but looking more openly at you. You feel yourself cower a little under his watchful gaze. “I didn’t know your dad enjoyed them that much… I would’ve made more. Did you ever try them?”

“Hm?” You were getting lost in the details around Carmy– the dark blue shirt, the little bits of stubble around his jaw, the tattoos peeping out from under his long sleeves– and you nod. “Ah, I tried a batch around the last time you gave him some. I think it was… macadamia, matcha, white chocolate? Really good.”

Carmy is unreadable, his eyes flickering from the ground to your eyes– you think maybe you’ve embarrassed him a little– but he thanks you. “Where is your dad, anyways?”

“Ah. He’s got the flu, and he was kind enough to not want to infect you guys.” You admit. “Even though he was trying his best to walk over here from our house.”

Carmy remembers that you live in the neighbourhood over. You two used to hang out a lot during elementary and high school. He kind of missed you– something he’d never say out loud, but Carmy knows friends are few with him, and you were always a good friend to him growing up. You were always a comforting presence for him– you never asked him for too much, and he could tell you were being careful to do so. No pressure.

You just became really busy with law school, and he became really busy with chef stuff, and now you’re both… you both just lost touch. He feels bad about it– bad like he always does, with former friends and acquaintances from high school that he’s accidentally ghosted and lost– but at least you don’t seem to be annoyed about it. 

He thinks it’s probably because in this case, you pulled away just as much as he had to.

“How’s law school, anyways?” Carmy counts the years in his head. “You’ve either just finished or you’re in your final year?”

“I’m in my final year.” You stretch out your arms, looking eager. “It’s a lot of work– I’m only here because I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a break in the winter months, and I’m ahead on my courses. But, uh… I don’t know. It’s fun.”

“Fun? Wow.” Carmy grins a little. 

“What?”

“I don’t know, Birdie. Fun is more… fucking, I don’t know, fireworks or something? Drugs, maybe, yeah.” Carmy watches as you laugh, and laugh, at what he’s said, and again he’s never really sure what’s so funny about what he’s said, but he likes to hear you laugh.

“Clearly you don’t know either.” You snort, and lightly punch his arm. “When did we become workaholics?”

“Probably when we became, uh, adults and entered the workforce.” Carmy states, and you wrinkle your brows.

“We’re not really in the workforce yet, but–”

“What, really? C’mon. You’re a fucking receptionist or some shit, right?”

“Business administration specialist.”

“Yeah, there you go. That’s work, especially with all the school you have to do.” Carmy shrugs. “But what do you really want to be, then?”

“Oh, we getting into dreams, then?” You cock an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you cared that much, Bear.”

Carmy, for some reason he can’t detect, turns a little red. “No, of course I do. We’re still friends, right?”

“Acquaintances.”

“For real?” Carmy looks back at you, affronted, but you have a little smile and he knows you’re teasing. “Oh fuck you. Stop it.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You shake your head, giggling a little, glad to have so easily fallen back into a comfortable, friendly banter. “Of course we’re friends, it’s just that… I always thought very highly of you, Carmen, and I can’t always be sure that feeling was returned. You know? I assumed that you’d be out doing sophisticated cooking in big, upscale restaurants, and the rest of us would just be reading about it. Forgive me for feeling a little behind it all.”

“No, no, no. You got it all wrong, Birdie.” Carmy half-laughs at how you put him on such a pedestal. “You were always the one doing real work, as Mom would call it. You’re the one who’s actually smart and good at arguing, debating– that’s a real skill coming from me, because I just yell fuck at everyone and hope it works. I always thought you were the impressive one out of all of us.”

You snicker, but you’re actually quite pleased with that, and you feel your heart warm at his praise. “Ah, that’s so sweet. Thank you. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been surviving off of ramen and convenience store food for the last month. I can hardly make the time to cook efficiently.”

“...” Carmy shakes his head. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You’re gonna eat good food today then, I hope.”

Almost as if on cue, Donna calls for Carmy to come help her with something– and you’re left sitting as he tells you that he’s going to hear about your dream job when he gets back.

/

Fifteen minutes later– Carmy is still MIA, and you’re starting to get a little hungry. 

You know it’s rude, but luckily Michael comes by and asks if you want a snack.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” You ask, and Michael snickers.

“You’re the same girl that can eat a whole number four combo at the Beef. I’m pretty sure you were hungry before you got here.” Michael jokes, and you blush in embarrassment.

“Oh my god, stop it.” You shake your head. “Anyways, yeah. A snack would be nice.”

Michael gives you a wink that strangely has you a little twitterpated, before you shake that off. He comes back a few minutes later, chewing on something himself– and he hands you a bowl full of Italian sausage stirfry.

“Thanks, Michael.” You smile up at him, and he nods, trying not to smile too much back at your gratitude, but he likes how you take a bite and look super relieved, happy with the food. He’s always loved giving food to people– taking care of them. Especially you, for some reason.

Michael heads back to the kitchen, and Natalie comes by and takes his place.

“Birdie!” She hugs you tightly, and you hug her back, equally happy. “Oh my gosh, if I knew you were down here I would’ve come by ages ago!”

“Aw.” You beam at her. “That’s okay, Nat. I’m happy to see you too.”

She’s off ranting about how Pete, her husband, is late, and how she can barely manage everything going on, and you’re sympathetic. You know Nat gets more of a harsh treatment from Donna, and you tell her that you’re there if she needs a person on her side.

“Oh, Birdie. I couldn’t do that to you. Even if you are amazing at talking, Miss Lawyer-to-be.” She lets you continue to sit down in your corner of the living room, as she heads off to check on her mom– maybe pour out some alcohol.

 Carmy comes back in, slightly powdered with flour on his forehead– and he sits back down, sighing, as he drinks a glass of water.

There’s the slightest air of awkward tension still– even if you and Carmy have fallen back into your old ways, he still keeps a slight distance, one that he’s grown into, and you feel that you have to break the silence. You don’t know if he’s just tired or if there’s some level of irritation of having to deal with all the holiday bullshit, but you take a guess it has to do with Donna.

“That bad?” You grimace, and Carmy matches your expression.

“That bad.” He shakes his head. “She always gets a little woo-woo around these fucking events. Like, I never wanted her to do all of this– but she insists and insists and doesn’t know how to let go of the, uh…”

“Hubris.” 

“Yes. Hubris.” Carmy sighs, glad you still have the perfect word for everything. “Whatever. Anyways, haven’t forgotten. Hit me with your dream.”

“Okay, it’s going to sound a little weird, but, um… I’m really interested in becoming a labour relations lawyer?” You feel almost too much glee at the fact that Carmy remembered, and you see Carmy bite his lip, a little confused, so you continue, hoping you don’t sound like too much of a fucking nerd. “Meaning to help employees get out of their shitty situations with wages, working hours, benefits and fight for their rights. Union stuff. I don’t know, just feels like everyone is struggling with this nowadays… might as well push forward and try to help them out.”

“Wow, now that you’ve said that, it makes a lot of sense.” Carmy blinks. “I mean, uh, it’s not just that you’re good at arguing– you always go for the justice part of things. Remember when Michael and Sugar were arguing about cleaning the basement?”

You do remember that. You suggested dividing up either equally or by who owned what, and they eventually came to an agreement based on that. Michael wanted to dip because he was older, and Sugar thought it was demeaning to ask a girl to clean.

“Or when Lee said that women can’t think analytically, or what was it… mathematically?” Carmy laughs as he watches your face turn angry again.

“Yeah. I especially remember that. I told him to think about Ada Lovelace and to shut up.” You wince. “Maybe not the most mature thing I’ve ever said. I don’t think that’s such a great thing… sometimes I don’t know when to let go of arguments.”

“It’s alright, it was funny.” Carmy plays with his fingers. “That being said, I think you’ll be good if you choose to be that. A labour relations lawyer. You’re smart, and god fucking knows we all need the help. You should check out how many chefs get fucked over because they work at places for the prestige of doing so.”

“Damn.” You make a mental note of that, feeling embarrassed over how much praise Carmy has freely given you. “Is that going to be you?”

“Doesn’t matter if it is. Sometimes you gotta do what you can.” Carmy doesn’t really give you a clear answer, and you feel bad for him. Bad that he’s still stuck in that mindset.

/

You can hear people hooting and jeering near the stairs, as you walk around the house, exploring a little. Tiff was grateful that you visited her for a brief moment– she told you being pregnant was not all it was cracked up to be– and now you’re just on the upper floor, near the stair railing, on your phone.

You’re not really one to eavesdrop, but you hear– you believe it’s Mikey and Richie– they’re chanting “Claire! Claire Bear!”

Your stomach drops, as you hear them hoot about how hot she is, whoever this Claire girl is– how stacked she is, apparently, the banging body she has, the glasses no longer ruining her appearance– and although you know it’s gross men talk, there’s a small, sad part of you that wants to be perceived as attractive, too. 

Still, even as you find yourself frowning and turning away in disgust, you can’t stop yourself from listening.

You remember her. Claire, one of the neighbours down the street. Went to the same high school as you and Carmy. She was really something, someone of note if you remember the popular kid cliques correctly, but she had largely gone unnoticed by you, and it wasn’t for any reason in particular. You can’t be close with every person in high school.

But still– you feel jealous. Just a teeny bit. What was so different about her?

Sure, she was a nice girl. But weren’t you? You arguably had more history with the Berzattos, and yet… it’s as if you’ve simply blended into the wallpaper, their assortment of home decor and furniture. You’ve always been here, and so you don’t stand out.

You might never stand out.

You can hear Carmy trying his best to argue against them, asking them what they did, telling them to fuck off with their teasing– but he sounds sheepish, embarrassed, righteously mortified in the telltale way one would be when they have a crush, and you feel sick. 

They’re heaping compliments on her. You know what they mean when they talk about her like this– she’s the clear, obvious choice, probably closer to the family, more interesting, more affectionate, a genius. You don’t really know Claire that well, but apparently, she’s perfect. And you know you, in your silly frumpy sweater, in your attempts to dress up– you are not. You feel humiliated that you even believed Mikey when he said you were pretty– he was clearly complimenting you just to be nice. 

You weren’t even an idea in their minds, not for Carmy, anyways. You don’t even think Carmy is capable of seeing you like that now, and it’s with a crushing blow that you realize you were holding out hope. Mistaking familiarity for affection.

It’s a rookie mistake. One that you thought you were self aware enough not to make, because you’ve always known Carmen Berzatto was just out of reach for you.

You wait for them to leave, and come down the stairs, running into Carmy as he groans in annoyance.

/

Carmy says he needs to wipe some of the flour out of his hair, and you let him go upstairs, not really wanting to look at him, doing everything you can to make your way back to the living room unnoticed. In the meanwhile, Michael comes back and flops into Carmy’s seat on the sofa, next to where you sit, sullen.

“Hey, Birdie.” Michael starts, and you can’t read his tone, and you’re a little annoyed with his fake-nice attention. “Why not sit with me, the Faks, Michelle and Stevie? They’re really good people, I promise.”

“How do you know I’m avoiding people?” You snap back, maybe a little too aggrieved.

“It’s written all over your face, little Birdie.” He touches his knee to yours, and you bite your lip, swallowing your confusion, and Mikey enjoys the fact that you’ve chosen to wear a deep, brick-red Christmas lip colour. It’s hot– he doesn’t get how you don’t seem to be aware that you’re attractive.

He wants to kiss you. Maybe mess up that fancy lipstick and that sweet, annoyingly justice oriented, always-right character of yours. But he keeps it to himself.

“Don’t be antisocial. You of all people shouldn’t be alone during the holidays.”

“I’m not trying to be antisocial. I promise.” You shrug, trying to keep your emotions, that sinking feeling in your gut at bay– the last thing you want is for Michael to see you upset. “I was keeping Bear company, but I can come sit with you guys.” 

“That’s my girl.” Michael pulls you up by the arm, and you can feel your face warming at his choice of words– you like being in Michael’s good graces, even if you feel less than great right now.

Michelle, cousin of the Berzattos, has always been sweet to you. She’s impressive in her own right, and as you sit down in front of her and Stevie– she gushes about New York.

“Ah, that’s not to say Chicago isn’t impressive. Right, Birdie?” She smiles at you, not unkindly, and you feel happy to be included. 

“Right.” You shrug, knowing that the law firm you work at isn’t all that crazy. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re nothing special, not after what transpired just a few minutes ago, and you voice it. “It’s just okay.”

“No, c’mon. You work at one of the top fucking law firms in the city– you’re gonna make it.” Michael admonishes you. “Out of us Chicagoans, I mean, Michelle, before you take offense.”

“Yeah, Mish.” Richie echoes, popping up out of nowhere.

“None taken.” Michelle fixes her eyes between you and Michael– perhaps reading on something that you’re not even really sure how to understand, let alone explain– and she laughs. “Anyways, what was I saying? Right.”

She launches into a story about hating a woman who didn’t understand the Berzatto name. It’s quite funny– you find yourself laughing every now and then, the dull ache in your heart less noticeable, especially with how good Michelle is at telling stories, and somewhere along the story, Michael’s hand has stayed intertwined with yours, without you really noticing. You only notice when he lets go, and again– a pitfall in your stomach, wondering if Michael just feels familiar around you because there’s nothing to be attracted to and thus respectful of– and it’s such a stupid thought, but you still just know you want to feel wanted. You want to get a hold on yourself– remind yourself you’re not owed attraction and there’s nothing wrong with Mikey or Carmy seeing you as just a friend.

You realize with a start that you’re feeling confused about Michael, too. Was it just a weird quirk of his, calling every single girl pretty just for laughs? Could you even trust what he said? Why does Michael’s opinion of you feel way more pertinent and important than Carmy’s does?

You find yourself mulling over these thoughts, not sure of what’s going on around you, and you hear Michael tell the Fak bros, Ned and Ted, to shut up about California, which they do.

Donna starts screaming in the background, which causes you to turn abruptly. “Oh, fuck me!”

Michael turns and looks at you with some caution– he’s used to his mother’s outbursts, but he never ever wants you to face them. You don’t deserve that, you’ve probably never done anything to deserve it. Not like him.

Stevie gets up, much to the surprise of everyone around him. “Looks like Auntie D needs help, huh?”

“No, no, no.” Everyone tries to stop him, including you.

“What?”

Michelle pushes him back down, but he gets back up, resilient. 

Lee decides to comment in. “Let him, why not?”

“I’m sure she could use a few extra hands. I’m going.” He goes, and you stand up to follow, not willing to let an innocent person get dragged into Donna’s insanity.

“Wait, Birdie. Where are you going?” Michael holds your hand again, and you turn red at his action– a little angry, a little glum that he seems to care for you, and you can’t even be grateful for it. “Don’t throw yourself to the wolves. It’s not fucking worth it.”

“Not throwing myself– just want to make sure Stevie is protected.” You move forward, your face stony, and Michael lets go of you, sighing as he wraps his blanket around himself, wondering when you got all pissed off, but glad that you’re not so upset that you wouldn’t act all lawyer-y for Stevie.

Lee is glancing at him, while Michelle looks pleased as punch.

“What? What the fuck are these expressions?” Michael looks around questioningly, and Richie gives him a side glance.

“When’d you get all sweet on her, bro?” Richie gags a little. “Not that she’s not your type, but, uh–”

“I’m just being friendly.” Michael dismisses him, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the holidays, she shouldn’t be lonely.”

“Bullshit you are.” Richie sniggers, and Michael lightly shoves him.

“Yeah, I call bullshit too.” Michelle grins. “I can see it– you’re blushing.”

Michael groans, hating to be so obviously vulnerable in front of everyone. 

“Well I, for one, think it’s a huge, fucking catastrophic mistake.” Lee starts, and Michael feels himself blanch under the judgement of this guy. “You’re going to ruin that young woman’s potential if you go around messing with her.”

“Lee, she’s not that young–” Neil starts. “I think she can decide that herself?”

“Whatever. This one knows he isn’t right for her– always wants what he can’t have.” Lee mutters, and Michael feels that white-hot rage– the anger he feels bubbling inside of him as of late. 

He does his best to swallow it down, but a part of him knows that it’s true. As much as Michael enjoys your random visits over the past two years, he knows– you’re too good for someone like him. Too young, too selfless, too honest and good and pretty, and he feels an overwhelming wave of shame that he came so close. It’s like he just… doesn’t know how to be a good, responsible person, and it kills him on the inside that he could be so shameful, be so abhorrent and take advantage of you like that, and even if there is a tiny part of him screaming that it’s not so black and white– that you could be just as interested, of your own volition, in him as he is in you– he feels guilt. 

Michael is ashamed of who he is. Over, and over, there’s that feeling again– kill yourself– that he doesn’t know how to suppress, and he ignores it as he starts up a new story.

/

Natalie is tearing up as Stevie hugs her.

You came towards them in the midst of Donna yelling for Stevie to get the fuck out of the kitchen, and Sugar shushing him and shoving him away, and you now place a hand on her shoulder– clearly Stevie has it handled, somewhat.

When he lets go, she sniffles and you smile encouragingly, albeit a little sadly, and Natalie wipes away a tear. 

“It’s okay. It’s fine, it’s nothing. You don’t need to talk to her.” She starts, and you shake your head.

“I’m not going to. I can see that would make things worse.” You squeeze her shoulders, and Stevie nods.

“Yeah, Natalie. But we’re here. We’ll always be here if you want to talk.” He tries, and you smile at her– but something about Nat’s slightly upset, off putting expression, and Donna’s grumbling in the background– you feel your heart seizing a little at the tense emotions, so similar to your own, and you excuse yourself.

You walk until you reach the pantry, hot tears already working their way down your face. Every single negative emotion have come to a head, and you’re in terrible danger of having to explain things if you don’t get it together in under ten minutes or so.

You sit on the high table in the pantry, trying not to cry anymore than you already have, your head between your knees– but something about today has all your nerves on edge, and you know it’s because you put in some effort to come here, to see your dear friends, to look appealing enough, to be someone worth talking to, and now you feel as if they never really cared about you at all. 

You know these are lousy, immature feelings. You know you can be above them if you really, truly tried, but you let yourself sink into them further, because something about this environment is terrible and you just can’t let it go.

Even worse, no one has really done anything wrong. If this was a court case, you wouldn’t even have any evidence to make a claim. You’re simply confused, perhaps looking at things from the wrong angles– but the fact that you can’t look at this rationally makes you feel worse. As if you’re not as smart as you believed.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in here, when you hear someone shuffle into the pantry, next to you– it’s Michael.

He’s quick on his feet– you try to move away, let him grab whatever household ingredient he needed– but his full attention is on you as his eyes narrow, scanning your tear stained face and your hunched over body.

“Birdie?”

You can’t quite look at him, and you desperately try to wipe your tears, burying your face more between your knees. 

“Hey, no. Birdie.” He shakes his head, grabs your arms. He thinks it’s a little strange he’s had to cheer up two different people in the pantry, but he chalks it up to how his house always is. “What happened? Was it Ma?”

“No.” You sight and swallow down the sobs in your throat.

“Then what was it?” Michael’s eyes turn steely. “Fucking ‘Uncle’ Lee? Asshole. Told me I can’t finish any fucking businesses.”

“But… you run the Beef, don’t you?” You say, amid sniffles, entirely honest about it, and Michael’s eyes soften. “That has to count for something.”

“Yeah, little Bird.” He’s glad to have you here– he doesn’t care if it’s fucked up, not when you’re the only person on his side at this moment. “But why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“I–” You shake your head, and feel your head hang heavy as you slouch over the table, and Michael leans over you, pressing your head to his chest, and you feel yourself crying silently into his shirt, as he shushes you and combs back your hair, his other arm caressing your back.

Michael’s not the best person– not the most comforting to be around– but he knows, by being an older brother, by being someone people want to be around, he knows how to make it count when he does give in to comfort. 

He just wishes he didn’t feel so goddamned depressed himself, so he would know the right things to say. He doesn’t want to be so useless all the time.

“Mikey?” You voice is timid. Small. 

He feels both elated that you would trust him with this, and devastated that he’ll never be good enough to deserve your trust. 

“Yeah, Birdie?”

“It’s so juvenile, but I…" You shake your head and decide to commit to it. "I wish I was pretty."

“Is that it?” Michael’s arm wraps around your shoulder as he squishes onto the seat of the table, next to you. “You think you’re ugly, huh?”

“I don’t think I’m–” You inhale deeply, and wipe away your tears again. “It’s not about being ugly. It’s more like an objective reality that I have to accept. I’m just not… I’m not anything special to look at.”

“Wow, kid.” Michael tuts and shakes his head. “Ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? That stupid fucking mantra, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s true.” Michael almost starts laughing, but you look so solemn and serious, he resists the urge. “You’re not ugly. You might not think you’re all that, but you don’t see what I see.”

Michael tenses, and you watch as he falters over how to explain.

Michael thinks you're so damn annoying with that ardent, sweet expression– even if your tears are staining your face, you still look so grateful to hear him say those words– and it just crushes him. It crushes him to know that you look for his approval so much, when he knows you're worth so much more than that.

He doesn't want to let you down. You and Carmen– he will never be enough for the two of you. 

"I don't– I'm fucking stupid, Birdie, don't listen to me." He swallows, but you're hanging onto his words and your face falls again. 

"But I can listen to you get all poetic about Claire, right?" You mutter, angry, and you get up to leave– but Michael grabs your forearm, and he's quite a bit stronger than you are. 

“Hey. That’s different.” Michael tries, but you shake your head, and you’re left sitting on the table again. “I was only teasing Bear. It has nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” You turn even more glum, and Michael is left feeling terrible, wondering what was so wrong with what he said. 

You’re silent for a moment– you know that you like Carmy, but something about telling Michael about it feels weird, like you’re pre-emptively rejecting him rather than Carmy by confessing feelings that are slowly disappearing– and you just don’t want to.

But you know you need to. You need to accept that Carmy would never see you that way.

“I just… for a really long time, I thought that I…” You fall to silence, again, and Michael is staring at you, hanging onto every word, watching your side profile shake as you try to gather your thoughts. “I really liked him, you know? I don’t even know why– maybe he was just the clearly available, safe option, and now that’s not even true and I feel like I’m mourning something that was never even real. How stupid and childish can I get?”

“Wait, Birdie–”

“And I just… I know I’m not like Claire. I don’t know what I got myself into. I don’t even really like him anymore– it’s just that the situation makes it so damn apparent that I am just average.” You huff out your words with an air of finality that even has Michael flinching a little, and he runs his hands through his hair, unbelieving of what you’ve said. “You can’t even say I’m not, Mikey, because I know how you talked about her and it was just so different to how anyone here has ever thought about me.”

“Birdie, shut the fuck up.” Michael breathes out really heavily, pinching his brows, thinking that he regrets everything he said and he wishes he could take it back. “I didn’t really– I was trying to tease Carmy, you know? It didn’t mean the shit you think it does. Hell, I would be way more serious if I was talking about you.”

He takes a beat of silence– should he read your reaction to that, or keep going? And he decides to keep going.

“You can’t just act like you can read everyone’s minds because you’re a lawyer, Birdie.” Michael says it with a slightly lighter tone, and his hand traces the small of your back as you lean against your knees, staring up at him. “Didn’t you learn about intent or whatever the fuck it was? In school?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You admit despite yourself, and Michael smiles but continues seriously.

“I don’t think that about Claire, okay? If anything, I’m fucking embarrassed you heard me talk all of that shit– that was just meant to be, uh, guy talk. I swear.” Michael swallows, feeling guilty that he still had to be so low about it. “I don’t– I care so much about him, I just went too far in working him up. I think it would be a good thing for him, right?”

Hurt flashes across your face– you still don’t think you like Carmy anymore, you just don’t know how to feel about someone else being portrayed as a “good thing.” But you inhale– you know part of getting over it is having to accept this, and you let yourself think and then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I could see that.” You agree, and it doesn’t hurt as much since Michael is looking at you sympathetically. “I just… I want to be a good thing, too. Not for Carmy, just…”

“For someone?” Michael answers as you trail off. 

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Birdie. I’m gonna tell you something you gotta hear.” Michael has that determined look where you know he’s going to say something smart– he has his fleeting moments of wisdom even if he doesn’t believe in himself– and he goes for it. “I can’t believe no one has ever told you just to, I don’t know, fucking love yourself a little? Like, c’mon, you should be able to like yourself! You’re an incredible person and you deserve– you have the right to be insanely fucking confident and it’s so fucking annoying that you don’t see it.”

In the heat of his argument, Michael’s come too close again, and he can feel your breath on somewhere near his jaw or neck, and he has to remind himself to pull away again.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Michael combs back a strand of your hair.

“Don’t be sorry. Just listen to what I’m saying.” Michael inhales, thinks over why he can’t do this himself– Tina always tells him to be a little easier on himself, but he just struggles– and he thinks that you look terribly cute so it’s just a lot easier to root for you. “Don’t do it for some idiot guy who will never really appreciate you, little Birdie.”

You can feel the conclusion of that sentence, even if Michael doesn’t quite say it: do it for yourself. Be there for yourself. Listen to the good part of yourself, rather than him.

“Oh. I guess that’s…” You swallow, taking it in, knowing the value of his words. “It’s true.”

“See? You know it.” Michael leans in a little too close again, his face a mere breadth away from your own.

“I think you’d actually make a fantastic lawyer.” You slyly comment amid wiping your face, and Michael blinks and then laughs.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d get to see me and hear my advice all the time.” Michael mumbles a little over his words but to his surprise, you nod. 

“Yeah, then I’d get to see some idiot who really does appreciate me.” You murmur even more quietly, and Michael, feeling stupid, has a wistful smile on his face that he maybe has not felt in a decade. It’s so sweet– he thinks his heart is bursting with something. 

Maybe love. Maybe that jovial, Christmas spirit that seems to emanate as the food smells closer to ready, maybe what Carmen gave him as a kind gift, most likely the closeness he feels with you– not just being close in familiarity, more like– he can make out the little spots and freckles adorning your face, every single eyelash your still watery eyes have, the faint lines in your still-red lips, and it occurs to him that he’s too close. Somewhere during this talk, his hand has stayed around your back, and you have been tentatively tracing his right hand’s knuckles with your own thumb. 

Michael knows how it looks. If anyone was to walk in right now (and he’s sure Michelle or Richie have already put it together that the two of you have been gone for a while) they would assume you two are a couple.

He has a sudden air of regret– it’s not because he wants to reject you, he just… he struggles a lot with feeling wanted. He struggles with the standards that people seem to put on him. Michael has always known he’s not a good guy– he doesn’t know how to be the person that everyone seems to think he is. Carmen, Natalie, Richie, you– you all seem to think the best of him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He nearly had a breakdown watching Carmen look up to him so lovingly.

Before he can pull away– with another responsible refusal, telling you that he’s too old and washed up, and that you deserve the whole world and he is not enough to offer that to you– you gently but firmly grab his face, tracing his cheek, and he thinks it could be wrong– what if you’re just feeling all confused and willy-nilly about feelings because you’re displacing what you felt about Carmen, what if you don’t actually like him and you’re assuming that you do because of his clear attraction to you, what if you’re just feeling the moment and the sweet guidance he’s given you?

Tons of questions seem to flow from his mind, things that he wants to ask you, but Michael thinks fuck it, because you’re leaning in first and pulling him in and it’s something he would’ve never expected in a million years, that you could be just as attracted to him.

He kisses you maybe a little too hard– maybe it should’ve been softer, more gentle since you’ve opened up to him so much, but you kiss him just as eagerly back, and he doesn’t fucking care to be gentle anymore. He’s leaning over you and Michael knows he’s quite a bit taller, so he has to pull you upwards to really reach your lips, and the table the two of you are sitting on is quite small– it shakes a little and there’s not much room for Michael to really feel you.

Until you climb into his lap, because of course you do, and now you’re just tangling your fingers in his hair, and he thinks he can feel whatever migraine that the day’s events have spurred on him slipping away, and his hands wrap around the smallest part of your waist as he pulls you in, pressing his chest against yours. 

You feel like Michael’s beard tickles a little– but you don’t mind that. You weren’t sure until you did it that you’ve wanted to kiss him for a while. You feel like maybe you’ve actually been more attracted to him than you ever were with Carmy, maybe even just going for Carmy due to his aforementioned security. 

Michael groans, and he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you sharply inhale as his tongue roams around your own, and he knows he likes hearing you gasp when his hands come up under your sweater, just to feel your bare skin, and you pull away.

Michael comes in too close again, placing a soft yet firm kiss on the corner of your mouth, and you laugh at him, and it’s one of the best sounds he could hear. No longer are you all gloomy and sullen in the corner of the room– but there’s still an air of heat around you two, and he knows he should let you go before things go too far. 

“Consider that a Christmas present.” You murmur softly, tapping his face, genuinely smiling despite the smeared lipstick, and you clamber off his lap, and peek out the pantry. “I think you’re good to go eat dinner– let me just…”

You wipe the red lipstick from his mouth using the corner of your sweater sleeve, so not to leave evidence, and it’s an intimate moment that has Michael staring at your hand, to your eyes, and there’s something in his eyes– maybe sorrow, maybe appreciation, but most of all, tenderness, and he takes a silly, soft moment to just kiss your hand. You beam at him.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” You tease him, because you know that Michael has always had that look, and he stiffens for a moment.

“Ah… maybe around when you came back from graduating college.” Michael admits, feeling weirdly high and low all at the same time, but he questions you too. “What about you? Don’t tell me you just decided to kiss me right now. That would fucking… that would be too much.”

His heart falls for a split second– thinking about how again you could’ve just been having a little fling– why would you ever like him? He struggles to think how you could, even after having kissed you.

“No, no. I swear it’s not like that.” You turn a little red and play with your hands. “Um. You’re not like a rebound, Mikey, I just… I think I liked you ever since I started coming around more, maybe around last year? I probably just didn’t notice because I thought I was into Carmy. You know? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael tries not to let the relief show through his face too much. “I thought maybe I was… reading too much into it. Putting pressure on you.”

“No, you’re good.” You shake off his concerns. “I don’t think that at all. I really do like you… might’ve just been obsessed with the idea of a childhood friend turning into a lover.”

Michael grins. “Well, who’s to say that didn’t fucking happen, Birdie? Are we not childhood friends?”

“Eh… kind of. You’re a bit old.” You give him a so-so motion, and Michael jokingly pushes you a little. “I’m kidding! This is more like– your friend’s hot older brother gives you a chance and it’s crazy and exciting and you just want to know more.”

You were half kidding, but you’re so honest about it, and Michael loves it, but there’s still that undercurrent of agony– he wants to just openly like you, too, but he doesn’t want to be such a fucking failure about it.

“I’m gonna just head to the dining table, I think.” You check your watch. “Gotta go think about this a little more– is that okay? Not in a bad way, I’m just overwhelmed with everything that’s happened today…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s okay, Birdie.” Michael presses a kiss into your hairline. He knows it is a lot for anyone to handle– getting over a crush you thought you had, realizing that you like someone else– he gets it. “Take all the time you need.”

“Okay.” You smile eagerly at him and then walk outside through the hallway, wiping your mouth so it looks less kiss-stained, and peek around so no one is looking at you. 

Michael feels a million emotions hit him at once, and he knows he has to cool himself down before explaining to everyone where you’ve gone, what’s happened– or he’s certain to implicate himself, and he can’t have that. 

/ 

It all goes to shit not even twenty minutes later.

You’re sitting pretty between Richie and Tiff, who seem to be a little bit… awkward, maybe arguing mentally about something you don’t completely understand. No one has really commented on your disappearance, but you’re sure it’s obvious based on how Michelle and Stevie are whispering and smiling at you.

Michael gets a massive, depressive episode right after you’ve left him. He can’t exactly pinpoint why– he feels like a creep even if he isn’t one. Hell, he only actually met you when you were nineteen– he was in a different state when you started visiting the Berzattos. But even if Michael ignores his potential, old-man creepiness… he also feels like you’re headed for so much more than he ever was, and he knows he’s holding you back if he does this. 

For once in his life, he just wanted to be happy. He just wanted to be wanted without the stigma of not being good enough. 

You, Carmy, and Nat. He knows you guys are on your way. Michael feels a pit in his stomach as he imagines why you guys all have to look up to him so much– he just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

He can’t ignore the feeling that he is just a major fucking loser.

That’s why Michael goes and gets high. He knows he’s making a mistake, and he doesn’t want to do something so disappointing– but he figures he’s already a disappointment anyways. He’s grateful you’re not here outside to see how pathetic he really is– how much he craves a hit just to feel a little less shitty. And yes, it calms him down as he feels the high of the painkillers exacerbate positive memories, like with you, Carmy, Natalie– but it still makes his anger, his depressive tendencies strong, too. 

When he sits down at the dining table– he’s not that intoxicated, but he knows it’s a little apparent on his face, based on the mild alarm on your own. You’re sitting just far enough from him for there to be plausible deniability, but still– you are worried about him.

“You good?” You mouth, and he waves away your question with an air of fake nonchalance. 

You don’t look convinced. You can see the red in Michael’s eyes, the general tension in his shoulders, the unnerving sense of resentment in his expression. You wonder what could have happened in the last ten minutes that you’ve been sitting at the table, why Michael decided to go and get intoxicated just minutes after kissing you.

Were you too much for him? Maybe.

You know Michael gets high. In fact, last Easter, you’re pretty sure he spent the entire time high on something– but you only vaguely know about his anger flare ups. About his negative emotions, the supposed depressive periods he goes through. You’ve seen him argue a bit with Richie, you know he’s gotten a bit harsh with Carmy, but you know he’s a bit more troubled than that. The whole family seems a bit troubled. Natalie has told you that much, and you have your experience with that– your mother and father’s fights are ones that still make you quiver to think about. But with Michael?

You don’t know how much you believed it, until now, because Michael always seemed kind of… like he always had the right thing to say. You almost feel like he’s in the right to get upset, because he’s had a hard time, with his family, some of his luck surrounding his career– especially with how Lee continually riles him up.

The table is formal and nice for a bit. Michael and Tiff converse about something, Carmy asks if you’re okay and you mostly are. Michelle asks Mikey to say grace, and he sounds resentful, again, of Lee cutting him off so often. 

Cicero, being the responsible uncle that he is, tries to push off grace to Stevie, who promptly rejects it, and Michelle decides to ease the tension by asking what the hell the seven fishes are all about. Lee, of course, gleefully answers, about the dutch potatoes and the bible.

Michael glares at him and throws a fork. A real, honest-to-god, heavy piece of silverware. It clatters on the carpeted floor– you feel yourself flinch, and you watch Natalie and Pete’s expressions crumble into the realization that Michael is not okay, and everyone seems to look towards him in fear.

“You see what you did, right? You already did that. You already bitched about the dutch oven.” Michael retorts at him, not completely coherent, and you can feel the lights glazing over– the Christmas tree, the wreaths and baubles, everything seems to lose focus in comparison to the red-hot anger that Michael is bubbling over with.

Cicero and Carmy try to call him off, but Michael isn’t listening, and you can tell– he’s in a place to be upset. It’s like a slowly proceeding car crash– as much as you don’t want him to do it, you understand why he’s going to. You feel like there is a bit of a double standard in place here– Cicero seems to want him to respect his elders, and Michael is being kind of childish, but you can’t say you don’t understand why.

Michael asks for Fak’s fork, in direct opposition to Lee’s attempts to play the father in this house. Despite Fak’s insistent refusals, Michael successfully takes it. Everyone speaks with the intent to stop him, and he’s too focused on Lee to stop.

You know you hate Lee too. But such a severe reaction, coming from Michael? It has you wincing a little. You want to pull him away– tell him to be the nice older brother you’ve always known him to be– but you know it takes time. You know it’s probably going to get worse. You try to catch his eye– and he can't quite look at you.

You have faith in him. You know Michael can do better than this– you just hope he can see it, too. 

Michael throws the second fork, and you feel regret in trusting him, again, because he’s making things bad but it’s almost as if he can’t help it. You catch Natalie’s eyes– she’s clearly disappointed, too.

Michael feels a sick sense of pleasure, as he often does when it comes to acting out his worst desires. But he feels a flash of anger with himself– is that what he did with you? Is he really this guy? He thinks that he is, he is a bad dude and he can commit to that role if that’s what’s needed.  

“Cousin, you’re scaring the normals.” Richie tries, looking at Tiff and you, but you’re still yearning to catch his glance– and Michael can only respond that it’s nothing, everything is fine, and you’re suddenly reminded of when your parents used to fight and how you used to have to be the middle man and convince them that things were alright.

Michael looks towards you this time– but you’re not looking at him. You have your hands neatly clasped in your lap, your eyes are focused on the set of candles in the middle of the table, and you look horribly upset, with your neck all tense as you wait for things to blow over, and he can tell– he’s fucking up big time. Stevie, Carmy, everyone is looking pained, and Michael can only think that he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to make Lee feel just as terrible as he does.

"You see– I can throw forks because this is our father’s house." Michael scoffs back, and there's real agony in his tone. “My father’s house.”

Michelle inhales. “We have lift-off.”

“Okay, you got everyone's attention, so go ahead, tell us a story we've all heard a million times already.” Lee spits out, barely holding back his own contempt for Michael, and Michael starts laughing as if everything’s alright. “Tell a story about how you're living with your mom and you're borrowing money off of her and any other sucker who'll listen to your bullshit.”

Everyone looks towards the table, feeling terribly awkward about Lee’s accusations– it’s not that it’s necessarily untrue, but there’s a hefty amount of his own assumptions, his own bias thrown in there, and you want to speak up.

“Lee, shut the fuck up.” Cicero looks absolutely pissed off at him, and you’re grateful someone has taken some of the heat off of Michael. It’s Lee’s fault, too.

“I’m sorry. I told you not to be a sucker, Jimmy.” Lee comments, and Cicero exhales, exasperated.

“Lee. That’s not really fair– you’re being too hard on him.” You utter through gritted teeth, and Lee’s eyes narrow on you. It's the first time you've spoken, and Michael glances at you– his eyes are bright and he genuinely looks sorry. Sorry he had to go this far.

“Oh, am I? Really, Birdie? I would suggest I’m not being hard enough.” Lee raises his hands, invites you to speak more, and you know that it’s not really your place to do so, especially because Lee and Michael seem to have a lot of history.

But you have your almost-lawyer tendencies, and of course you’re not exactly unbiased either, because you want to see the best in Michael– you want to like him. 

"Please, Lee… Michael's working on himself. You don't need to lie to him." You stare at him, and Lee’s face seems to turn darker with that. “I’m sure we all have our issues… it feels like a lot.”

"Is that what he's told you, Birdie?" Lee sneers at you, and you suddenly feel small. "He's a sick, fucking twisted man, and you would trust him, wouldn't you?"

He doesn’t go further than that– but it’s enough that you feel humiliated for being read so thoroughly. It’s obvious what he’s implying– you’re a silly little girl who doesn’t know any better. 

“It's fine. It's fine. Because this guy's nothing and he's nobody.” Lee points at Michael again, and his expression sours so much. You watch as Michael seems to zero in on what Lee’s rambling on about. 

Natalie shakes her head in little no-no motions.

“Hey… Petey… I just need to, uh… I need to borrow this for one second.” Michael’s got that nonchalant expression again, but there’s pain in his eyes, and there’s a clamour of everyone again telling Michael to stop, calling his name, trying to distract him.

"Michael. Michael. Please don’t do this. Hey. Hey. Hey!" Natalie calls at him, and you know she's just begging for him to leave it alone. “I love you. Okay?” 

You watch as Michael, holding the fork, just holding it, clear malicious intent in his eyes, tension building in the air and you feel a little sick, but his eyes are watering and he clearly doesn’t want to do what he thinks he has to.

“I love you too, Sug.” Michael says honestly.

Stevie giggles, Cicero de-escalates things further, and you think you see the light at the end of the tunnel, if not for the fact that Michael is still holding the fork. Still standing up, taunting him, acting like a big old child as Carmy rebukes him– and it’s really just two grown men beginning to get all macho and toxic about who’s tougher, who’s really the man of the house, and they start screeching at each other and you watch as Michael’s eyes glaze over with something, with Lee’s final insult that “he’s nothing.”

You watch as Michael takes his seat. He seems ambivalent, hard to read– he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes and you feel terrible about it.

Donna comes in and takes her seat– she seems rather drunk, too, and the last thing you need is more evidence that substance abuse is a bad thing– and Stevie starts the most wonderful prayer that still isn’t enough to dissuade Michael. You catch his gaze– he’s mulling over something, his eyes are watery, and you want to go over there and talk him down, even if that idea is unwise.

Donna cries over the prayer, and Natalie commits the most cardinal sin that she could at this moment: she asks if she’s okay.

You flinch with recognition as Donna starts screaming at her, about how she is okay and could a person who isn’t okay make such a gorgeous meal, and she exits the room in visible anger, and Natalie begins to hyperventilate, while Michelle tries to calm everyone down.

Donna throws a plate down on the floor, and exits the room continuing to scream– and there’s a beat of tense silence, full of angst and what-nows, and Lee decides to take initiative breaking that silence with a silly joke– almost in a paternal role, again, a hot topic between him and Mikey– and you watch Michael’s eyes start narrowing as he leans against his hand.

Michael throws the third fork.

It’s like every single nerve you felt, every bit of tension that was already in place, comes to a head as Michael starts going batshit, trying his best to attack Lee, while the Fak brothers and Richie are between them, and you can barely think straight as everyone starts screaming at each other. 

Tiff almost gets dragged into the chaos, and you're left shielding and comforting her from the fight. Pete and Richie hold Michael off and you're thankful– the last thing you want is to go up in there and get caught in the crossfire yourself. It’s genuinely a blur– you have no idea how bad things are getting until Cicero starts telling them to get the fuck out.

Suddenly, the wall of the living room bursts inwards, the Christmas tree getting dragged in the crossfire, and you realize with shock that someone’s driven a car inside.

Not just any car– that’s Donna in there, driving, and you think for a moment she’s dead. You can’t believe what’s happening– you can feel your heart hammering through your chest.

Michael runs towards the car, tries to open the front door, yelling and asking her what she did, asking her to open the door. She stirs a little.

Everyone else is standing there, in shock, not focusing properly on what to do, and you pull yourself away from the crowd of people, as they stare on in horror. You don’t want to be a part of this, but you are, and you know what a responsible adult would do. 

You go outside, into the December night’s cold air, and call 911. Specify for the firefighters and ambulances, because Cicero has a big thing against narcs and cops and you’re not getting into that right now.

Even though you’re freezing, and that’s what you should be focusing on? You’re in an incredible amount of despair because of what’s taken place. You hang up the call and feel exhausted by everything that’s happened, and you wonder if Michael really knows better. If he can be more than this. It’s not something you’re judging him for– but you feel terrible about his circumstances and you want him to get out of there.

Worse, you can’t help but feel a little upset with him. Because you know that Michael didn’t have to stoop that low– he chose to, and that’s what bothers you the most. He let his emotional responses dictate how he was going to act, and you know it’s hard to not be so provoked in this environment, but still: you are concerned and upset with him, and you know you need to take a step back. As much as it hurts you to stay away, you feel like it’s going to hurt even more if you intentionally stay around.

You wait for the ambulance and fire trucks to show up– you take a minute to direct them through the house, and then you trust that someone else has got it from there. Carmy, Natalie, Michelle, Stevie– they���ve got each other, they’re whispering about something, and you know where you’re not needed.

You grab your coat and leave, leave as silently as you can without interrupting everything that’s going on. It’s an strange walk home– ten minutes of you thinking about everything.

You hope next Christmas will be better.

/

Michael comes down from his high hard. Someone’s wrapped a blanket around him, and he’s sitting on the front porch’s staircase, wondering what the hell is going on. Donna’s apparently been taken to the hospital– and there’s a makeshift tarp where the wall has been crashed in. Everyone has gone home.

Where did you go? He has a moment of panic. Are you okay? Did he fuck it up that badly? That you would leave without saying goodbye? Michael can picture the disappointment on your face, and he wishes– he really wishes he was someone else.

He’s stressing really hard, his eyes are beginning to tear up. God, he knew he wasn’t really worthy of your attention– you’re young still, you have the whole world ahead of you– and he wonders if he can apologize. He wonders what he could possibly say to make it right. After such an insane situation, he can’t even blame you for taking off.

Natalie tells him, kind sister that she is, that you were the one to call emergency services. Of course you were– you have a strong head on your shoulders and Michael feels strongly that his family is in debt to you. And then you headed home, but Natalie doesn’t know why.

He does have your number. But he’s not going to call you, not right now– he’s not going to make a bigger mistake and fuck things up further. 

Michael sighs, and leans back. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

the saddest thing about natalie berzatto is that she was never welcomed into the kitchen, which is probably why she never became a chef like her brothers.

her brothers were welcomed, and were praised.

for natalie, she had clearly attempted to cook as a child, but made a simple mistake, earning her a lifetime nickname that basically was code for ‘failure’.

it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she is her mother’s least favorite, and was most definitely deprived of love as a child.

however now, she has a sweet, caring, loving husband, who will be a great father to their child. and he doesn’t call her sugar.

[irlplasticlamb]

but business is business and business runs in the family.

prints + merch

[imagionationstation]

“Can you listen?”

Raph’s world tilts, the same way it always does when he uses that tone of voice. “What?”

“Can you listen? Just, listen?”

He closes the comic immediately. “If I gotta.”

Mikey enters the room and sits. His head rests against the edge of the bed as Raph puts his feet on the floor. His brother stares at the roof, solemn.

“I think it’s my fault,” His voice doesn’t have the Mikey tint to it. It’s burdened and stiff. He hates it. “That no one likes me.”

Raph’s pinches his arm to stop the impulse to open his mouth.

Mikey’s eyes are distant. He’s faraway, stuck in thoughts that he hardly ever has, in a sluggish moment that makes his movements slow and each word pronounced. “I know I care be weird. And loud. And- and I see them. The looks. From.”

He stops, as if he can’t remember if there was more to that statement. Or maybe he doesn’t want there to be.

Mikey’s supposed to be an open book. And yet, sometimes even he can’t bear to flip his own pages.

“We’re different. I know that. Humans won’t like us. Because we’re... Monsters.” Mutants, he wants to correct, in the same way that he does when Donnie whispers the hateful freak to the mirror.

He digs his fingers into the sheets. Why does he have to watch, time and time again, as it spreads like a plague between them? “And- And not ‘cause we are. We just… It’s just that way for us.”

He looks up. Raph nods, a stiff motion. Not talking. Listening. 

“And I can be different. ‘Cause of my head. And my- my-” He waves vaguely to explain what they both already know. “And it’s not bad. But it can be. Bad. Annoying. And it’s okay. Donnie’s-” Another wave. “It’s not bad. It’s just us. But it’s. For me, it’s like.”

He looks at the ground. “I think. I think if you weren’t my family, I’d be alone.”

Don’t say it- “There’s Leatherhead.” DARN IT- 

“Yeah,” Mikey agrees, soft. Raph exhales, relieved. “Leatherhead’s my best friend.” 

There’s so much defeat. Raph bites his tongue. Mikey mutters, “I don’t know.” 

He waits. Mikey says, “Maybe he shouldn’t be.” 

Raph scoots down to the floor. Mikey doesn’t react. “He’s great. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t. I don’t like thinking about it.”

The lost gaze drifts across the roof. “Sometimes I think I’d be better if I wasn’t me. If I was different. And then I want to change, but then Leo gives me the perfect opportunity for a sneak attack, and then he’s glittery and embarrassed and it’s… Fun. I have fun. But it can also be mean. And make people mad. And I don’t want to change. I don’t want to. But maybe I should.”

He leans on Raph’s shoulder, weighed by defeat. “Raph?”

Raph’s awful at this. He knows that. But he has to say something.

“Don’t know anything about should or shouldn’t. I know you’re my little brother. Don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. You are. That’s all that matters to me. Which means we’re stuck with each other. You don’t want to change? Don’t.”

He hesitates, scanning his face for any hint that his words are having the right impact on him. “Nobody’s the boss of you but you. World sucks. Humans suck. Some people’ll like you for stupid and some people won’t. Leatherhead’s been around this long. Don’t see him running off any time soon.”

Mikey smiles, briefly. It falls.

Raph follows his gaze to the poster.

He mutters, “Thank, Raphie.”

Raph swallows the bubbling worry and says, “Sure, Mike.” 

They stay there until Mikey gains the strength to retreat to his room.

[loversomeloki]

Syd is the Vision.

Carmy is the Force.

UNPACKING THE BEAR'S EMOTIONAL CORE AND WHERE I THINK SEASON 4 COULD GO.

(I started this post about 2 months ago, and now that there are nearly two weeks until Season 4 drops, I feel that there is no better time to make this post)

If you’ve made it all the way to Season 3 of the Bear then you know we’ve come a long way with these two. Sydcarmy endgame all day. I have a ton of thoughts that I want to unpack here but to start, I want to focus on what I think the general premise of the show is and how I think things could go in S4.

A Few of the Shows Clear Major Themes:

Family/Found Family

Grief

Healing/Growth

Passion

Yearning

Purpose

Let’s wait to talk about the obvious parallels that exist between Sydney and Carmen for now, because I could (and more than likely will) write an entire post about that soon. Today, I want to more so focus on the functions of Sydney and Carmen in terms of how they co-exist both emotionally and professionally. What are their roles, and how does it push the story forward. So! Grab a bag of Doritos, a coke, and get comfy--cause this one's gonna be a long one.

As we know, Carmy wanted nothing more than to be in the kitchen alongside his elder brother, Michael. Anytime we get references to Mikey, or Carmy's past, this point continually arises. Multiple times when speaking about Mikey, he mentions how he wanted to be there with him, but Mikey never let him. Carmy admired Mikey--notably to the point of idolizing him, but he was also competing against him, given his older brother stopped letting him come to the restaurant.

I think it’s fair to say that Mikey was the original Vision or Spark for Carmen. An obvious statement, of course, but in order to really see how Syd functions as the new Vision and Spark, we've gotta start there.

Now, logistically speaking, Mikey having the restaurant and being able to make a way for himself is something that Carmy wanted to emulate because anytime Carmy saw his brother in the kitchen he was happy (or at least that's how he appeared). What is made clear to the audience as we see the edges beginning to fray, is that Mikey wore a mask for much of his life--a very realistic and reasonable response to being raised by a bipolar alcoholic parent, and an absent father.

I think this also stems from Carmen's trauma's associated with Donna in the physical space of a kitchen, but we will unpack that in a separate post.

I believe that Carmy wanting to move from the "loner kid brother" role into what he idolized his brother as being --The cool older brother than can throw down in the kitchen and who doesn't seem to let our childhood get to him. Carmy wanting to be Mikey. So he sees Mikey as this cool ass dude, with the flare, and the expertise in the kitchen, but he is rejected by him.

So of course as Carmy admits in his Al-Anon that he wanted to become better than Mikey, it becomes clearer that Mikey was his first source of true inspiration, despite it being planted for a bad (or sad I suppose) reason. It's also clearly an escapism from the life he grew up in, but more importantly it is where we see Carmy romanticizing the idea of running the Beef with his brother. As if it will make all the pain of their childhoods go away. Carmy has a habit of doing this in his life, which suggests he has an avoidant coping mechanism as well.

Here is where Carmy becomes that powerful Force.

He is able to put the work in and execute other people's visions. Because from the start, him becoming a chef is rooted in Mikey being that Spark for him. We don't see moments where he is young cooking, or talking about knowing immediately he always wanted to be a chef. Carmy talks about wanting to make people happy and that food makes them happy. This was also really interesting to see tied back to the Fishes episode given we get another perspective through Donna's talk with Carmy about how she felt cooking for everyone at their family dinner.

I think it's a little deeper than that though. Carmy has a track record of living for everyone else around him, not living for himself, and I think this is why Carmy is the Force rather than the one with the vision. Being the Force however, comes at the expense of taking himself completely out of the equation (in the past!).

For example, when he works under David Fields, he is the one ensuring each dish goes out exactly as it is supposed to. He is the one making David's vision come to life. He is the Force, making it happen.

When Carmy sends the blood orange dish out, that is when we finally see Carmy experiment with his own vision. It's the first time he truly is able to be creative and passionate about what HE wants, not what Fields wants or what any "expert" has told him to do in order to maintain perfection. And I think that he channels a bit of his brother Mikey to do this.

This is what Mikey exhibits in every scene that we see of him. He has that spark, despite the darkness he holds inside, the man is his own person, and Carmy desperately clings to that idea he has in his head about who his brother was.

During his Al-Anon meeting he even goes so far as to describing how Mikey had such a big personality, and a way of being that just easily attracted people to him.

Paraphrasing here, but something along the lines of—“Everyone thought he was their best friend. But he was actually mine.”

With this in mind, I think that Syd takes over Mikey’s role as the Spark/Vision.

LETTING HER SAY LET IT RIP ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY HAD ME SOBBING BECAUSE HOLY FU-

And the subtle ways they display this through the lighting that always halos Mikey and Sydney in the same way. UGHHH could go on forever. Lemme move on.

How It Ends (At least How I Hope)

I’m quite hopeful we get some iteration of the table scene again, except with a more healed/family-oriented Carmy that has matured a bit. Syd challenges him to be better, so seeing him heed that advice would feel satisfying I think for the final season. Hopefully which isn’t season 4 because we would be severely robbed and I can’t get over Ebon seeming done with the show when talking about filming season 4?????

I Know I Know, We Have to Wrap That Storyline Up Tho

I hate to have to even bring it up, but I'm really hoping that the only Cl***e scenes we get are her clocking him about how he feels about Syd. Then and only then, would it be tolerable to see her on screen. I can't even get into it right now, it pisses me off to think about.

ANYWAYS, MOVING ON TO OUR FAVS

I’m envisioning a very specific scenario, something along the lines of:

Carmy stares at her across the room. They are alone at the Bear after a long and frustrating day, but they are completely in sync—as they had been all night. (Perhaps it’s the night after they get some really good news or an outstanding review), and Carmy steps closer, to speak. Words are stuck in his throat for a moment before he clears it.

“You were perfect tonight, Chef,” something that doesn’t quite articulate how much he admires her but he does—and it’s written all over his face in those unmoving big blue eyes.

The compliment takes Syd by surprise, despite his growth over the season. Part of her doesn’t want to trust it, but the word ‘perfect’ is everything she’s wanted to hear from him since the day she walked into the Beef.

“We were perfect,” she says back softly. That same look mirrored in her. The space feels charged, more intimate than before.

Maybe a bit more conversing between them to build the tension up, and finally something shifts and a line is crossed.

“You’re the one that made it possible… from the beginning… it’s always been you, bringing us all to this point,” Carmy says more to himself—finally realizing what we, the audience, has known from Season 1. Syd is his vision. His muse. His spark. & The two of them together is the only way it works.

Syd of course would probably shake it off, deflecting.

“No, come on, it took this place,” Syd looks around, and maybe there’s a montage of the first moment they meet, and further back, we get a few glimpses of Mikey and Richie, and even further when the Berzatto family still owned the place—three kids running around arguing with one another.

Carmy chuckles, finally able to see the place from beyond the guise of his grief. Now his painful memories are replaced with loving ones with his found family and Syd at the very center.

“I’m serious… None of this would’ve ever happened without you, Syd. You deserve all the credit. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner,” He rubs his fist against his chest in a circle. She repeats the gesture, without saying a word before she looks away for a moment—holding her emotions at bay.

Maybe here’s where Carmy takes a step forward, close enough for Syd to back away if she doesn't feel the same way. He leaves her an out, because with him, he needs her to act first, to know what he is feeling is for real, and Syd doesn't budge, just stares right back.

I really want a moment of Carmy actually making a move for what he wants, so he musters up the courage, and we see the conflict in his face a little--the past and the present version of himself fighting against one another, before finally he leans in, stealing a kiss before he pulls away, too afraid of ruining everything. Panic sets in, even though he thought he was okay again, but the moment he does, Syd pulls him back to her, ending the episode with a returned passionate kiss.

Okay thanks for listening to me ramble! K Byeeeeee

[minidodds]

[ambitiouspotions]

DEBATABLE | MICHAEL BERZATTO

summary — being home for summer break means finding a bit of odd and steamy comfort within the chef who catered your younger brother’s baseball banquet.

word count — 24.4k

warnings — 18+ MDNI, porn w/plot (f&m oral, protected&unprotected pinv sex, public sex, naughty texts), age gap (reader 20, mikey 50-51), pet names (hon, lil’ thing, pretty thing, etc.), no use of y/n, very vague prior suicide attempt mentioned, mention of opioid addiction, na meetings, social drinking, terrible banter & jokes, questionable decisions/bad communication, natural bodies, rude & vulgar language

author’s note — no, this did not trigger a vague memory for myself…i say unconvinced

taglist: @stefpink , @allinourprivate-traps , @empathyroad , @lets-turn-and-burn

chicago summertime, the air was maybe still a little musty and thick, but the wind whipped enough to diminish the smell that usually made your nose scrunch. hot, earthy air with a mix of preteen boys wearing entirely too much salt and pepper body spray was not ideal, but you still stood smiling, urging your brother and his friends to squish together for a picture. you were thankful that the body spray was masking some of the musk from the few teammates who clearly had a hard time remembering their deodorant.

they seemed grown up in their little suits and knock-off baseball chains, each one sporting their number. thirteen hung around your little brother’s neck; most thought it was unlucky, but he made it his own proudly. they didn’t have on mucky cleats or red clay stains in their britches; they were little gentlemen standing on a faux red carpet. of course, their acne-ridden faces, crooked ties, and suit jackets that sat a little too large on their shoulders were a little laughable. no one attending this banquet would deny how happy the team looked together. they were all acting like they were major league players, and no one was going to halt their excitement.

they were halfway through their season, and the coach was exceptionally proud—he had to be proud because he was your dad. maybe even more proud because your little brother, cameron, was showing an overwhelming amount of potential, especially when he would start attending high school the year after next. if your brother continued on this uphill climb, his college would be paid for much like your own. although an athletic scholarship didn't send you to live out of state, you weren't nagging the “free” money from the academic successes you were reaping the benefits from.

in contrast to the team’s peak attire, the family and friends that were in attendance had toned down their appearance. you were in a two-day-old pair of ripped jeans and a “go cubbies” shirt because that was the cleanest laundry out of your overpacked suitcase that was sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom. you had only been in town for a day, feeling too tired from the packing and traveling to do anything with the mess you had brought home to even attempt to organize it.

the interior of the gymnasium had cheap streamers and a balloon arch to make the banquet seem like more than it really was, but no one seemed to mind because of the hilariously awkward cue cards the local commentator, benny amato, from the sports park was reading that your father and assistant coach had written.

you were brought a plate of food by your mother as you swiped through the group photos you had taken, trying to find at least one “serious” one that all their mothers wanted. your eyes widened seeing the overfilled plate, large meatballs smothered in some well-seasoned pasta sauce, and the noodles seemed to be handmade, none of that overcooked, soggy dining hall food you managed to choke back when attending school. your father was right behind her with bowls of caesar salad that she couldn't manage to carry for you both; even the salad had a healthy slab of garlic bread on top, so buttery and fragrant.

you slid your phone into your pocket as mr. amato was finally getting to the awards portion of the banquet after he had passed his long and draining introductions. people loved a good meal and entertainment to go with it because this wasn't some fancy event; this was high class. this was the dundies from the office, but adding adolescence in a crumby gymnasium and taking away the ability to overdrink in a chili's.

‘eye on the ball’ was the first golden bat trophy to be awarded. it wasn't given to jace kowak for his exquisite ability to catch a multitude of plays, it was for the three black eyes he'd acquired so far this season. and even with this first crumby joke out of the way, you knew you'd be sitting through twelve more while stuffing your face with food that you planned to eat cold while standing in the light of the fridge later tonight.

the dorm room meals you managed to cook in the shared kitchen weren’t anything fancy, but they were tasty. however, you were sitting here thinking you’d receive some subpar food like at every other community event you’ve ever attended, but no, this—this was something remarkable. this wasn't watered-down pasta sauce, gummy noodles, and tough, questionably sourced meatballs—this was so good. you were looking forward to your mother’s cooking after you’d been away, but even her home-cooked meals would be hard to top this.

you looked up from your plate to see another player proudly collecting his golden bat for “true grit.” imagine that—the kid was awarded for getting a mouthful of sand on his latest slide from last week’s game. benny amato’s voice was grating. you were managing to only filter out some of it, and the other half was causing you to stifle any eye roll that was surfacing. you had to remind yourself that you were being a good sister and that you loved your brother.

luckily, your brother was next, walking to the stage with his head held high. he had to anyway. he just was given high honors on the “ball buster” trophy. oh yeah, the week before last he took one right to the sack…and still kept running. you didn't expect to receive that call when you were drunkenly eating sushi beside your roommate as you scrolled on tinder. fortunately, the emergency room cleared him as quickly as he came in.

“never seen cam look so proud,” your mom laughed as she nudged you. you were continuously snapping pictures for her as your dad cheered as if he was oblivious to the fact that his son was getting an award. maybe his yelling was just a little more obnoxious than needed, or maybe it was only obnoxious because of your tiredness.

when your brother returned to his seat, you were slinking out of your chair. “i’m going to the bathroom,” you mumbled, excusing yourself from the table.

you made your way outside for a breath of fresh air. you had barely a moment of peace since returning home. the ride home from the airport was deafening. everyone was crammed into the car, speaking at you rather than to you. each one of them with a new set of questions from last time. your father was prodding about the storage unit you were renting, your mom was wondering why your friend lizzie wasn't in your final day pictures, and cameron was digging through your school bag, questioning every item.

the street lights had not yet turned on. the summer sun was taking its time setting. cars were buzzing along the road carelessly. the ‘l’ added that extra sound that made it home. it was the moment you needed because you did miss chicago, but not enough to stay. this three-month venture would be the longest you've been home since you graduated from high school. last summer, you visited for two weeks because you crashed in your friend’s apartment until you were able to move into a new dormitory. you were stuck at home this year because the leasing arrangement with your new apartment fell through until two months into the new school year. so, you lugged your things into a storage unit and flew back home.

“sorry, didn't know somebody was moping out here.”

you turned your head, straightening your posture. “i'm not moping,” you responded to the caterer, only able to recognize his job by his navy shirt with thick white writing on the pocket—“the bear–berzatto owned.”

“sure as hell looks like moping,” he chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “upset you didn't get a trophy for fighting the ump?” he leaned against the wall next to you. the siding of the gymnasium was warm and oddly comforting. he had his apron thrown over his shoulder. he had tanned italian skin a in similar fashion to lots of locals in the area, broad shoulders, a crooked nose that seemed to have seen a fight or two before, and that smug smile that seemed to draw you in to look for more.

a smile began to flicker against the corner of your mouth, taking more of this man’s appearance in as he took a drag of his cigarette. “no, just annoyed that i’m home,” you shrugged, pausing to look ahead rather than at this stranger that your eyes had been giving far too much attention to. the silver in his dark hair came in streaks, and his beard had those same shiny flecks in them that were definitely not exiting your mind as you looked ahead to the roadway. “i think i'm going to kill my entire family before the summer is over.”

a laugh came from the caterer. “i’m going to act like i didn't hear a premeditation to murder, but what i can do is give you a little peace,” he offered his cigarette to you.

you gave a nod of appreciation, taking the smoke between your fingers and inhaling steadily before handing it back.

“what’s got you so worked up that you're willing to take a life sentence?” the caterer questioned after a lull of silence. you finished exhaling as he began inhaling.

“summer off from college, and i can't stand being here,” you were finally looking at him again. “this is home, but i'm not living here,” you gestured loosely as the older man forked over the cigarette again. he knew you needed it. his arms were tattooed; the line work seemed like it was time for a touch-up. “now i'm dropping all my complaints on you, and i don't even know you.”

“michael berzatto,” he didn't wait to introduce himself because it seemed like he didn’t mind listening.

he said he preferred mikey over michael. when you gave your name, it seemed like he’d never say it because he had a multitude of pet names at his disposal that would be easier.

you shared names and cigarettes. you shared blown smoke and some weird, unspoken mutual decision to silently flirt back with your eyes. both of you thought nothing bad could happen from a little camaraderie.

“i was gone a while too,” mikey confessed, vaguely with very little explanation. “but i’m back now.”

“i feel like i can't breathe here. i don't know how you came back,” you retorted, letting your newfound confidant have the final smoke of his cigarette. it wasn't long after he stamped it out that he lit another one. maybe it was to keep you talking, or maybe it was because he wasn't satisfied after the first one.

mikey wasn’t a polished guy, but you’d be lying if you said you weren't still looking, but the strange part was that he was looking back. not looking past you or even afraid to make eye contact. he had his focus set. he was soft around the middle, a slight wrinkle in his forehead and around his eyes when he made any face other than his resting one, and his hands had seen work—scarring, burns, cuts, all of it.

“still can't breathe, not on some days, but better than where i was,” mikey concluded. the cigarette rested between his fingers for a minute before passing it to you to take the first inhale of the burning tobacco.

he's gentle, and you didn't know how gentle he was in reality, but the version you were receiving right now seemed peaceful and likable. he wasn't agreeing with everything you said or pushing you to speak. words fell out of your mouth because they seemed easy to spill with him. it was silent again between the two of you, but that seemed to be loud enough while the cigarette moved back and forth again.

“you guys did good with the food and all,” you added when it got just a bit too quiet, especially when you found yourself standing a bit too close. you didn't move away when you noticed.

“i think if we woulda brought any more food coach woulda been rolling his players outta here,” mikey chuckled, flicking the ash to the side of him. his last name matched the one on his shirt. you cracked a smile.

“you own it? the restaurant, i mean,” you shook your head when he offered the cigarette back. you had enough to calm your nerves already.

“me and my brother, the short one, not the lunatic who was handing out drinks,” mikey rubbed the underside of his nose with his index knuckle, watching as you tugged up the waistband of your jeans. “we renovated a few years ago, still got the original beef window on the side, but it's nicer on the inside.”

“nothing fancy?”

“hell no, kids are knockin’ their juice over in their pasta, it doesn’t have a dress code, and the kitchen is still good at yellin’ at each other,” he stamped the cigarette out. “but that’s what's good about it.” what mikey meant to say was that it wasn’t a shit hole anymore because he had his head screwed on the right way around.

“glad i got to try it,” you looked back towards the door. you knew you had to return soon to avoid questioning from your mother. “i guess my dad can get on my nerves, but he knows how to pick good food.”

“coach’s daughter? i’'m goin’ to hell,” mikey let out a breathy exhale, no longer leaning on the wall. connecting those dots fully seemed to make his eyes widen.

mikey casually smoked with some little college hottie that just so happened to also be the daughter of the man that was paying him tonight. shit always seemed to follow him, yet there he was still enjoying your presence.

“nah, you’re going to hell because you smoked two cigarettes with a twenty-year-old,” you took a step towards the entrance. “and you liked it,” you put your fingers into a cross and teasingly rubbed “shame” in his direction. you heard a chuckle as you walked back into the gymnasium.

“you sure you don't want me to wait until you come out?” your father pestered again, looking at you about to reenter the empty gymnasium. the banquet was a success. the entire team went home happy and fed. most of them were toting plates of leftover food, including you. you couldn't let it go to waste, especially not after your appetite was curbed from smoking. you handed the plate to your mother as she walked by, knowing your late-night snack would be safe in her hands since they were going straight home.

“dad, i'll be fine. i just forgot my phone,” you assured him as he gave that skeptical glance about not being able to watch you safely leave in the sedan you were borrowing from your mother. “i need to stop by walgreens anyway and get another charger; mine is busted,” you explained, hope that would be enough to allow him to leave.

forgetting your phone may not have been an accident. after being on the cleanup crew with your family, you may have strategically placed the device on the table nearest the catering station.

the car keys were hanging loosely in your hand as your father looked back at his single-cab truck. cameron and your mother were piling inside.

“alright, be safe tonight, baby girl,” he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

as you re-entered the gym, you saw mikey counting the fold-out tables he had stacked against the wall. his final task for the night was to load all the tables and chairs into the restaurant’s van and bring them back. richie, his best friend and drink slinger for the night, had already gone back with carmen, the shorter caterer, to clean all the serving equipment.

“left somethin’?” he asked, pulling your phone out of his pocket when he heard the door close. his head was slightly cocked when he looked at you. as he handed it over a picture of you and your friend from your university semi-formal lit up with the time. he didn’t have a hard time knowing it was yours.

“yeah, thanks,” you mumbled, not understanding why you had now become so nervous. the lights in the open room were buzzing. the commotion of the families caused you not to notice how much the white noise had been drowned out.

you looked around, playing with the phone in your hand, letting it clack against the key ring.

“did you forget somethin’ else?” he asked, reading off a checklist.

“your number,” you blurted out quickly as if you were ripping off a band-aid. the keyring slipped into your back pocket with your phone.

“my number?” mikey’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “you fuckin’ with me?” he asked, his voice lighter as he was about to laugh. he wasn’t taking you seriously at all.

“no,” you assured him, looking around again. that twinge in the back of your mind was pressing, saying ‘what the hell am i doing?’ this was a moment of realization, getting yourself into something that might haunt you for the rest of your nights. potential rejection was scary, but what was more horrifying was the fact that you were asking a man who clearly had the upper hand on your age. “just needed something to get through the summer.”

“they all left,” mikey uttered, knowing you were scoping out the area, but his statement seemed like permission. his lips were slightly parted as if he wanted to say something else, but you didn't give him a chance. your hand was resting on his forearm. his hand flexed, only able to grab the closest thing to him to bring you closer—the hem of your cubs shirt. he preferred the red sox, but the cubbies were bringing home the win tonight.

god, you reminded him of his younger self—desperate, hungry, hard to control, but easy to talk.

it was a split second before your hands scrambled to the back of his neck. mikey leaned down, pressing his lips to yours. you were sharing those cigarettes again—more intimately than before—adding a touch of desperation to them. you could taste the stale menthol, somehow it was surprisingly refreshing, knowing you might have possibly been making the biggest mistake of your life.

this wasn't another bar crawl with your shitty fake id, picking up some asshole from a fraternity; this was older and bolder. you didn't feel nervous outside of illinois in the local college bars as you inspected your potential prospects while sipping a vodka cran, but michael berzatto haphazardly walking backwards with you in an empty gymnasium as you sloppily made out with him was anxiety-inducing.

you gripped the back of his shirt. your fingers grazed the back of his neck. your mouth opened to catch a partial breath, and another clumsy step backward sent both of you knocking into a stack of chairs. your eyes opened. your cheeks were flush, and your heart rate spiked as you pulled yourself into mikey's chest to try and protect your sneaker-cladded feet from the domino effect of the chairs.

mikey licked his right canine tooth. he was just shy of the clear portion of the wall where he meant to back you into, unable to successfully do it moments ago. his attention had been focused on you while deepening the kiss and guiding you blindly backward.

“christ, i haven't—” mikey tugged you to the side of the fallen chairs. your head softly thudded on the wall behind you. he was placing quick kisses against your jawline. his scruffy beard was brushing against your cheek. “—done this in a long fuckin’ time,” he finished, resting his hand between your thighs and running his thumb across the light-washed denim.

“i think you're doing fine.” it was possibly the quickest you felt any type of growing arousal, especially as he captured your lips again. this was clumsy and unorganized, but not unlikeable. it was wonderfully awkward, and somehow knowing a stack of chairs crashed down was comforting because it felt natural and carefree. mikey’s confession also helped, settling some of the tension that you felt on your shoulders.

one of your hands trailed to the waistband of his jeans. your fingers were hooked into the top of his cotton boxers. his fingers are gently stroking higher on your inner thigh. the softest touches held the heaviest meaning behind them. this time, it was him pulling away from the kiss.

“wait,” he held your wrist, though your fingers didn’t retract. “you got—y’know a condom or somethin’?” he asked, though you laughed.

“no, i brought my phone and keys that aren’t even mine.” you bit your lip, quickly apologizing for laughing and for your lack of preparation.

he started laughing too. he couldn’t help himself. he didn’t bother looking through his pocket when he knew he didn't have anything useful. “i’m fifty. the most protection i have is a roll of tums to prevent heartburn,” he looked up at the ceiling. his laughter increased only because otherwise he would begin thinking far too much about how risky this situation was.

“i-i’m on the pill,” you cleared your throat, though more giggles were peeking through as he swatted your hand away from his pants.

“jesus,” mikey sighed as he began cracking up again. “bad idea waitin’ to happen.” his hand was still between your thighs. he wasn’t backing off, and neither were you. you were looking up at him. the hand that was on his boxers was now resting on his chest.

“you’re right,” you swallowed hard, but you didn’t move. you didn't want to admit it, but he was right. your eyes darted from his soft eyes to his lips. he wasn’t pressing or rushing. you were staring, and he was too.

his laughter faded, dipping his head again. you met his lips. even after the laughter and moment of cognizance, the excitement was still there. he was focused on tasting the remnants of your chapstick—a flavor he couldn’t quite place—it was cherry, but something deeper than just the fruit. maybe something nutty.

his hand slipped from your thighs and began to unbutton your jeans. he was toying with your zipper. his fingers grazing your panties—the funky floral ones that came in every basic four-pack of underwear—you were wishing you had made a better decision when digging through your suitcase.

“listen to me, i’m too old for that leg lockin’ bullshit,” mikey muttered against your mouth, working down his own pants. trusting within the age-old pull-out method was something mikey hadn't done since he was your age, but in this moment, he needed to believe in something.

“got it,” you mumbled, stepping out of your sneakers to tug down your jeans. you understood where his nervousness was stemming from, much like him, you didn't want a pregnancy scare at the end of this little excursion for pleasure.

mikey’s hands were grasping at your thighs. you were palming the front of his jeans, his semi-hard erection was growing by the second. neither of you wanted to stop. if anything, the touches only grew more hasty and hungry.

with your jeans discarded and your horrendous floral underwear on display. your legs were spread and his fingers were toying with the wet splotch you had created on your panties just from a few simple times of mikey’s fingers grazing you. you were unfastening the button to his jeans.

mikey was kissing your neck, a soft sigh coming from his mouth as he felt your hand move past his boxers. your heart was pounding as his fingers slipped past the seam of the gusset of your panties and applied the slightest bit of pressure. your legs were already trembling.

his thumb grazed past your clit after one affirming touch to signify he was capable. two of his fingers then slipped inside like they were meant to be there. there you were dripping into the palm of his hand with your eyes closed, feeling the outline of his thick cock through his pants.

your underwear was bunched to the inner crease of your right thigh. they were moved over just enough so mikey’s fingers could coat themselves in the sweet arousal you produced.

you had your other hand gripping the dark curls that graced mikey’s neck. with your lips slightly parted, you were pushing against his hand, trying to collect more sensation than he was allowing you to have.

the hollow gymnasium only embraced the sound of the smallest whine you uttered, echoing loudly off all the walls. mikey brought his head up to rest on yours.

you rocked against his middle and ring finger as he thrust them inside of you, falling into him as your jeans gripped the midsection of your thighs. he just had to be sure that you were ready, and a small part of him was enjoying the fact that someone was already falling apart for him.

there was no way he could keep you against that wall without his hip or back making a noise that would be embarrassing and even more telling of his age. he already had on a knee brace under his jeans after he had to single-handedly rearrange the walk-in after having to perform maintenance on one of the cooling fans when fak the handyman wasn't available. he could save himself from another hint of embarrassment because he wasn't walking around with a salonpas patch across his lower back today.

the gym floor it was. if you didn't think about it too hard the scuff marks would be less noticeable and the faint smell of wax would be concealed by the overwhelming sensation of him hovering over you, helping you drag off your bottoms and letting your panties hang around one ankle so they wouldn't be hard to track down when you needed to make your leave.

you gave your jeans a final kick. you looked wide-eyed at your mismatched no-show socks. one was neon pink and the other was a basic white; that was the least of your concerns compared to the full tent in mikey’s jeans.

his apron over his shoulder had been shrugged off into the same pile as your jeans. mikey was wasting no time, mostly because the longer he would wait would mean, the less likely he was to get antsy.

his pants were soon bundled at his knees, cock sprung outward freely instead of being contained by his pants and underwear. he gave his cock a generic stroke using the remainder of your wetness and a palm full of spit to coat his shaft. he gripped the base of his shaft and balls for a little support.

the tops of his meaty thighs were hairy as well as his pubic region. his wiry hair was wild and unkempt—a full bush—but that meant one thing: he was a real locally grown man. he had nothing to be embarrassed by, as seen by your surprised face, but he couldn't help feeling a little vulnerable. you had to feel that way, too; the only easy part about this situation was that you both had no strings attached. even if there would be a repeat a few days from now, you both didn't know each other enough to care.

him entering made you dig your nails into the back of his biceps as your back arched off the ground. your wet pussy was already clenching around him, unable to fully comprehend the amount of his dick you were taking.

you realized you weren't breathing when mikey was lightly patting your cheek with his free hand. “hey, hon,” he mumbled. “y’with me, lil’ thing?” he asked as his eyes raked over your expression.

“y-yeah, fuck, just give me a second,” you swallowed, feeling that stretch from some girthy italian dick wasn't what you were accommodated to. the last guy who got lucky with you was average—that was the nicest way to say it anyway.

mikey was slowly rocking his hips into you as he pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, trying to help you adjust to his size further.

this was like a porno with some clickbait title like: COLLEGE GIRL GETS FUCKED RAW BY OLDER MAN **IT DOESN'T FIT!!**

time was of the essence, mikey had to return to the restaurant, and you still had to do the walk of shame into a chain convenience store to get a new phone charger and a plan b just to be safe before your parents suspected you were gone too long.

he ran one hand under your shirt to rub circles into your waist. every touch he placed was intentional, however, it was somewhat hurried.

mikey was rocking his hips gradually, an uneven exhale left his mouth. his jaw was slack, hearing the soft whines of pleasure slip from your lips. your stomach would tighten and release, only gripping him inside of you further. he had said not to lock your legs, but you were completely out of control with the way your pussy was clenching his shaft.

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, tightening his hold on your elevated leg. every time he thrust, your body was rocking back from the sheer amount of force he was exuding. he couldn't stop, not with the pretty little sounds that were so determined to keep him going. he couldn't understand how tightly your pulsing cunt was begging him to keep him inside.

mikey's shirt began to bunch. the mild annoyance was enough to take his hand off your hip and slip just the hem of it into his mouth. his pudgy, wooly stomach was meeting you each time he pushed his throbbing cock into, each time just a bit further than before, his swollen tip just barely kissing your cervix. his balls were slapping against you.

shame was beyond recognition at this moment. it was the two of you having deep, quick, naughty, and highly inappropriate sex. this was somehow the most comfort either of you had experienced for a long time. your peers from college in their five-inch inseam shorts wouldn't ever fuck you like this. even in its quick nature, it didn’t take away from your partner's attention to detail. mikey's last romp was with some crazy-eyed single mom that he totally dodged a bullet with over half a year prior. it was decent sex that got his rocks off, but he had never blocked a number so fast in his goddamn life.

mikey rested his head on your calf as he continued to engulf his rock-hard cock in your needy pussy. his soft grunts and moans were now muffled by the bit of shirt fabric in his mouth. you, on the other hand, only got louder, especially when mikey managed to adjust your hips upward.

he didn't know you, but he knew your body. he was lusting over that sweet squelching noise as he railed you. he was involved in every ounce of you, anchoring his hand firmly into your waist to keep you in place.

right there, where he has you sprawled out on the gym floor, yeah, that was the closest to heaven—maybe it was closer to hell—you had ever been. hitting it just right, opening you up just a bit more, trying to visualize the soaking cunt at his disposal.

your wet folds spread so pretty as his tanned dick slid so easily between your legs. he reached the hand he had over your thigh to your clit.

you tried to moan but were taken aback by the sudden increase in pleasure as mikey circled over your swollen and desperate clit.

what you thought was exceedingly pleasant before was now elevated. which was good for mikey because he didn’t know how much longer he could trust the load he was holding back.

“mikey,” you whined, your nails etching deep half-moon patterns into his forearm as he continued to stimulate the spot you needed most. “m-my god.”

his sweaty temple pressed further into your calf. he could tell you were unwinding, his dick stuffing you so full in some unconventional spot on the gym floor while thumbing at your clit, your echoing moans and pleads bounding off the walls.

“c’mon, pretty thing,” he muttered, letting the shirt between his teeth go. “y’gotta let go. gotta let me see you finish,” he encouraged with a bit of determination behind his voice to finish what he started.

he placed a couple of sloppy kisses on your calf, trying to hold off the ache in his cock. he had you right where he wanted you, writhing against his shaft with a slight flush on your face with your mouth agape, releasing a breathy and sharp gasp.

your head was back for only a moment, picking it back up to watch his thumb flick against your clit. you were leaning on your elbows, closer to him than before, still grasping the hell out of his arm. your breathing was uneven as the teary look in your eyes began.

“uh-uh, there y’go,” mikey praised, watching you unwind in front of him. his rocky thrusts were getting more uneven, feeling your unrelenting pulsing pussy wrapping him so tight.

you were riding that faithful high of satisfaction. mikey was pushing your leg into your chest, getting the final and deepest fuck he could before the heaviness in his balls was too much to bare.

a quick pull out, and he was spilling into his hand and into the apron he gathered from the ground. it was like your body was on fire now, the moment he felt his release, he was letting go and pulling away.

with his hand wiped, he was tugging up his boxers, trying to steady himself while also offering a hand to you, though you declined it. stepping into your panties uneasily, you fished for your jeans.

you were pulling back on your clothes, pushing back your hair, trying to straighten out what little dignity you had left as if you hadn't been obnoxiously moaning for a man who was as old as your dad. the wobble in your legs was noticeable. you'd be taking a couple of extra laps around the store just to sort your bearings out again.

you had snagged his number, which only solidified the fact that this encounter wouldn't be the only one you were destined to have with mikey.

there were a couple of final moments glancing back and forth while mikey tossed his soiled apron in the garbage can. he was still trying to catch his breath and attempting to fix the knee brace under his jeans.

mikey’s night wasn't close to over.

he half-assed cleaned himself before leaving the gym, loaded the rest of the restaurant's equipment in the van, and locked the venue.

he played his music a little too loudly, drumming his fingers against the wheel as he drove, trying to shove down the smile he had creeping onto his face.

stupid. it was really fucking stupid, but god, did it feel good to do something that felt a little wrong.

at the bear, mikey lugged all the rental tables and chairs into the basement, the only non-renovated spot of the entire restaurant.

he and carmen had taken another loan from their late father’s friend, jimmy, to begin redesigning the basement storage space. it wasn’t a bad idea, the dusty and cluttered room needed a revamp, but each time carmen would look into contractors, mikey would become nervous.

the entire restaurant had already changed, and it looked better, ran better, hell, it even smelled better, but the final room was hard to part with. mikey saw too much of himself in his father to completely tear the entire place apart. maybe the basement would be completed another day.

“where the hell you been, man?” richie heard mikey clattering around as he pushed the final table into place.

he pretended like he didn't hear richie, pulling the corner of the table even with the others he had previously stacked against the wall.

“mike,” richie called as his friend tapped the banister to the stairs as he began walking upwards. “where you been?” he questioned again.

mikey couldn't admit that he was balls deep in some college girl because that was stupid. that was immature and maybe a little damning. he'd be open to more criticism than he wanted after a long day, but even thinking back to you sprawled out on the gym floor made him want to laugh. it was eye-opening, heart-stopping sex that made him not feel so old.

he was halfway up the stairs, shrugging off richie’s question. he was looking at his feet as he trekked up the stairs, knowing he wouldn't be able to look at his friend with a straight face.

“had to recount, thought i was missin’ something when i loaded everything.” that was a blatant lie, and richie knew it by the twitch on mikey’s lip when he said it. mikey was trying to push away the smirk he had formed.

“cousin, what the fuck is that look?” richie questioned as mikey made it to the top of the stairs.

“nothin’, just happy we’re done with that shit so we can go home,” mikey waved him off, flicking the lights off as he walked in the hallway. richie was trailing him.

carmen had heard the two talking, slumping as he walked out of the newly cleaned kitchen. he was leaning against the hallway door frame with his eyebrows furrowed. he had told the rest of the staff to leave for the night when they were halfway done cleaning. he wanted to finish the rest himself anyway.

“what did you do?” carmen wasn't trying to dodge the question that needed to be asked. his brother wasn't exactly being subtle. that shit-eating grin was threatening to spread across his brother’s face and his tone of voice was faltering.

“nothin’. damn, what is it with you two?” mikey played the game of avoidance again, an awkward laugh leaving his mouth as he attempted to push past the two.

“you look like someone fed you and let you finish,” richie chirped back, earning a gag from mikey.

mikey pointed his finger at his friend, now unable to stifle a laugh and smirk that was forming. “you're a fuckin’ animal, man,” he chuckled, itching the back of his neck.

“oh yeah, got laid. i called it. i was right. you see that, carm?” richie pestered, taking mikey by the shoulders and jiggling him a bit. “he didn't deny it!”

“mikey, what the hell?” carmen’s expression fell. he realized richie was right, and knowing his older brother was banging someone at a catering event wasn't exactly endearing.

“stop, i’m just in a good mood,” mikey cracked another grin.

“you bitch about gettin’ those tables up and down the stairs every time we cater, and now you're grinning stupid,” carmen retorted, pressing a little further. he had to hear mikey say it for himself, and not base it off of richie’s factoid—correction—suspicion.

richie dismissed carmen, turning his attention to mikey, looking directly into his eyes. “where? and how hard?” he did a mocking whistle after.

“you're a goddamn dog,” mikey pointed at his friend, being jostled around a bit more.

“don't tell me it was on the tables. we'd have to throw ‘em out and get more,” carmen accused, hoping that mikey had some sense of respect in his questionable decision making.

“not on the tables,” mikey waved off his brother and then turned his head. “not sayin’ it was anywhere else either,” he corrected himself, hearing richie’s laugh grow louder.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” carmen muttered, holding the bridge of his nose. “let’s go the fuck home.”

mikey’s morning narcotics anonymous meeting went as expected. a refresher, if anything, a reminder that he was sober. a reminder that he was still an addict even after seven years of sobriety. a mental reset to start the day on a fresh note after tossing and turning the entire night thinking about you.

that post-nut-clarity hit differently when he finally realized that sleeping with a client’s daughter probably wasn’t the smartest move. the client’s daughter who was thirty years younger than him, with whom he barely second-guessed dropping to the gym floor with.

he had that little black key ring to remind himself that he was “clean and serene for multiple years of recovery,” but that still didn’t stop him from attending two meetings a week to keep himself in line. it was routine at this point. one at the beginning of the week and one at the end.

he could go without them; he really could, but there was something about sitting with a group of people with the same problems. he didn’t always talk, but on days that he really felt shoddy, he spilled.

mikey had his life put together in a certain way; what used to be unevenly stacked bullshit that always came crumbling down was now a science. he had to rebuild everything. it was like gaining a second life on top of the old one. he was the same person, only now able to make clear and conscious decisions about fixing everything his addiction had once broken. he was still paying money to the irs in back taxes and penalties because he was prepared to leave the world and his mess for someone else to clean up. that wasn't mentioning all of his credit cards, loans separate from jimmy's 300,000 dollars he had stored away, and the endless number of people he said he would pay back. his life was better now, steadier. the income from the restaurant was now worth it. carmen helped him make something safe.

seven years later and he was still wary of taking tylenol or over-the-counter cold and flu medication because he was worried it might trigger him. he didn't drink because his mother, donna, who still hadn't received help for her suspicious drinking habits, made it seem like an easy vice to become hooked on.

he had his head above water, treading carefully but with purpose.

but you. you were new and unexpected, and delightfully terrifying. because why the hell was he staring at a picture of your tits at ten o'clock on a sunday monday morning. he was standing in his office overlooking the invoices natalie, his sister, had finalized when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

you had no shame, not even a little. you were sitting in your childhood bedroom, procrastinating the need to unpack because living out of a suitcase seemed easier than committing to fully being back in chicago. your discarded sleep shirt was sitting in your lap, one hand bundled your cleavage together as you snapped a picture.

10:03 AM

you: think you missed something last night

you: *attached an image*

10:05 AM

mikey: didn't have time

mikey was sitting back in his chair, palms sweating ever so slightly as he looked over the photo again. your sheets lay over your lap, sitting up, not showing your face. imagine breaking in a new contact like that, sending a ridiculously scandalous picture of your breasts to a man who had priorities and real responsibilities.

10:05 AM

mikey: willing to try harder when i see u again

eesh, he knew this would happen. absolutely no shame within himself to so easily send that message.

10:10 AM

you: *attached a video*

you: promise?

not safe for work at all. your hand had dropped, and you were on display on his cellphone when he was supposed to be double-checking that all the invoices were lining up with the monthly budget.

not safe for work at all. your hand had dropped, and you were on display on his cellphone when he was supposed to be double-checking that all the invoices were lining up with the expected income from the client list. his open documents on his office computer had gone dim. his attention was fully on the technology in his hand.

mikey had watched the short clip a couple of times. watching your hand drop so effortlessly to let your breasts fall and then you giving an assist to jiggle them. if his pants weren't tightening before they sure as hell were right now. he pulled the crotch of his jeans down to find more comfort in his sitting position.

10:12 AM

mikey: i know what i’m getting into now

mikey: my place tonight?

10:12 AM

you: lucky for you my schedule is very open

you: but you owe me $51.13 for hitting it raw

you: *sent a payment request for $52*

10:13 AM

mikey: i'm going to be out 87 cents

10:13 AM

you: i know my worth

10:14 AM

mikey: i’ll be showered by midnight

mikey: *shared an address pin*

mikey was bouncing his foot anxiously, though he was dawning that signature smirk that he was wearing the night before as he was heckled by richie and carmen.

10:23 AM

you: see you later

you: buy condoms thx

read at 10:23 AM

mikey was staring blankly at his phone screen, knowing today would seem like the longest day of his life because he had to wait to see you again.

“hey, you good?” carmen knocked on the doorframe of mikey's office. with a single click mikey's messaging screen snapped to black. he cleared his throat, tossing his phone next to the invoices. his hand on his lap quickly, like he had been caught in something.

carmen seemed to be asking more than just how his day was going, but not wanting to fully commit to his questioning, last night was enough. without richie in the room, it seemed harder.

“yeah,” he assured his youngest sibling. “just finishing this up.” he gathered the printed papers in his hand and nudged his computer mouse with his hand so the virtual spreadsheet would reappear.

“alright, you're on beef with ebra today. church down the street did a fundraiser and i jus’ know he's gonna be slammed after service lets out,” carmen explained as his eyes darted around mikey's office.

“good call,” mikey nodded. he was like the floater and didn't mind it. it allowed carmen to keep the level of control he liked, and it allowed mikey to be where he was needed, keeping busy all the time, whether it was front of house, main kitchen, beef window, or maintenance.

“alright,” the shorter nodded, drumming his fingers against the door frame.

“alright,” mikey agreed, the rolling chair underneath him giving a slight squeak as he moved his shoulder blades back.

“yeah,” carmen mumbled, patting the door frame one last time, backing into the hallway.

“carm, ‘m good.” mikey knew his brother was lingering. he couldn't blame him too much. he had every right to question his well-being after putting him through hell for so many years prior.

“thirty-five minutes ‘till we're bustin’ our asses again,” carmen cleared his throat as he called out the final warning on time before service began. he couldn't say much else. he had to take mikey's word for it, and whatever weird impulsive decision he had made last night was nothing to be concerned about.

carmen was always nagging natalie for her incessant ability to ask how people were, and now he always saw himself doing it with mikey because he wasn't around when his brother was struggling the most.

“heard,” mikey gestured loosely, facing his desk again to find his focus again. he had to check just a bit of the documents before he slid himself into the kitchen for the tail end of prep.

it was just past midnight and there you were, standing in your bright blue and orange university sweatshirt and free people shorts, in the middle of mikey's living room, letting him pull you into his chest. he was pushing back your hair, making sure not to let it snag on your earrings. your fabric purse was still hanging off your shoulder.

small talk occurred for less than five minutes, mostly him making sure you had arrived safely. you didn't ask how his day was until he asked about yours.

mikey’s apartment was clean for the most part. he had a laundry pile stacked on a chair that seemed to never be used other than for that purpose. the curtains were a little crooked as well. his shoes were nestled by the door, and keys were thrown on the counter next to his cigarettes and wallet. his clutter was mostly on his coffee table, mail, loose pens, sharpies, and cups that hadn't made it to the sink. his knee brace was also there. he had no use for it right now, although he thought that he might regret not having a little extra support later.

he had many pictures, all of which had some sort of rae dunn frame. you assumed they were gifts, although you didn't know mikey well he didn't seem like the person to pick stark white frames saying things like “live, laugh, love,” or “family,” in that signature thin, black capitalized font.

he had one hand on your cheek, caressing his thumb against it. he had the opportunity to actually take his time with you now. he was appreciated every bit of you. this didn't have to be quick tonight seeing as you were both safely in the confines of his own home.

he smelled clean, his outgrown hair was still a little damp. he seemed like he had at least taken the time to trim his beard before you came, lining up more evenly with sharper angles.

mikey didn't know where to begin because his hand was still resting on your cheek, trying to gauge your expression. you weren't trying to hurry him, but you were certainly not waiting. you were on his turf, but claiming just a bit of it for yourself by leaning in to kiss him.

it felt right to live in this moment, feeling him take the subtle kiss you started and turn it into a more developed moment. your bottom lip quivered against his, drinking in the desire he had for you in one simple motion. he parted your mouth, edging his tongue inside of your mouth. his thumb was still resting against your cheek.

he guided your waist closer with his other hand, two of his fingers were hooked inside the thick band of your athletic shorts. you were flush against him, angling your head more to allow his tongue to inch further.

you were running your hands underneath his shirt, feeling chill bumps appear as you touched him.

“y'wanna take this somewhere more comfortable?” he mumbled, kissing your cheek. he had a conventional spot that was far more pleasant than the gymnasium floor.

you agreed, being led back to his bedroom, which was more bare than the den. his closet door was slightly cracked open. there was a clothes hamper in the corner that wasn't overly full. a candle he had never used was sitting on his dresser. the condoms you had told him to buy were unopened on his nightstand. his bed frame was metal, and squeaky. when you sat down you slightly cringed from the noise.

“sorry ‘bout that, i got it second hand a few years ago because my sister told me i couldn't be forty-five with my mattress on the floor,” he was standing in front of you, watching you reach over and put your purse next to the box of condoms.

“she sounds like a smart woman,” you had a faint smile on your face. mikey had his hand resting between your thighs, beginning to crawl over you, replacing his hand with his knee, dividing your legs.

you laid back as he was inching his way on top of you, helping him tug off his shirt. the faint hum of the window unit kicking on could be heard as he helped you out of your collegiate sweater and lacy bralette.

you spent entirely too long pulling apart your suitcase to find that bralette and matching panties and he pulled it off of you without a second thought. it showed how much he truly cared about those floral panties and mismatched socks from last night.

his knee was firmly placed at your crotch, feeling that small bit of pressure was enough to send you spiraling. his lips were dragging across your chest, the tip of his crooked nose was nudging the side of your breast. a bulge in his gym shorts was as things were only escalating by the second.

he was nipping at your skin, adding another layer to this entire experience, littering your skin with twinges of pleasurable pain. he always stopped right before your erect nipples, only ever giving them enough stimulation from his breath and nothing more.

you were biting into your bottom lip as if it would save you from his teasing. his knee only further pressing into you. you were pushing yourself into him, both your clothed bottom half and your exposed top half arching ever so slightly off the bed.

mikey pushed your chest down, holding one finger to your sternum once you were lying flat on the bed. “lil’ thing, you gotta let me enjoy you for a bit.”

a whine left your mouth as his lips grazed past again. his top lip rested on your skin and his bottom lip was on the band of your shorts.

“couldn't get enough'a you last night,” he mumbled into your stomach, giving it one final kiss. “and right now you're tryin’ to rush me when i'm tryin’ to take my time.” he picked up his head, a loose silver curl falling from his bangs.

“you're not being nice about it,” your fingers were running through his full chest of hair, still grinding against his kneecap until he grabbed your thigh.

mikey chuckled, watching you grab his wrist in protest. “i’m not tryin’ to be nice, i’m tryin’ to enjoy myself before i start thinkin’ with my dick.” he took your hand off his wrist, kissing it gently, smirking against your skin for a split second before dropping it on the bed and giving some much-needed attention to your nipples.

you couldn’t expect him not to do it after your teasing video from this morning. he was partially distracted the entire day, having to switch with ebraheim to wrap and bag rather than talk to customers.

he was lightly thumbing at your right nipple as used his tongue to toy with your left. you were arching upwards again. mikey was finding it amusing with how easily you could fall apart, continuing to suckle on your protruding bud.

you were holding his head in place, aching for more as his tongue curled around more. he wasn’t letting up because the moment he switched to your other breast you were in the midst of expressing a breathy gasp.

there wasn’t a good reason for mikey to make you like this. hormones coursing through you knowing if you had any ounce of self-control you probably wouldn’t be reacting like you were.

then came the soft bites at the sides of your breasts and sides, burying further into your skin, purposely now forcing his knee further between your legs.

you sighed with relief shimming down further to meet his leg. mikey’s large hands had a tight hold on your upper body, letting both of his thumbs rub the curve of your breast.

he was staring, really staring. he was watching your eyes close instinctively as you found the right spot on his knee to grind your clit against.

it was a short fleeting feeling. your shorts and underwear were digging into you adding just a bit too much padding to keep generating the correct balance for your pleasure.

you ran your hands up to his face. the moment you opened your eyes was the moment mikey stopped looking, staring at your chest instead.

“what?” you mumbled, snaking out of his hold partially. the rough texture of his facial hair felt jagged against your palms.

“decidin’ how i wanna fuck that lil’ pussy.” mikey wasn't shy about it, dragging your shorts off only to see the same lace pattern on your underwear that he hadn’t acknowledged on your bra in the first place. he tilted his head, beginning to slide off your panties. he glanced over the side of the bed briefly trying to locate your bra but was unable. “‘cause i think you already got an idea on how y’want this night to go—”

“—‘cause you came prepared,” he teased, stepping off the edge of the bed to finish removing your panties and his gym shorts. he had a kind of patience that drove you crazy, watching his hands drag down your legs with certainty in mind.

“not really,” you fibbed, following his lips that dragged from the tip of your right toe, and up the curve of the inner portion of your leg.

“y’show up to my place in matching lingerie the second time you see me, and you're tellin’ me you're not ready?” he was now nipping at your inner thigh with the same aggressive tenderness that he showed your chest.

“i know y’know what y'want,” he continued trying to coax it out of you. he was right, but you didn't expect him to call you out on it. “y'knew what y'wanted last night pretty fast, lookin’ at me with those fuck me eyes before y'even came back for your phone,” he pressed the conversation, letting his chin rest in the crease of your leg. “so, how’d you expect this to go?”

you raised yourself on your elbows, both of you fully exposed, trying to share another moment together if you’d pull yourself together and answer him.

he was looking up at you awaiting a response, halting even his smallest touches to give you his full attention.

“i wanna ride.”

you didn't want to give an explanation, and luckily he wasn't looking for one because you couldn't admit you enjoyed looking at the way he reacted to being inside of you. you had just about killed him the night before, all sweaty, trying to pace himself because although he was feeling younger he really wasn't.

“there it is,” mikey praised, crawling his way past you to reach the box of condoms on the nightstand. you pulled yourself to your knees, scooching out of the way so he could fit comfortably on the bed.

mikey was rolling on a rubber, you were caressing his chest hair as you swung your leg over him to efficiently straddle him. he had a firm hold under your bottom. his throat was getting tight as you fished for his protected cock, anticipating what was coming next.

you were sinking down, your palms flat against his wooly biceps. he moved one of his hands to grip your wrist as you were letting all of your natural lubrication immerse his manhood.

you could feel him wholly inside of your stomach, nestling yourself onto his center shakily. he was rubbing at the slight hump of your wrist bone, helping you settle into that stretch you had yet to forget.

he was looking at you with that same expression of a mixture between worried and needy with his inherently sad brown eyes that seemed to carry more weight than you knew about.

“y’good?” mikey wanted to clarify as he licked over his bottom lip, not daring to inch into you this time, seeing as you had such a determined glint in your eye.

“mhm,” it was almost like you weren't trying to break concentration as you had now known what to prepare for.

that ache between his legs was being satiated the moment you started to find a rhythm within your bounce, lowering your chest to meet his and spreading your knees a bit further apart to get the full length of his substantial shaft.

there was a soft squelch every few moments from repeatedly sliding up and down. you were so wet, and mikey was loving every second of it, not daring to move your positioning especially since you were moaning directly by his ear. he was cupping the curve of your ass feeling the supple skin as your bouncing turned into more of a twerking motion. the squeaking bed frame only became louder by the second.

the fat of your ass jiggling against his lap and hand as you continued to throw your pussy back. mikey was choking back a slurry of groans, burying his forehead into your shoulder while your breast knocked into him.

your legs began to cramp after the multiple minutes of repetitive fucking, and mikey could sense it. your once-calculated motions were slowing and you began trying to find your pattern again by leaning on one leg more than the other.

mikey brought you closer, both of his hands steadying your thighs to gain even an ounce of control. he pulled you flush against his chest as he leaned back, lifting his hips upwards to get a feel for you in the modified position. of course, it felt fucking good with your pussy still wrapped around his cock. his balls already began slapping against you as his upward thrusts fiend for more of your tight, wet cunt.

you gasped softly, turning our face away from him to not accidentally scream into his ear. your entire body tightened.

“right there.” your tone was halfway praise halfway forceful, not wanting whatever spot mikey had found and taken over to stop.

your sweaty bodies were pressed together in his bed creating sweet, dangerously addicting sex. he gave a low breathy chuckle that was almost helpless in a way, nipping your arm as he pounded upwards trying to give you the satisfaction you had just found.

mikey could feel you tightening around him, only continuing to find that spurts of squirt were now beginning to exit your pussy. his head was dizzy, giving into every bit of unadulterated lust within him. you were a mess with your eyes closed tight and frizzy hair, grasping him for dear life.

you were helpless against him only baring your hips down further to contain yourself as you reached your high, panting hard and whining as it coursed through your entire being.

a second film was added to the franchise: AMATUER COCK RIDE LEADS TO SQUIRTING *!WET & MESSY!*

mikey was unraveling as you were, and a final gush of fluid began coating his thigh with his final upward thrust, trying to reach further than was possible with his cock to release. you were whimpering a string of curses as the control he took over your body only became rougher. he was holding the small of your back essentially using you as a toy to finish his orgasm.

penetration alone causing you to climax was surprising, to say the least, and the pool of liquid you coated his chest and lap in was not unheard of, but very uncommon in their occurrence and mikey had single-handedly done both in the two days he had known you.

he released his hold, settling his body back into the mattress. you unsteadily pulled off of his cock, catching your breath momentarily.

mikey let his head hit the pillow as he felt you crawl off of him. his chest was sweaty and heaving. his eyes were closed until he felt the bed even out from your lack of weight on top of the mattress.

“you leavin’?” he asked breathlessly, raising onto one elbow, now pulling the sheets to his waist. he felt exposed now with your quick exit strategy. last night was different, you were both in public. he didn’t know what he expected from you, but it wasn’t to act like nothing just happened.

he wasn't upset about his soaked sheets or the fact that he would be up for another half an hour to change them before he showered; his ego felt slightly deflated knowing you could so easily gather yourself and head out the door, but even that took time for you to perfect.

“well, yeah,” you stated as though it was obvious. your face was still flushed as you were searching for your discarded sports bra. you quickly scooped up your florida gators sweatshirt hand and guarded your chest—as if it was some private sector—not like the man on the bed didn't just take his time kissing and licking your entire body.

“do y'always leave like that?” mikey rephrased his question, watching you pull your bralette out from under the rickety bed frame.

you shrugged. “i don't sleep in strangers’ beds.”

that made mikey not want to be so much of a stranger.

“y'need me to walk you out?”

“i can open the door, mikey,” it wasn't rude, just true. you said it with a smile like you were old friends.

“no, i know,” he nodded, sitting up a little further. “just be safe, y’know?”

you were tugging on your sneakers, seemingly unfazed by the sex and more concerned about taking your leave. “i’ll lock the bottom.” you purse off the nightstand and then did just as you said you would as you left his apartment.

a month had passed, yet there had barely been a day that mikey wasn't making time for you. he seemed to be committed to making your summer as bearable as possible. you weren't staying the night. you were barely talking in person when you were showing up at his apartment. he was giving you an ungodly amount of unholy sex that his neighbors probably despised him for.

this saturday you were at the ballpark, watching your brother in a quick weekend tournament because he had begged you to watch a couple of his games. you had nothing better to do this summer. other than your nightly rendezvous with mikey the days were open other than the occasional rekindle with your friends from high school.

you were sitting in a camping chair, phone in one cup holder, a sweating diet coke in the other. your father's scorebook notebook was in your lap, filling it in for him as the game continued. you were wearing one of his jerseys that you modified to fit better with a hair tie, the team hat, and a pair of denim shorts with stars embroidered on the pockets. the chicago five points was the team your father coached. white jerseys with yellow writing graffitied across the fabric with the addition of bright stars. there was smudged eye black on your cheek from having cameron attempt to take his number off your cheek. there wasn't a chance in hell that you could let him attend a game without letting him get teased just a little bit by his fellow teammates.

the game was wrapping up and you were adding the final scores to the booklet. there would be about an hour and a half until the next game because your brother's team was advancing. if they won the majority of their games today they would be playing at a park further away next weekend.

you looked up from the booklet to see mikey leaning over the fence, waiting for a lull to grab your father's attention. you sunk back in your chair, dragging the capped pen over the scoresheet. after settling his team and telling them what field to return to, he sighed when he saw mikey, already beginning to explain how sorry he was for his outstanding balance from the banquet.

“damn michael, i'm so sorry,” your father apologized again for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in the conversation.

the entire time you were trying to stay focused on the booklet in your hand, trying to replay the plays the team made in your mind rather than honing in on your summer situation talking to your father.

“hey, it's all good coach reggie,” mikey shrugged, sliding the folded check into his pocket. “i know you aren't trying to skip out on a balance.”

“i really did try and pay online, but it wasn't working the same way from when i did the deposit. i called, hell, i don't remember her name, at the restaurant, and she tried to walk me through it but it still wasn't working,” your dad explained, trying not to seem like a total asshole for withholding money he wasn't meaning to withhold in the first place.

“that was probably my sister nat,” mikey was being casual. “like i said it's not a big deal, but if this check bounces you better be prayin’ that i don't start swingin’ one of these bats on you, coach,” he teased, making your father return his humor with a firm pat on his back.

“thanks so much for stopping to get the check by the way, we're living at the park this weekend,” your father joked.

“ain’t a problem, we're even now,” mikey then bid his goodbye. you were trailing up to the fence right behind where mikey was once standing.

“dad, i'm getting a bite to eat from the concession stand, you want anything?” you called out, mikey's head turned as he walked. he heard you, and suddenly he was hungry too.

“no, baby girl, i'm alright,” your father concluded, watching his players exit the diamond.

you had a boat of nachos, nothing fancy, just that thick neon artificial cheese piled on round, salty tortilla chips. leaning against a post near the covered and crowded picnic area, you had napkins under the red and white boat watching mikey come closer with two drinks in his hand.

“stalking me while i'm with my family?” you quipped, taking a bite of one of the cheese-loaded chips. you were extending the tray to him, and with a quick adjustment of the drinks he took a chip.

“your dad is the one who asked me to come over here and pick up his check, thank you, miss smart ass,” mikey covered his mouth as he swallowed the concession stand food. he knew it was going to be bad. “you can have those, i think i've gotten too old for the artery-clogging fluorescent cheese.” he offered a soda to you, as he twisted the top off.

“and you can keep that because i only drink diet,” you ate another chip from the boat like it was nothing.

“so you'll shove down a tray of fake nachos, but get your panties inna twist over full sugar soda?” mikey laughed, taking a long drink of his soda to rid the aftertaste from his mouth.

“i never said i made any sense,” you acknowledged his truth. you may not have made any sense but you knew what you liked.

“don't worry, i know you don't,” mikey retorted, taking a drink of his soda. “but y’know if y’want some real food you can come get some hot italian beef, right?”

you both paused, staring at each other wondering who was going to break the silence by laughing first. it was you, holding your knuckle to your mouth, trying not to choke on the food you were chewing.

“jesus, do you hear yourself?” you questioned through a laugh, wiping your fingers on the napkin under the food tray.

“no, you made it weird. i just asked if y’wanted a sandwich.” mikey was still chuckling.

it was that refreshing silence again, where you were just enjoying each other.

“i gotta bounce, lil’ thing,” mikey held his gaze a little longer. “brother bear's gonna start textin’ in all caps, and then i'm screwed for the rest of the day,” he kissed the top of your cap which made you tense up. “try not to make too many kids cry.”

“no promises,” you itched the side of your arm while looking at the picked-apart nachos in your hand. “gotta keep them humble somehow.”

it wasn’t long before you helped your dad move all of the equipment to the next diamond. the assistant coach was helping the players warm up. your dad was checking over the roster.

“you know that guy i was talking to?” your father asked, watching you line up the batting bags in the dugout in a neater fashion.

“what guy?” you knew what guy, but you had to play stupid.

“the one i was talking to after the last game? you were sitting right there.”

“oh, the one you paid for the banquet,” you mentioned earning a nod from your father.

“yeah, michael—he turned his life around, not many people get that chance.” your father had unknowingly walked into a minefield. you didn't know where this conversation was going when it first began, but this wasn't what you expected at all. you knew you enjoyed what mikey was providing you with, but you didn't know him. your father was just trying to make conversation.

“i don't know him that well, but i know that he was on drugs pretty bad, his brother had to take over the restaurant while he was recovering,” he continued while sipping on a cup of gatorade that was mixed in the nearby cooler. “we ran in different circles, but he’s always been a nice guy, just got a little unfocused for a bit.”

it all felt a little too personal and too real. you had gathered the score booklet again, wanting to take your seat in the camping chair again to comprehend what your dad was really saying.

“that had to be almost ten years ago, give or take, i don't know if other people still like him, but i respect that. he took initiative to get back where he needed to be.”

that left a sinking feeling in your chest. you were volunteered information and now you didn't know what to do with it.

“sounds like he got it figured out.” those were the only words you could muster as you exited the dugout to begin setting your chair up for the next game.

later that night you were lying on your stomach in bed with aloe vera slathered across your cheeks to minimize the sting from the hot sun. you knew you needed a break from mikey, just until you could figure out if you wanted to continue seeing him.

10:10 PM

you: got to wrap up a few things this week. busy sry

11:50 PM

mikey: lmk when ur free

mikey hadn't expected a full week to pass with no contact. he knew you said you were busy, but it was a little unsettling to know you could so easily brush him aside. he knew it would eventually end, but didn't know it would be so soon. he wanted to text and see what you were doing, but he knew better than to try and chase after someone who didn't want him.

“fak, wait,” mikey grumbled, setting down his end of the shelving that needed to be moved so they could put in new wall anchors.

“why am i waiting? you have to actually try to pick it up,” the handyman said defensively, adjusting his backward cap.

“i am pickin’ it up, but you're not turnin’” mikey groaned, knocking his hand against the metal with an eye roll.

fak held his hands up, attempting to offer peace, giving a tilt with his head. “on three?” he offered to try to defuse the situation, knowing his employer was more than a little agitated.

that didn't seem to work at all because the shelf went crashing down, causing mikey to throw the towel he had off of his shoulder. it was hot enough in the kitchen without something going wrong.

“watch it,” carmen spouted from his station, hearing the loud bang against the floor. mikey shot him a glare.

“thank you baby bear for addin’ that wonderful insight to this shitty situation,” mikey was holding his temples as richie stepped in to help them pick the shelving up to the standing position. “the fuckin’ floor is goddamn cracked,” he added, bending down to look at the tile.

carmen didn’t look up, only shooting brother the middle finger.

“cousin, bring it down about half an inch from dick to slightly less of an asshole,” richie suggested, walking backward as he and fak efficiently moved the shelf out of the way.

“don't worry about him, he's only mad because his summer situation benched him,” richie’s snarky comment made mikey throw his hands up. “she probably got sick of his ugly mug and traded up.”

“shut up, rich,” mikey warned, collecting his stud finder and measuring tape to begin the process of installing the l-brackets.

“bro, that's an easy fix,” fak claimed, his face lighting up as he had learned of the new information.

“we are not talkin’ about this,” mikey grunted, not looking away from his handy work on the wall, ensuring both sides were even.

“you gotta schmooze her,” fak claimed.

carmen, although at his station, was muttering a jesus christ, under his breath because the last person anyone would want dating advice from was fak. that burly tattooed maintenance man had ideas, but so did every other living soul on the planet—it didn't mean you took them.

“get her one of those edible arrangements. bitches love fruit,” fak pointed his finger certainly before he got another idea. “or–oh! what about you get her one of those big stuffed animals? all cuddly and shit, yeah she’d want that.”

mikey let fak go on his tangent, half-mindedly paying attention while he got out the drill.

“and boom! romance! works every time,” fak insisted as if he had just solved a world crisis.

monday night—technically tuesday tuesday according to the time—full nine days since you last talked to mikey.

you hadn't warned him that you were coming. you just showed, giving a soft knock on his door and waiting patiently. you didn't even expect him to open the door, but he did, shirtless and in a pair of sweats.

he let you in without much hesitation. he was happy to know you were okay.

“this is weird and i’m sorry,” you apologized, setting your keys on his coffee table. “i should’ve texted you first.”

“it’s okay,” he assured you.

his half-made peanut butter and jelly was waiting on the counter. he wasn’t very concerned with it right now, knowing you were standing in front of him.

“am i screwing with your sobriety?” you asked abruptly.

“next time start with foreplay,” he suggested with a laugh.

“mikey,” you mumbled. “really?”

“first off, i’m a grown man you don’t needa start worryin’ about where my head is. second, i know what i’m doin’ with you.” he was more serious this time, walking back into the kitchen as he spoke.

he put the bread in the toaster and then casually popped the lid off the jam jar.

“i don’t want to be the reason that pulls you back down.” you were standing on the opposite side of the counter watching him.

“i have made worse decisions than you, pretty thing, and plenty of ‘em,” he took the toasted bread out of the toaster and laid it on the paper plate in front of him. his knife was pointed at you before it dipped into the opened peanut butter. “but you and whatever the hell we have goin’ isn’t gonna screw with my sobriety.”

after smearing in the jelly, he cut the sandwich into two triangles taking his side off the plate and then sliding the other half to you. “you know what you’re doin’ though? fuckin’ with my sleep schedule. hard.”

you smirked, looking down at the freshly made sandwich. he was leaning on his hand as he took a bite.

“i’ll blame you forever for that,” he teased.

that night was calm for once. you didn’t end up in his bedroom or even naked for that matter. you sat on the couch with him enjoying the half a sandwich he had made.

you were leaning into his chest watching some low-budget movie on amazon prime. you weren’t fleeting away at any little touch; you were accepting all of them.

you had eaten and your arms were folded over on your chest and your knees were curled up. you were comfortable. you looked at him, really looked at him. the screen would occasionally brighten and you could see that worn tired expression that he wore so well. the wrinkles by his eyes that made him squint just a little when he smiled.

“i’m sorry about earlier.”

mikey shrugged, leaning down to kiss your temple. “don’t apologize for askin’ questions you didn’t know the answer to.” he knew you only asked because it was coming from a good place. you had him in mind and you barely knew him.

“i don’t want to be the reason i mess up what’s working because you have it figured out, and i’m all impulsive and junk…” you trailed off awkwardly.

“pretty girl, you’re supposed to be like that. you’re twenty,” he reminded you, meeting your gaze.

“yeah, but i just don’t want to be somebody’s relapse,” you mumbled, letting the tension soak in the air for just a moment.

“eesh, way to kill the mood,” mikey did a faux shiver, bringing you closer. his back dug into the couch, knowing your words had weight to them. he knew he had to shed a little light on the situation.

“i’m seven years into this, and like you said, i know what works for me and i know what doesn’t. if i knew you were screwin’ me up i’d say something,” mikey admitted, watching your eyes go wide with surprise.

“i mean it—i’ve made enough mistakes to get where i’m at right now.” he held your chin gently. “you’re not even close to ruinin’ me, hon.”

it was oddly comforting to know that you weren’t ruining mikey’s chances at a better life. he had real issues, the kind that had some grit to them. it wasn’t scaring you off knowing he had them.

“but now, it’s my turn to ask questions,” he turned your face to the side to place a kiss right under your ear lobe. it was like he was trying to butter you up to get the answer he wanted. “what makes you hate bein’ home' so bad?”

you hummed slightly in thought, closing your eyes. “i feel like i’m wasting time… like i'm forced to stall my life,” you were now staring at his ceiling watching the fan spin with the occasional sound of the wobble from the blades. you didn't know how to pull your thoughts together fully. “i left because i wanted some freedom,” you cleared your throat, now realizing that you were fidgeting with your hands. “it's cliche, i know, but i needed to find myself and not be smothered.”

mikey was nodding slowly, taking your hand apart from each other, rubbing his thumb over the top of your hand instead. “so since you've been gone have y’found anything worthwhile?”

you nodded though not fully convinced of yourself. “a few things, but i'm still getting where i need to be.”

those words said enough. you weren't fully settled in your new life although you had been living there because your current moment was just a stepping stone for something larger and more important that you wished to achieve. although coming home felt like regression mikey had been doing a great job to keep you from dwelling on that feeling.

you stayed the night. a sexless night of him waking up slumped over on the sofa with you. the entire night he had his arm draped over your side. you weren't use to sleeping in anyone else's home, much less the man you had been religiously letting plow you, but somehow it felt right to spend extra time with him.

the next morning you both woke up to his alarm blaring in the next room over.

your mom was at the kitchen sink, sipping her coffee while she read the back of a boxed cake mix, trying to take an early jump on the pineapple upside-down cake she was bringing to a work potluck the next day. your father had already left for the day for his job in building inspection, coaching was a side gig.

“you didn't come last night,” she commented, glancing at your tired appearance. “daddy said you've been going out late almost every night.”

it was a little unnerving to know that your parents had been paying that much attention to your whereabouts. you thought that you were being quiet, going in and out of the house at odd hours. neither of them had said anything to you. they didn’t want to rock the boat because you were finally home, but they were observant of your actions—for the most part.

cameron was smirking at you from his bowl of cereal, knowing you were in a bit of trouble.

“just out with friends,” you shrugged, taking a drink of your own coffee. you had spent the entire night tossing and turning on mikey's sofa because there wasn't much room for the both of you.

“you could've texted,” she mentioned, taking out a mixing bowl.

“i will next time,” you nodded slowly, avoiding the gaze she brought as she began dumping the contents of the mix into the glass bowl. “just lost track of time.”

“alright,” she squinted her eyes slightly, just enough to make sure you knew she was aware that she knew something was different.

a heartthrob walking up to the beef window wasn't uncommon and it wasn't overlooked, and you were no exception. wearing some little ribbed low-cut baby tee with a dewy face, sunglasses pushing your hair back, and the summer sun was sticking to your skin like you were a walking advertisement for hot girls near you.

richie has his head halfway out the window, looking down at you. he was hitting his pen against his receipt pad. ebraheim was glancing out the window, wrapping a few to-go orders that were about to be picked up. he like richie knew there was nothing good to come out of anyone that was carrying themselves the way you were. you seemed determined in a way like it wasn't only lunch you needed.

“and what can i get for the smoke show?” richie asked, unknowing of who you were and where you came from. all he knew was that you looked good and had that look of trouble glinting in your eyes.

you gave him a playful smile, leaning in a little closer, your hands resting on the bar of the window. “mikey promised me a sandwich when he wasn't busy.” it was sweet and innocent, but it had such a loaded meaning.

ebra was glancing at richie with a look that said did you just hear her. and yes, erba, richie did, loud and clear because now he was putting together the pieces of this very suspicious puzzle.

“did he now?” richie asked, backing into the window a bit.

“mhm, said i could swing by whenever,” you confirmed.

“hold on sweetheart,” richie smiled, dropping his pen onto the counter. “lemme go get your daddy for you.” his voice was laced with a thick veil of sarcasm.

richie disappeared into the kitchen, not able to wipe the look of surprise off of his face.

“hey, cousin,” he was close to mikey’s station, watching him wipe away vegetable scraps into a clear container to be used as broth for later on. “someone is here for you,” he cleared his throat, earning a shrug from mikey. plenty of people came by needing to see him and in this moment he was doing something.

“i'm almost done with this, just gimme a second,” mikey was wiping the edge of his knife on a clean kitchen towel.

“she asked for you by name and is practically flashing’ the entirety of river north.”

mikey set his knife down, elbowing richie as he began progressing towards the beef window. “coulda started with that you, jackass.”

“that's the girl? mikey, the fuck?” richie groaned. he was looking too, but actually knowing his friend was engaging with the trouble on two feet was worrisome.

mikey was shushing him as he entered the beef area. he glanced out the window, seeing that you seated yourself at a table under an umbrella. he was too far gone the moment he saw you. he wasn't paying any mind to richie now that he knew you had taken his offer for a sandwich seriously.

mikey had slid past ebra, wrapping a quick sandwich, tray and all lined with parchment, an addition of extra napkins and he wasn’t forgetting the drink. the soda that dribbled down the side of the cup was wiped up like it really mattered—it didn't but it needed to look nice for you.

ebra although he was occupied with his work was still watching through the window covered in decal stickers at you. it was silent judging, but not towards you or your outfit—towards mikey.

“ebra, shut it,” mikey warned when he was halfway out the door.

“i did not say anything, michael.” ebra paused before opening the sandwich window to give out the to-go orders in brown paper bags.

“you didn’t have to with that face.”

ebraheim shut the window, a kind of helpless glance towards richie who was standing towards the back of the beef kitchen.

mikey walked the completed tray out to you, and your face lit up when you saw him.

“didn't know you were comin’ today,” mikey carefully set the tray down, letting you excitedly unwrap the parchment on your sandwich.

“i was hungry and in the neighborhood,” you shrugged, taking a bite, a content expression washed over you.

“well eat, lil’ thing,” mikey set the napkins under your cup so they wouldn't fly away. “diet coke this time—’cause i remember shit,” he bragged on himself a little.

“look at you being a gentleman,” you teased, leaning in to take a sip of your drink.

“the one and only,” he plucked his work shirt like he was a big shot.

“i should’ve texted,” you admitted after taking another bite of the hot sandwich, having a hint of embarrassment scratching at your brain. “i think your cashier was a little surprised to meet me.”

“i woulda been too if someone so fine asked for him,” mikey jested from his seat, resting his hands on his knuckles to look at you with his full attention.

meanwhile, richie had disturbed carmen because he needed to know what his brother was doing; that was their duty after mikey's rehab in which they would both be responsible for him. it had been a while since they had to call on each other, but there they were staring out the beef window watching you make mikey laugh, which was somehow more disturbing than if it were him trying to make you laugh.

“do you see why this is more important than the fuckin’ sausage and peppers?” richie asked, gesturing loosely out the window. carmen had handed his station over to sydney for the time being. “i mean do you really fuckin’ see it.”

“jesus, okay, i get it,” carmen was still looking out the window.

“he wiped her drink,” ebra chimed in, earning a slow head tilt from carmen. ebra held his hands up in defense. “in my country we called that expensive.”

“that's not helpin’,” carmen slightly shivered. “it’s already bad ‘nough without all the extra.”

“we gotta talk some sense into him,” richie groaned, peering out the window to see mikey holding the soda straw to your lips so you wouldn’t have to pick it up while you held your sandwich.

the moment you left carmen and richie practically picked mikey up by the scruff of his neck to drag him into the alleyway. richie brought out a pack of cigarettes and carmen scooted three crates next to each other with his foot.

“alright,” richie clasped his hands together. “what the fuck are you doing?”

“startin’ with a subtle approach i see,” mikey took a cigarette from his friend and a seat in the middle.

“mikey, you didn't say that she’s younger than me,” carmen was popping a couple of pieces of nicorette gum, itching at the scar on his hand. your youth had been the first thing that anyone would notice, especially when placed next to mikey.

“i didn't say anything,” mikey reminded them, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “are we really having an intervention in the middle of lunch?”

richie had his foot placed on top of his crate, looking down on mikey. he didn't find it very funny, so unfunny that he was staring at his lit lighter, unable to even light his cigarette.

“no, we aren't doin’ this not now, not later,” mikey leaned back some, his back hitting the concrete wall of the restaurant.

“yeah we are,” carmen interjected. “because richie’s picked you up too many times for you to walk out right now.”

richie gave an appreciative nod towards the younger brother. “dude, you got past the rocky shit and you think bangin’ some chick is the right answer?” he asked, playing with the igniter wheel.

“i feel like you guys are comin’ on a little strong.” mikey was playing the game of avoidance again, not wanting to reveal too much about anything.

“you’re too involved—”

“y’can’t tell me how involved i am when you don't know how it is,” mikey had his elbows on his knees looking at the mural on the building across the street through the chain link fence.

“i think we saw how it was,” carmen rolled his eyes, a slight scoff leaving his mouth.

“bear, don't start that passive-aggressive bullshit with me when you—”

“me? we aren't talkin’ about me right now—we're talkin’ about you bein’ balls deep in some chick actin’ like your bullshit has gone away.”

mikey whipped his head around to look at his younger brother. “oh-ho, look at carmy gettin’ pissy again about shit that doesn’t pertain to him.”

carmen inhaled sharply, only nodding his head. “you wanna be like that, right now? because i didn’t have to leave new york when your psychotic ass was going through withdrawals. i didn’t want to keep findin’ pills in your desk when i was cleanin’ this shithole up. i didn’t have to keep watchin’ you fall apart a thousand times before you finally pulled it together. so yeah, it's not my shit but i keep steppin’ in it because you put yourself in it.” carmen's tone was low and snappy. it was lethal in a way, making both mikey and richie shift uncomfortably.

“and as for richie he’s dealt with your shit a fuck ton longer than i have and i'm your own goddamn brother. so let him fuckin’ talk,” carmen concluded, chewing his gum with a little extra agitation.

richie took a moment before speaking. carmen had just unloaded enough. “we're not tryin’ to judge,” he uncomfortably took a seat. “it's just that we know you worked hard to get where you are now.”

mikey flicked his cigarette to the center of the pavement then ran his hands over his face. it felt like he was having the same version of the conversation he had with you, although the difference was that richie and carmen knew all of his struggles and not just the vague understanding of his past with drugs.

“it's some stupid summer bullshit. she’s goin’ back out of state soon anyway. that's all this is; that’s it,” mikey was still in his spot, not willing to look at either of them now.

“what happens when she’s gone?” richie pressed, looking at the smoking cigarette on the ground.

“i show up. i do my work. i go to meetings,” mikey recited quickly like he had done it many times before. that was his normal routine, though his current routine was to show up, do work, go to meetings, and enjoy you he knew he'd be at a loss without you.

carmen wiped his sweating palms on his knees. he was still annoyed. “don't let this get outta hand or i'm tellin’ sug,” the younger brother warned.

mikey grumbled under his breath as he watched carmen stand. “low blow, carm.”

natalie, sugar, was the last line of defense because carmen knew mikey couldn’t be the reason for getting her wound up with those sad puppy-dog eyes she wore so well. he couldn't cause her any more pain. she had enough to worry about without starting to worry about him again.

she had given mikey more help than anyone, more than he would like to admit.

2:10 PM

mikey: r u busy?

2:15 PM

you: not for you

2:15 PM

mikey: slip in my office and help me out?

2:16 PM

you: please?

2:17 PM

mikey: u don’t have to beg

2:17 PM

you: *eye roll emoji* *middle finger emoji*

you: be there in a few

planning for an impromptu fourth of july barbeque to be held in the parking lot of the bear was one of the biggest headaches that mikey had encountered in a long time. between that and a lunch rush from hell, he needed a pick-me-up before dinner prep because the stale coffee wasn't working anymore.

it wasn't long before you arrived, nestled secretly under his desk after a couple of playful kisses.

mikey was sitting back in his office chair, his fingers curled around the armrests while he watched you wrangle his erect cock.

you were slurping on the curvature of his cock with glossy eyes, a bit of salvia falling out of your mouth. your cheeks were hollow, following part of his shaft down as you used your tongue to attempt to reach a little further.

one of your hands was cradling his balls; it occasionally slipped up to stroke the base of his manhood that you were unable to fit in your mouth.

you began to brush back your hair although mikey took notice of this, taking the liberty of holding it back for you. there you were, working up and down his girth like you owned it, choking lightly when you went too far.

spit was dribbling out of your mouth and onto the office chair where he was manspread. your swollen lips taking the liberty of working at his tip; his salty precum flooding your oral senses.

with his fingers intertwined securely in your hair he took his free hand to caress your cheek, a small bit of praise for your much-appreciated work. you were very expecting of this, trying to force your throat a little further each time even if it meant your eyes only got more watery.

mikey was gentle. he wasn't pushing your head and making you take every inch of his well-endowed tool. he was letting you enjoy yourself and in turn, was enjoying himself.

you knew you had him wrapped around your finger when his stomach would cave ever so slightly. your eyes were meeting his.

you began to bob your head a little faster, watching him exhale shakily as the combination of your strokes and mouth seemed to make his erection extra stiff, especially when you pointed your tongue to place extra pressure on the prominent vein of his cock.

that's when the door rattled, making mikey jump. you couldn't pull your head back fast enough, and even with mikey fishing for his pants, it was too late. the door certainly wasn't locked. this could've been avoided.

“michael—” jimmy, as in the jimmy that had given him and his brother hundreds of thousands of dollars, as in the jimmy kalinowski that had long been a family friend with the berzattos had entered. his eyes were darting around the room frantically, like a bad car wreck he was unable to look away from.

and in this rendition of the pornos, it is titled: HOT CHICK SUCKS THICK OLDER COCK UNDER DESK **CAUGHT**

“mother of fuck!” jimmy roared as he stumbled out of the room and down the hallway.

mikey was trying to get his bearings together while also checking on you, which wasn't great because his heart was pounding out of his chest.

“i am so fucked,” mikey groaned, tugging up his pants the rest of the way with part of his shirt stuck in the waistband. “jimmy—fuckin’ a’, man,” he was talking to himself in a panicked manner.

“hey, hey,” you tried to calm him, adjusting your shirt and wiping the corners of your mouth.

“you gotta go,” mikey was rushing. he was right. you really did need to leave. he was dragging you by the wrist, down the hallway. you were also appreciative of mikey's quickness to get you to the door.

the kitchen doors were rushed open. it was like jimmy was on a war path.

“somebody put a leash on michael before he catches a fuckin’ statutory!” jimmy barked, suddenly the entire kitchen fell silent. no pots were clattering, no talk of their day, no squeak of the required non-slip shoes. everything stopped.

“yo, what the fuck?” richie was the first one to speak up.

jimmy’s announcement wasn't exactly subtle. it was painful and embarrassing and gross.

“your friend’s stripped down to his skivvies in his damn office getting a mid-day treat from some floosie, rick.” jimmy threw his hands up angrily.

oh fuck—nothing about jimmy's outburst was beneficial to busy kitchen.

carmen didn't leave his station; he was urging everyone to keep working as an uproar of comments were being made. he had too much to do other than entertain the chaos. he and richie knew exactly what this was about based on jimmy’s comment even before he had to explain himself.

the rest of the kitchen was stunned, immediately blabbering back and forth before richie struck two skillets together urging them to be quiet.

jimmy then saw mikey leading you out, pausing his kitchen outburst to catch the imbecile who had started this whole saga.

“what the fuck are you doin’?” jimmy confronted mikey harshly. he then looked at you with his head tilted. his glasses a little crooked. “and sweetheart what the fuck are you doin’ with him?”

you swallowed hard. jimmy’s tone had changed drastically when he had spoken to you. “do i need to call him a lawyer?” he pressed a little further.

“no, what? no, i’m twenty. i go to school. i have a license,” you rambled though none of it provided any solid proof unless you were to pull out your cardholder you were nervous. your hands were shaking and mikey was still edging you to the door.

“alright, wonderful, so you have a fuckin’ brain then why are you using it to be with him?” jimmy prodded. your shoulders were still tense, staring at him wide-eyed.

“unc, let her go,” mikey sighed, looking at the exit sign above the door. jimmy was practically blocking the hallway. “then you can keep yellin’ but don't let her be mixed up in it.”

“i spend all this goddamn money for you go have a co-ed under your desk? be like your fuckin’ brother for god’s sake and throw a goddamn knife or scream in the fuckin’ walk-in,” jimmy spat one last time before scooting out the the way.

“i’ll take that note,” mikey grumbled, ushering you out the back door.

walking into the kitchen seemed like the right thing to do at the moment, but immediately regretted it once he was in there. he had heard jimmy’s outburst and already knew the staff was talking.

it was silent when mikey came in, all the conversation halted immediately. if that wasn't a sure sign that people were conversing about the sudden drama then he didn't know what else was. there was never a dull day at the bear.

“this has really gotten outta hand,” mikey announced from the hand washing station, lathering his hands and forearms up. “and i didn't mean for it to get this far, but it did,” he groaned trying to phrase his words correctly.

“baby, you can't be doin’ that,” tina responded. “like some shit you just don't do.”

“unprofessional,” sydney added softly, her round eyes darting around. “really inappropriate—and like—gross, right? we’re a whole restaurant.” she gestured loosely.

mikey was drying his hands, staring at the blinding lights on the ceiling. “alright, i fucked up, we got that, thank you,” he was leaning against the wall, knowing if he even began kitchen duty his head would be too jumbled to achieve anything.

“told you it was a bad idea,” richie coughed, having to add the ‘i told you so at the worst moment.’

“you knew? and you let him keep doing it?” sydney pressed further, unable to look at anyone other than tina who was also shaking her head.

“he wouldn't have stopped anyway…college chick has initiative,” richie shrugged. it earned a couple of groans of disapproval. everyone was rightfully awkward and wary of the situation.

“sis looks like she’s committed her thesis study to daddy issues,” marcus tried to lighten the situation, and a couple of chuckles were heard.

“no, no, she's pledged to tri delta and her philanthropy mission is to support recovering addicts,” sweeps butted in, carrying a basket of unfolded napkins.

mikey stood with his arms crossed trying not to laugh. he deserved the heckling. not everyone found it amusing, but it was definitely helping mikey recover from the initial shock and surprise of being walked in on.

“mystery baby was just trying to use the last points on her campus dining plan, cut her some slack,” marcus hit a witty rebuttal.

“mystery baby is her new name, fuckin’ brand that shit,” richie called out.

“okay okay, have we had enough fun?” mikey asked with a fading chuckle. “maybe we should get the hell back to work before carmen blows a gasket,” he offered, knowing their slow hands wouldn't be helpful by the time service started.

“yeah, probably for the best because i texted sugar,” carmen didn't even look up.

“motherfucker.”

natalie had been at the hardware store attempting to pick up a list of supplies from their morning meeting about the barbeque carmen had proposed. though the moment carmen’s 911 mikey text came through she dropped everything.

they were sitting in her office. pictures of her daughter and husband littered her desk, and it was more organized than mikey’s office by far. color-coded tabs and coordinating pens to highlighters along with an actual color scheme. carmen had briefed her on the entire situation before she even sat down with her oldest brother.

mikey was tapping his foot anxiously. he didn't know where she was going to start. with the fact that she had plucked mikey off the state street bridge night so many years ago when he was half conscious and at rock bottom, maybe the night she bailed him out of jail for petty theft, or when she had given him a place to stay after he couldn't stay at their mother's house in the early stages of recovery, or even maybe the fact that she had helped him find the meetings he so regularly attended. he could go on and on about what his sister had done for him.

“bear, what’s goin’ on with you?” she asked softly. worry filled her eyes.

“nothin’,” mikey shrugged. he felt like he was in the damn principal’s office.

“do you think carmy texted because it was nothing?” she had a point, but he didn't expect their youngest sibling to actually go through with his threat.

“no, jeez, sug, i'm grown. i have my head on straight now. i participate in my meetings. i’m clean—”

“mikey,” natalie stopped him. “i know you're good. you’ve been good. i’m proud of you, but i’m not proud of this girl.”

that stung. mikey furrowed his brows as his arms crossed over his chest. sugar had a million things she could've brought up and she chose the one that mattered.

“i know you’re grown, but she isn't. she’s still somebody’s kid,” natalie was taking this in a different perspective, different than what carmen had to say and everyone else. she wasn't touching on his sobriety, not now at least. mikey was expecting her to want to kill him.

“she’s two and a half times younger than you. when we were twenty our family didn't care, but her’s might.” she was thinking about it like it was her own daughter years into the future.

“no one was supposed to find out and then—”

“then you started thinking with your dick, bear,” natalie sighed, wrapping her brother in a hug that he didn't reciprocate. “that was reckless and really fucking stupid, and now i want to hit your head against the wall.” she had such a serious tone that mikey couldn't help but chuckle. he patted his sister’s back.

“i probably deserve it,” mikey agreed. this was more gentle than he thought it would go. natalie wasn't crying or making those big guilt tripping eyes. but what else could she do other than say something? she wasn't tracking anyone down and giving them a lesson. mikey was responsible for his own doings...even if they were ridiculous.

“no probably about it,” natalie flicked his forehead before pulling away.

jimmy was sitting in the furthest booth from the door, mindlessly eating his lunch with no complaints to be had, seeing as he was sitting by himself. he was occasionally looking up at the door in between bites, just a little peace to separate himself from the chaotic week.

“hell, is that jimmy k?” your father asked, a tray of food in his hand from the deli, but had yet to set it down at a seating arrangement.

“oh shit, that's reggie,” jimmy perked up a bit, a welcoming smile gracing his face. “you wanna take a seat?” he offered the opposite side of the booth to reggie.

years back jimmy had given reggie extra work when he needed it. they had rarely kept up with each other besides the occasional run in, but they always seemed to chat like old friends that had never forgotten where they once left off from previously.

“long time no see, man,” reggie greeted, unwrapping his sandwich. “same old, same old?” he questioned, breaking into conversation easily.

“little of everything, you know me,” jimmy mentioned casually.

it was all normal until the conversation shifted from family to work. reggie was mentioning he was still married, one kid about to start high school, the other in college, and was still coaching. jimmy mentioned his son and some other odds and ends, but then he turned to money. jimmy seemed a little annoyed to be mentioning how much money he loaned his “nephews” to redo their sandwich shop into an actual restaurant, and how even after all their renovations, they were still fucking up.

“you're talking about the bear, right?” reggie was now placing all the pieces together, remembering how jimmy was friends with michael and carmen’s father. “they catered my kid’s banquet a few months ago.”

“yeah, yeah, the fuckin’ bear,” jimmy groaned. “let me pick your ear about somethin’ okay, reg?” he wasn't really asking. he was going to talk anyway. “mikey is the most lovable fuck up, but right now i could kill him. how would you feel knowing you spent a bunch of goddamn money and then walk in his office and catch him with some college kid?”

“what?” reggie repeated, the conversation having shifted heavily. he put down his sandwich. those words seemed to hit a little too close to home because his twenty-year-old daughter hadn’t been present practically the whole summer, coming home late every night, and being oddly secretive.

“not kiddin’ you, walked into his office about a week ago and he had some twenty-year-old gettin’ down on her knees in the middle of the work day,” jimmy repeated, not noticing how still reggie had become.

jimmy was just blabbing because he was annoyed, not knowing that he was inciting a panic in his old employee.

“you know anything else?” reggie swallowed hard. his hands were shaking under the table. his dad sense was screaming at him that it was his daughter making some stupid mistake.

“no—oh, reg, no—” jimmy finally caught on to reggie’s face that had seemingly lost a little color.

“hey, you know, i gotta get back to work, but i’ll see you around,” reggie cleared his throat. he had barely eaten on his lunch break. he was going to sit in his truck and use the rest of his time to call his daughter.

the staff alternated days off. this week it was mikey’s monday off, and there was no place better to spend it than with you, grasping the meat of your thighs. his elbows help to keep you spread wide, absorbing himself in his own world between your legs. even after the scare with jimmy the two of you had an inability to keep your hands off of each other. it was like you both knew that the summer was soon going to end in just three short weeks.

he had no other care in the world than to be with you. he was lapping at your cunt. his flattened tongue easily maneuvering over your folds. he had a certain technique that you thought would never be able to be replicated by anyone else.

your hands were laced in his loose curls while you crossed your toes from the sheer pleasure you were on the receiving end of. you gasped as his mouth opened a bit more, sucking your outer layers and the dripping arousal that fell from your pussy.

he was looking up at you, knowing good and well what he was doing as he spread your folds further apart with his oversized fingers. he had a direct contact with your clit in moments, beginning with a soft suckle which transpired into a greedy moment of his beard being buried into your soaking pussy and his aquiline nose brushing against your pubes all while staring at you.

his elbows dug into you although it was worth it because of the instinctual want to close your legs as the stimulation began to become more overwhelming. you might have been tugging at his hair too harshly, but he didn't say anything, only continuing to show your cunt the utmost respect as he ravaged it with his mouth.

soon his fingers dipped inside of you, fully and easily being coated with everything you had produced. you gave an unsuspecting whimper looking down at mikey still directing his oral attention to your clit and his digits curled upwards to satisfy you even more.

he had to breathe. his forehead was sweaty and he was a bit breathless as his fingers worked in and out of you.

his jaw was aching ever so slightly which caused his determination for his fingers to become more direct with their targeted movements. his other hand was toying with his dick trying to coax his erection to stay up fully. he had been concentrating fully causing his once rock hard erection to soften just a bit.

“need ya to turn over, lil’ thing,” he directed, the wet splotches on his beard were noticeable as the light filtered through his thin bedroom curtains. mikey has taken his fingers out, licking the reminits of your sweet slick off of them.

you began shifting to get on your knees, mikey helped rotate your hips. he grabbed your ankle to situate your positioning, giving his cock final a hearty stroke as he did. he gave your pussy one final long, dragged out lick from your hole your ass, which caused a shiver to run down your spine.

his balls were hanging heavily as he reached over you to grab a condom wrapper.

you felt his covered tip prod at your entrance. mikey held apart one of your asscheeks to oversee the full entry. it was the perfect fit, he was absolutely drowning in that blissful feeling. his eyes rolled back a little as you shimmied your ass back ever so slightly.

the smutty saga continued with: SALT N’ PEPPER MAN EATS PUSSY AND FUCKS PRETTY BABE *HOT* *YOUNG*

instead of mikey's hair your fingers were now pawing at his sheets trying to find a good grip. the bedframe would never not be squeaky, but it had upgraded slightly, with a pillow between the headboard and the wall.

“y'feel so good,” he praised, gradually increasing the pace of his rocking hips.

“so do you,” you murmured halfway between talking and moaning.

“don't think y'get what i’m sayin'” he mentioned, taking his hand off of your ass and the other off your hip to bring his tattooed arms under your armpits. he hooked his hands to the front of your chest, leaning over you to feel closer. his pudgy stomach brushed against the small of your back. “you're drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy today.”

you released a small grunt only for it to be suppressed by an increase in moans as his humps increased in effort, rocking into you with vigor and need.

you brought your head back some, feeling his wiry beard hair brush against your ear. his palms were sweaty, having to adjust his grip on you to keep you against him. he was pressing soft kisses to your hair that smelled of dry shampoo and his downy detergent after being so comfortable in his bed.

“i’m serious…y’gotta hold on me today,” mikey rasped, his knees buckling slightly as he felt your pussy pulsing. he nipped at the shell of your ear, his breath lingering. “fuckin’ hell,” he sighed, feeling another twinge from your lethal grip.

“i-i can't help it when you’re talking to me like that,” you stuttered, hanging your head low into the bed, though he followed you, resting his cheek on the back of your head gently. his thrusts were unsteady and deep.

he had already tortured you by eating you out, overly prepared to take his cock, and you were still on the receiving end of pleasure—overstimulated was the most simple way to put it. you and mikey were both belting sounds of pleasure.

you had your eyes shut tightly unable to speak or give any warning that you were close to climax. he was pressed against your back engulfing your body in warmth and ecstasy as his rigid thrusts only became more heightened. your cunt was doing a quick squeeze and release. he knew he had you close in more ways than one.

“oh—” you dug your fingers tightly into the sheet. you were uncoiling while he was still so deep inside. he was edging against your cervix over and over.

“pretty girl,” his voice was husky in your ear. he pressed his body into you further muffling your moans and pleads into the bed. “this pussy gonna make me cum?”

“y-yeah, y-yeah,” you sounded a little dumb and a little whiny but you could barely think straight, especially with his ridiculously mind-boggling movements. he was chasing those final moments.

“pussy is unreal,” he huffed, though seconds later his jaw went slack. that same hazy feeling you were experiencing. if it was humanly possible he would've been closer as he fucked out his peak, only able to continue his final few thrusts with the rest of his energy briefly.

he laid on you for a while, conscious enough not to squish you, but still not letting you go anywhere, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck.

you were then showered and redressed, and currently, happily perched on mikey’s kitchen countertop. you were watching him prepare thinly fried zucchini battered in an italian breadcrumb which was going to be served with parmesan cheese sprinkled over the top.

mikey was whisking his egg and milk together, already having his separate dish of breadcrumbs prepared. the oil in the skillet was heating up, the convection fan was already circulating.

and your job? that was to sit and look pretty or so he said. you gave yourself an extra task which was occasionally stealing some of the freshly grated cheese out of the bowl.

watching mikey cook was sexy. he knew what he was doing, knew how he wanted it to come out, and knew that it was going to be delicious.

he was standing at the stove watching the breaded zucchini in the bubbling oil, tongs in his hand ready to take them off the heat when the shallow fry had completed its task at getting them crispy and golden brown.

“alright, hopefully, you’re not full on cheese so you can actually eat,” he offered one of the almost paper-thin spears to your lips.

you nodded as you chewed. perfection, all of it. every single crunchy bite. “holy shit,” you mumbled, a sort of warmness spreading through your chest.

“good, huh?” he was back at the stove pulling the last few pieces of zucchini out of the oil and placing them on a paper towel.

“yeah, almost like you’re a chef or something.”

mikey laughed, setting the tray next to you on the counter, offering you another piece. one hand was on your thighs, looking into your eyes as he let you have another bite.

your phone started ringing, making you snap out of the trance you were in caused by mikey and his delicious food. mikey saw the contact name, as soon as you did. he scooted to the side some. you hopped off the counter and answered in one swift motion.

“hey dad.”

“hey, baby girl.” he didn’t sound happy although you didn’t expect a call mid day to be any good. he was supposed to be at work. “you busy?”

“um, a little,” you replied, glancing at mikey in the kitchen, trying to put a little space between you and him as you talked to your father. “what’s up?”

reggie didn’t know how to answer that. he still hadn’t fully decided on what to say. he just knew he needed to call you.

“i ran into someone i used to work with, been a few years since i’ve seen him,” he explained. your gaze never left mikey, who was cleaning up the kitchen.

you had every reason to be nervous because your father was never the man that would call in the middle of a work day.

“how was that?” you questioned, knowing that your dad was taking longer to get to his point than normal.

“i don’t know,” your father sighed. “but he told me something—something you might know about.”

you were fidgeting with the end of your shirt, phone pressed against your ear and shoulder.

“he said he’s sorta family to the owners of a restaurant,” your dad was stalling which was only making you squirm more. you swallowed, the sides of your throat burning a little.

“when he was there last week he said there was a college girl under the owner’s desk.” it made reggie sick to say that outloud. having to say those exact words to his daughter should’ve been punishment enough.

“dad—”

“he didn’t know your name. he didn’t even say it was you, not like he picked you out of a lineup or something, but jesus—kid, you’re acting like you did it without me even having to ask…”

mikey is now staring because you look ill, standing in the middle of his living room looking so guilty. he knew what this is about without having to eavesdrop.

“what are you doing, baby girl?” he sounded exhausted. it sounded like he had just had too much. “what did you decide to get yourself into?”

you felt meek. “it’s not like that.”

“don’t tell me that because it is exactly like that.”

you wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. the lull of silence was too much right now. that once tasty platter of zucchini now looked inedible.

“you think you’re grown up, but you’re not. you’re twenty and you’re going after some guy like you don’t think is going to ruin your life, but he will.”

you couldn’t say anything because if you did you’d be breaking down.

“baby girl, come on. you’re so much smarter than that,” he pressed a little further, digging that knife a little deeper.

“i’m worried about you,” he finally expressed.

“okay,” that’s all you could manage.

“okay?” he asked, wondering if that’s all you had to say.

“i’ll be home later,” you choked out. your thumb nail was digging into your leg. you hung up.

mikey put down the cloth he was using to wipe the counter. he joined you in the den, hoping he didn’t have to be the first one to say anything but he was.

“…he knows?”

“mhm,” you mumbled. “knows jimmy, used to work with him…isn’t that something?”

mikey was walking slowly as if any sudden movements would send you running. he stopped at the coffee table, taking a seat to look at you. he tried to grab your hand but you wouldn’t let him.

“that tracks,” mikey coughed a bit, trying to pull his words together. he was speaking very gently. “look—if I would’ve known they knew each other i wouldn’t have—”

“—wouldn’t have let me suck you off at work?” you completed his sentence earning a sigh from him.

“no, come on, if it wouldn’t have gotten back to your dad then—”

“the only thing that matters right now is who we got caught by?” you wouldn’t let him get a word in not right now. “not that we got caught at all?”

“i shoulda known better,” mikey was uncomfortably running his hand through his hair. “i didn’t mean to screw this up.”

“do you think you’re screwing me up?”

“that’s not what i said,” mikey said pointedly.

“that’s what my dad said,” you retorted, though your voice wasn’t very loud. it was painful and quiet. “that you’re gonna ruin my life.”

mikey tilted his head. his hand fell in his lap.

“are you going to ruin my life?” you tried to coax out an answer from mikey. you didn’t want to believe he could, but unfortunately this illicit secret was out and spirling out of control.

he didn’t really like that question.

“i don’t wanna…” mikey was searching for more words. “but i worry about it because i’m older than you—you have your entire life ahead of you. you can probably screw up three good times from now until you're my age and be better off than me. but me? i‘ve fucked up enough. i’m outta chances, pretty girl,” he was resting his head in his hands. he wasn’t going to give you a minute to respond now, so he continued. “i don’t regret a single thing, i really don’t—but i can’t be the reason your life is screwed up. i like you a helluva lot, and if i knew i was the reason i screwed you up i don’t think i could forgive myself.”

you looked like he had punched you in the gut, breathless, not making a noise as you cried. just silent tears falling, looking at each other trying to convince each other that any feeling you had was fake.

“you gotta say something,” mikey urged.

you didn’t, not right away. your mouth was closed in a tight line, trying to hold your crying self together. you grabbed your purse next to where mikey was sitting. he knew you’d be gone in an instant. your mind was already somewhere else. you weren’t mentally still in mikey’s apartment.

“hey, please don’t go, not just yet,” mikey swallowed, standing as you started walking for the door.

“i really need to go.”

“i can walk you out,” he stood up, going to follow you, but you stopped him.

“i got it,” you choked out.

and like that, you were gone and mikey was alone.

this was the last weekend before you returned to school. keeping your distance from mikey was so difficult, but your father wasn't exactly thrilled to learn of your summer affair. you were trying to lay low so that embarrassment would stop eating at you, but in all actuality you could barely stand to make eye contact with either of your parents.

you were trying to be on your best behavior because after all your parents did let you stay with them all summer, paid for your gas, and flights to and from school, among countless other things.

that was the hardest part for them, knowing you were grown, having to see you leave, and now watching you make one of the stupidest decisions of your life while still trying to remain proud of you because your success in school wasn't nothing.

the disappointment was rough because you had proved over and over again that they could trust you to be a responsible adult away from home, but your lustful tailspin had them questioning where they went wrong as parents.

they never yelled at you. not once. the moment your dad called he wanted to vomit because he had that inkling that you were doing something—someone—that you weren’t supposed to. they knew you knew better. you knew you knew better.

you kept trying to downplay how bad it was, but every time you thought about mikey it only got worse. you wanted something to keep you occupied, and it did, but at what cost?

your childhood friends knew your final moments in chicago were coming to an end. they wanted to see you and you thought it would be a good way to take your mind off of the clusterfuck you had helped create. they suggested a party, an end of the summer rager at someone’s parents' lakeside rental property.

it was loud, the house was so hot from the movement of people combined with the door from outside being constantly opened and closed. even outside you couldn't escape the heat, but it was probably your burning face from the drinks you had so easily thrown back.

you were chatting—more like drunkenly rambling—with one of your old girlfriends about the courses you decided to register for at the edge of the lake. only your feet were resting in the water because you already pulled your shorts back over your damp bathing suit bottoms. you had your jacket half zipped over your top, unsure of where the shirt you originally had over your bikini went.

you began to feel too dizzy for your own good, peering uncomfortably into the solo cup of a badly mixed drink. you excused yourself from your friend after she was unable to answer what time the designated driver was bringing you all back to your corresponding homes.

“when are we leaving?” seemed to be the question of the night that no one could give you a straight answer to. you felt like garbage. you wanted to leave. you had your sneakers in one hand, walking around aimlessly trying to get a direct answer from your final friend in your group after ditching your solo cup on a random counter.

you were regretting coming at all when all of your drunk friends and even the singular sober one were unable to coordinate a time to leave. you were sitting on the steps of the porch the faint sound of another megan thee stallion song blaring even through the closed door. your stomach was churning and you had a pained expression on your face while you stared at the lawn.

you couldn't call your parents. you had already screwed up too much to make them unhappy for another moment this summer. you only had one more option. it was approaching half past one in the morning and there you were calling mikey, ruining his sleep schedule yet again.

it didn’t ring for long.

“hello?” he murmured, almost shocking you to your core to hear his voice again, especially all groggy from sleep.

“hey,” you paused, shutting your eyes for a brief second as if you were working up the courage to ask him a favor. “can you come pick me up?” you slurred, holding your temples trying to keep your focus.

“you okay?” you could hear some rustling coming from his end, knowing he was already attempting to pull himself together to rescue you.

“yeah, uh, my friends invited me out but i really wanna leave, and i couldn't call my dad,” you were plucking at the grass on the bottom of the steps.

“i'm comin’, hon,” mikey assured you like it was nothing out of the ordinary. “just text me the address.”

you felt small. you had so easily left him, ran out, and avoided conflict and now he was helping you without a second thought. “thanks, mikey.”

within the hour you were seated in mikey's car, pulling your knees into your chest. you had dropped your sneakers to the ground. you were leaning your head against your seatbelt.

“you answered,” you noted, staring at the radio in mikey’s car—more specifically the time.

mikey didn't look much different than normal, other than that he had let his beard become a little more unruly than normal. he always looked a little tired and a little sad.

“of course, i did,” he didn't look at you, but he meant what he said.

“i'm sorry for waking you up.” you sounded like a child who didn't want to be scolded, trying to soften the blow by buttering up their guardian.

“i'm glad y’did.”

you were staring out the windshield unsure if you should thank him again or not.

“y’made the safe choice,” he added, flicking on his blinker that seemed louder in the dark of the late night.

“i missed you.”

mikey was unsure of what to say. you were drunk and clearly spaced out all while still being conscious. he drummed his fingers against the wheel. “missed you too, pretty girl.”

you looked up for a brief second and then back at the road, time seemed to be moving a little too slowly.

“can we talk?”

“we're talkin’ right now.” he held the wheel a little tighter, unsure of what your drunken state was trying to express.

“you're not looking at me.” it was true, not once since you had gotten in his car had he even glanced at you.

“i'm drivin’,” he reminded you, though it wasn't very fast and it didn't seem like he was rushing to get you home.

“you can pull over,” you suggested, so he did.

mikey had taken his time to turn his head, knowing if he saw you he would be able to forgive you leaving within a second, and he did. his gaze was softened as one hand rested on the shifter.

“you're like what i needed,” you unbuckled your seatbelt, stretching out in the front seat. you were picking up the hair from the back of your neck and tossing it just to get a breeze of air. you were leaning into the air vents soaking in the chill. “like you're just so hot and you like really got me, you know?”

mikey didn't know—well—he did to an extent. he was silently staring at you, watching you unzip your jacket to let the air con hit your chest.

“and like i really missed you,” you were now sitting to face mikey.

“yeah.”

“you didn’t miss me?” you were offended. you were resting your hands on the center console.

“you walked out,” he reminded you. “you left.”

“now, i’m back,” you mumbled uncomfortably.

“who picked you up, lil’ thing?” mikey questioned, clearing his throat. “who’s takin’ y’back home?”

“you.”

“uh-huh, i answered. i gave you space. i’m the one tryin’ not to lose you when i know i’m gonna lose you anyway.”

you leaned a little closer, bridging the gap between you and mikey. your palms laying against his silver-specked beard, letting the hair scrape your soft skin. he didn’t react much, only watching. your forehead rested against his, stunning him for a moment.

your dizzy head was stabilized for a moment, pressing your lips against his. it wasn’t nearly as sweet as you’d thought it would be when you noticed he wasn’t reciprocating.

he was gently pulling your hands off his face, and moving his head back. it was one of the hardest things he had to do after not seeing you. you were practically halfway over the center console.

“no, you’re drunk and we’re not doin’ that,” mikey said firmly, kissing the tips of your fingers instead. he helped you get situated in your seat again.

“i know what i want,” you mumbled defensively, looking down at your lap.

“pretty girl,” mikey began, clearing his throat. “i’m not gonna be that guy.”

you were mildly sulking and on the verge of tears. the alcohol was really settling in and all of your thoughts that had come with it.

“y’don’t think i don’t want to? i haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left.” mikey was trying to be consoling but it didn’t help when you were left defeated. “i’m not makin’ this worse between us.”

“i fucked it all up…you wouldn’t be able to make it any worse,” you confessed guilty.

“this wasn’t ever goin’ to work,” mikey stated with his chest tightening. he held his index knuckle to his lips.

“you said you were okay with this.”

the entire situation was conflicting.

“i know what i said, but it doesn’t mean it was gonna work,” mikey cleared his throat harshly. you could’ve sworn you saw a tear drip down his face. “i gotta stay and y’gotta go back to school.”

mikey had pulled off of the street, continuing down the road. he had to get you home before he was past a solitary tear.

you were fidgeting with your fingers with an uncomfortable churning in your stomach. you didn’t know how you were managing to keep yourself together; maybe it was because you had already embarrassed yourself around him enough.

you were practically gagging yourself to keep your tears down, knowing you’d never be able to listen to “the scientist” by coldplay again without thinking of this very moment when the silence was trying to take over but chris martin’s voice over the late night radio was peeking through like daggers in ballistic gel.

“this was supposed to be fun,” your voice wavered uncomfortably. you were finally starting to realize how far everything had come. it all came around, all at once, completing the circle with a deathly kill.

“it was,” mikey’s knuckles were white because of the sheer force he was using to grip the wheel. “but this is the part that wasn’t ever goin’ to be fun.” his jaw twitched slightly.

“i didn’t think i’d like you so much,” you confessed, watching as your street came into view. you were rubbing your thumb over your right temple to soothe your impending headache. your other sleeve was wiping your tears as they spilled, hoping mikey wasn’t paying too much attention.

mikey felt like a bullet had ripped through his chest, trying to convince himself that you were drunk enough that you didn’t know what you were saying, but even that didn’t help. it just hurt.

he parked in your driveway, watching your gather your shoes. he was taking initiative this time, not letting another time when he could have chased you be wasted. he was walking you to the door. one of his large hands at the small of your back guiding your drunken self to the door.

“i’m always gonna be around.” he shouldn’t have said that but he did. you only gave a shaky nod.

he could see your empty eyes and puffy face in the motion-activated light of the doorway. he gave your head one final kiss and returned to his car. he watched the door to your house shut.

it never got cold in florida, not like the illinois cold anyway. exams were coming close before the sweet relief of winter break would start. you were studying or trying to at least.

it had gotten lonely and that was probably due to the fact that since starting another undergraduate year at uf you had distanced yourself from practically everyone.

lizzie, who was your closest friend at university, had tried everything in her power to pull you out of this weird lull you were trapped in. she knew something was wrong based on your demeanor and the sad girl playlist you had put on repeat. you kept in touch while you had gone home for the summer, but you hadn’t said anything about mikey. that would be far too hard to explain. when you returned you said you regretted the summer, but that simply wasn't true. you regretted being too young, too naive, and too involved with someone you knew you shouldn't have been. you were impulsive and dumb and it was hard to admit that to anyone other than yourself.

you had gotten in far too deep with mikey and that was a fact. you wouldn't have been thinking about him so much if you hadn't gotten attached.

the final title to the erotic summer films would be: FEELINGS FUCKED HARD *SHE CRIES* LEFT WITH GAPING HOLE

you moved into your new apartment when you returned from chicago, having lizzie and a few others from your study groups help pile everything from your storage unit into the space. all your decor that was once in your dorm room was hardly enough to cover all the blank walls. it was too sterile. so when your stipend from your scholarship hit your bank account, you spent far too much money trying to clutter the walls and console your aching heart.

you felt like your social life was in the gutter. the last party you attended before school had to do with your embarrassingly drunk confession to mikey. mixers, frat ragers, and the post-karaoke bar crawls would land you feeling even worse than you initially went out. it didn't feel right receiving drinks from other guys, much less drinking at all.

halloween had been one of your most favorite times of the year, especially when attending college, but this year's activities were basically halted. you were dolled up like the sluttiest cowgirl to match with lizzie. you had only gone out for an hour. you interacted with your lyft driver more than anyone in the bar and immediately had to tell him that you were sorry for crying.

your social media which was once buzzing with photos from everything had also taken a turn for the worst. everything from the end of may to the beginning of august was just reminders of mikey, although he was in none of the photos. lounging by the pool? yeah, that was the swimsuit he had liked the most. pictures at the ballpark with your brother? it only made you think about mikey having heartburn from concession station nachos. that dumb picture you had taken of your half-eaten beef sandwich? that one hurt the most because mikey had made it. you tried to cover those posts in your feed with updated ones of your apartment decor, your work on the school communications page, and your paid internship with a local news station, but it never felt like enough.

your family visited for the weekend before thanksgiving to see the apartment. your father was being himself, picking at every little thing about how awful college apartments could be. he had walked through the entire place, asking if you had seen the cracking on the molding or the uneven flooring in the bathroom. you didn't care because anything was better than the dorms. your mother brought a set of embroidered dish towels and a carry-on suitcase full of cleaning supplies. your brother had weaseled his way into staying one night in your apartment rather than at the hotel, which was fine because you stayed up late watching a rented movie and eating an overpriced doordash delivery. it was refreshing to have some sense of normality because no one dared to mention the summer; not like they would speak of it anyway. you had taken enough pain and embarrassment away from it for them to discuss it with you present.

so no, the end of august to mid-december had not been going entirely “well” for you. the only thing you could think to do was return home so you wouldn't be alone for the holidays. you knew your family wouldn't turn you away even if you wanted to turn them away most days. when you called your mom and told her that you wanted to be home, she was ecstatic. within the next hour, she called you back explaining that she had booked your flight for three days after your exams were completed.

in your current studying session, you had been picking up your phone in between making flash cards. your hand was cramping and you were unable to stay completely focused. you leaned back in your desk chair glancing between your computer screen, notebooks, and the index cards sprawled on your desk. you rubbed your cramping hand uncomfortably, massaging your inner palm.

it wouldn't be long until you'd be back in chicago, but right now you are stuck in your apartment with upcoming deadlines and tests to prepare for. you couldn't explain why you were reaching for your phone again. you had just checked a random notification from a video lizzie had sent to you on your social media. you paused the music that was playing, staring blankly at your phone screen before inching your fingers to your messages.

11:11 PM

you: i'll be home for christmas if you're still around

your heart was racing, thinking that unsending it might have been easier, but it was too late. the deed was done. you were hastily putting your phone down with the screen facing the wood of your desk.

you stood from your desk, hitting your palm against your forehead with a groan. your leg began to bounce anxiously, trying to rationalize the decision you had just made. the bear didn't close until ten, mikey always said it took at least an hour or an hour and a half to get everyone out and everything cleaned, so no, he wasn’t going to respond right away. he had priorities. he had a business to run. he was fifty with a goddamn life, probably doing a lot better than you were right now—he wasn't. he wasn't doing any better because if he was he wouldn't have responded.

11:51 PM

mikey: u know where to find me

[hyacinthstears]

Both Donnie and Mikey are disabled in this AU. Mikey has rather Severe Hypoglycemia, and Donnie's wings have permanent muscle atrophy.

Donnie's battle shell acts as a brace to support his wings (they didn't develop right due to the lack of support his soft shell gives) with out his brace he can't lift his wings properly, which prevents him from walking correctly, leaving him stumbling on his feet.

Mikey's Hypoglycemia affects him heavily. Leo and Donnie always have Orange juice, gummy's, glucose tablets, honey sticks, and rock candy on them for Mikey cause he forgets to grab snacks a lot. when his Blood sugar drops to much he will get dizzy, slurs his speech, get uneven breathing, sensory overload, and blurry vison.

Raph and Leo don't think of them as "weaker" or "less capable". in fact they are so proud of their little bros for being so awesome all the time and not letting their disability's hold them back... but their still super worried for them, all the time... protective big bros activate!!!

[answer2jeff]

beneath the ashes //

a carmen berzatto x reader series.

chapter 0, prologue.

warnings : 18+!!!! drug abuse, suicide, smoking, uncomfortable and gut-wrenching situations, familial trauma, mentions of domestic violence, angst, carmen is cold and judgmental, Richie serves as a father figure and Claire is not a romantic interest.

word count: 1.6k

⁠disclaimer : if you can't understand the complexity and true excruciating nature of these topics outside of internet fiction, that's YOUR problem. writing about these things IS romanticizing them and i do understand that. i don't advise reading this fic if you're a recovering addict or are triggered by drug abuse, or literally anything else mentioned. reader in this fic is a complicated, messy, but deeply kind human being. reader is not in active addiction!!!!

addicts are not monsters. this is FICTION.

also, this series js going to take a LONG time to finish. real ones will stick around 💔💯

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Street lights, rain, more rain, ashes.

Ashes, ashes, ashes. The ones on the street wet with precipitation that slowly dissolve. The ones scattered on the tongue of your shoes, and the ones accumulating underneath your fingernails and coating your breath in a thick, sickly film of burnt tobacco. Your jaw is shaking. You're absolutely sick with shame. If you could bottle up this feeling and sell it for just a measly 25 cents a pop, you'd be in the islands right now. A margarita in hand, your skin supple and tanned. But no, you're back here at Mikey's place. Actually, you're not even in his place. You're out in the moist cold, sitting here on the porch, your ass numbing from the hard wood and your jeans soaking up the mucky rainwater. This time, you've been thrown out. Mikey can't keep you here forever. He has to get better, even if that means doing it without you. It didn't matter he'd taken you in last year. You're no longer a "kid." You're "a fucking mess." The sun is gone, and a part of you has left with it. Crumbs of powdery Xanax hide in the ridges of your teeth. Your 3rd cigarette trembles in your boney fingers. His final straw was when you told him his dope was better for him than you ever will be. The way you talked about yourself angered him to no end, and it wasn't because he cared. A victim, he saw you as. A coward, he took you for. Mikey has a family to impress. You know he'll go back to hiding the drain of heroin all of his money flows down to in just a few days. He can't accept it. He has to get better, right? Mikey wants out, and you can't wait to get in even deeper.

It's been 16 days since then. Faces of grieving siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins cloud your mind...but one of them is missing. That one particular makes you feel an unfamiliar sensation of guilt. Carmen. Mikey is dead and Carmen isn't here. Denial clouds your judgment. There was no possible way Mikey could really be dead and Carmen isn't here, right? He's the only one who knows that you were the last person Mikey called before his body was found with his gun in hand on February 22nd, 2022. His phone and wallet were left untouched on the bridge. It's February 24th now. How quickly funerals occur has always bothered you. The tension headache that wraps around your forehead and trails to the back of your skull has put unbearable weight on your sinuses. Your nose is bleeding, and your once soft hands are growing calluses from your nails digging into the flesh of your palms every time you wish you could drag Micheal Berzatto out of the goddamn ground yourself. The abyss of silence as you sit alone in a continuous row of the pew is broken by the scratch of Sugar clearing her throat, that will soon close with disbelief that her older brother is lifeless beside her. Her hands shake as she grounds herself on the podium. There's a small piece of white copy paper in her hand. She glances from the hidden words to the microphone. Seconds pass and she says nothing. Instead, she gags from feeling so utterly abandoned she could projectile vomit all over the podium. You can't bare to watch. With closed eyes, you let the world unravel before you.

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Richie wipes the dried drool of sleep from the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb, his facial hair absorbing most of the crusted saliva. His lanky arm supports his body weight against the door frame. Of course, instead of inviting you in, he keeps you in the cold morning dew. You've been standing here, your shoes scuffing over the doormat and your hair slowly getting frizzier from the humidity since 7:15. It's now 7:45, and all you've talked about is Richie's new life plan. He's really turning around. Y'know—he doesn't smell like a thrift store anymore. His breath is minty, but still has that twinge of tobacco. He finally says something so far underneath his raspy voice that you nearly missed it as you yawned with a hand over your mouth.

"I think you should come to friends and family night."

The invitation makes you nervous. You wonder if Carmen has changed at all, because you sure have. After all, you're sober now. Your eyes are no longer sunken in with grief and longing for acceptance outside of what substances gave you. You can actually fucking think now. The brain fog has cleared.

"Yeah?" you tilt your head, Richie nodding in response. He reaches for a pack of camels from his back pocket. He shuffles a cigarette from the pack, holding it between two dry fingers, giving you the 'you want?' look. Richie hasn't offered you a smoke since the day he found out you were using. It was, coincidentally, the day you decided to get sober. Which just so happened to be hours before Mikey's death. Nonetheless, you nodded. It feels nice to not be treated like a little girl in a candy store who can't be reasoned with, let alone control herself. While nicotine wasn't the drug that controlled every aspect of your life for nearly 3 years—it still felt wrong to Richie.

Lovingly, he attempts to light it for you, fumbling with the guard of the lighter. The constant clicking sound. Fuck, it fills you with dread. Finally the cigarette is set aflame.

"Okay, I'll see you then."

"You're gonna love it, kid."

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While you're sitting at the glossy marble table watching bubbles of carbonated alcohol rise to the mid section of the glass, Carmen is pacing. He pretends he can sees the faces of the dozens of people waiting on their meal. They're angry. They're dissatisfied. It's no surprise to him that he is in fact projecting, and no one is angrier than Carmen Berzatto in this very moment. Sydney is a close second. She's no longer willing to babysit him, she says. Richie is a fool. Fak is a klutz. None of this is new. Oh, how receptive this has all become. You're with friends who don't know a thing about you, your appetite has disappeared, and you picture Richie keeping roll as you hear his voice through the frosted glass. Carmen shouts as he walks through the doors into the kitchen, the air so thick with flavor and heat he could choke. It's almost unintelligible. No one else seems to notice but you.

"Fuck!" He roars, but he's drowned in the sound of kitchen clogs squeaking and fires caramelizing food. For a minute, he's thankful no one can hear him. That is until he arrives with a bottle of Rosé your table ordered from Richie moments before. Carmen knows he's being watched, sure. This is his restaurant. Claire-Bear, the girl who's been like his little sister since middle school, is staring with worried eyes as her boyfriend talks her ear off about his software job. She'd rather be cooked alive than listen to another wave of his voice. Needless to say, he moves past her swiftly. The closer he gets to your table the faster your heart beats against your tight chest. Finally, he sees you. His mouth gapes open just a few centimeters, his grip on the bottle barely loosening. Eyebrows all around the table are raising with excitement, and yours are still drawn together in worry.

"Good evening guys, uh—here is the bottle of La Belle—best of 2022, actually. Who's up for a first taste?" Carmen asks the table, secretly hoping you'll volunteer.

As if your friends can read his mind, Diane tilts your head your direction.

"Sure," you croak. "Hit me."

Carmen's tattooed hand unscrews the cap. The peachy pink wine slugs out like a waterfall from the lid, stopping just so you get a few drops of the liquid gold. His eyes are glued to the glass, but you watch him intently through the whole affair. He's oddly beautiful. With curls that have grown too long and his blue eyes have only filled with more determination, it hurts to look away. And yet, he is worried that if his eyes meet yours, you could somehow disappear.

But again, you just can't look away.

By the time his head rises again to hand you the glass, your eyes are already gleaming with wonder and questions. His heart fucking aches with not a clue in the world as to why. You haven't spoken in months. Maybe this is an apology. Not that he felt that you deserved one, no. It would just lift it from his thoughts. But he's lying. Of course you deserved to hear the words "I'm sorry." His own mind races with ideas of you, hating you. Hating what you dragged Mikey into, hating how easily you hid it, hating how much he wished he could reverse time and just fucking be there for him. For you. You always felt so close and yet so, so far away from Carmen. So detached, just like him.

You're aware that he's watching you now. You look tired. Carefully, you swish the wine around, soaking in the aromatic scent before you give it a taste. Of course, the Rosé is delicious. You blink slowly, nodding in approval.

"It's perfect."

"I'm glad," Carmen smiles.

The tension grows stronger. Finally, he looks away to Diane, Kyler, and Sophie. Not because he wants to be of hospitality, but because he just can't bare to feel this way any longer.

You place your orders with a heavy heart. Carmen walks away for the last time that night, and you're once again worried you may never see him again, the way you worried all those years ago.

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[jagroka]

back to square one

[ghostie-cola]

[southsideserendipity]

I saw your post about Mikey so I hope this is okay & what you were looking for. Mikey meets a girl that is like sunshine whenever she walks in the room & makes him finally feel worthy/valued so he’ll do anything to make her feel special in return

Sunshine (Mikey Berzatto x Reader)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of weed and alcohol.

Word Count: 4.2k

I found a good boy and he's on my side You're just my eternal sunshine, sunshine

“John, John- you listenin’ to me?!” Mikey was pacing his office, trampling over receipts and month-old sticky notes while aggressively combing his hands through his tussled black hair. “I’ll have your money. When have I not paid you, goombah? I didn’t see the invoice, you should see this fuckin’ office, not enough time to organize this damn shit show” he responded, kicking a stack of papers in the process. 

Bending down, he began rummaging through the various papers littering the office floor, attempting to compile them into categories. “John! You there?! Fuck.” Mikey frantically pat himself down, a sudden yearn for nicotine overcoming him. Finding his carton of Marlboros, he slipped the end of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Letting out a sigh, John grunted, “Yeah, I’m here, Mikey. I’ll give you a couple more d-” before being interrupted by the vibrations of Mikey’s phone. 

“Fuck me, that jagoff is calling” Mikey thought out loud. “Listen, John, I hear you, you’ll have your money, mmkay? On my ma, I swear to ya, I gotta go though there’s another ball-buster on the other line. K? Ciao.” Before John could respond, Mikey stood up to accept the other call.

“Mark, brother, hey, before you start… I know, I know.” He picked up his phone, taking it off speaker to slip it under his ear. “I— Listen, I know. I hear you. I- Hey, you gon’ let me speak, or wha’?!” Speaking with his hands he continued to pace around the room, his booming voice stifled by the cigarette. 

The lunch rush at The Beef was dying down, exposing you to increasingly longer bits of the chaotic conversation occurring in the office. This was Mikey’s typical presentation; disheveled, malnourished, and overexaggerately buzzed off of caffeine, nicotine, and italian-ness. Although he was impossible to reason with in this state, you took it upon yourself to fix him up his favourite; a mortadella sandwich with sundried tomatoes, pesto, and mozzarella.

“You think I don’t know that? Pft, c’mon! Mark, man, you’re killin’ me!” You stood in the doorway, observing Mikey as he stood with one hand on his hip, the other flailing around to exemplify his frustrations. In one of your hands was the plate holding the lunch you made; in the other was a Chicago Bears BIC lighter.

Subtly knocking on the already open office door, Mikey whipped around to face you, his inconvenienced facial expression seamlessly evaporating into his wide-tooth grin. Mouthing ‘meet me outside’ was all it took for him to fake an excuse off of the phone and trail in your footsteps.

Albeit cheesy, you had that captivating effect on him, your hidden-well insecurities and past failed relationships blinding you to the fact that Mikey was infatuated with you. That, in combination with the 15-year age gap between you two. For Mikey, none of those factors changed the fact that you were his daylight, sunshine in human form.

Outside in the back you sat on a milk crate, the pre-Spring Chicagoan air fluttering over your skin. Moments after, Mikey joined you by sitting on an adjacent crate close to you after propping open the door. “Thanks, Bella” he said as he leaned over, his palm squeezing your thigh in an attempt to physically communicate the appreciation he held for your act of service. 

You offered out the plate to him, prompting him to begin devouring. He gruffly moaned after taking his first bite. “Mhhhh, shit, this is like Marry Me chicken but in sandwich form.” You giggled in response with your hands resting in your lap, watching as he attacked it hungrily. Mid-bite, he motioned with his head towards the other sandwich on the plate, “Ain’t gonna eat itself, Italiana.”

“I’m not hungry right now, Mike,” you responded, suddenly losing your appetite as you thought of the most effective way to check in on him without him brushing it off. Mikey had a fortified ‘I’ll deal with it maself’ attitude; his hard-headed, traditional Italian, ‘Godfather’ persona caused him to keep you far away from the messes he had gotten himself into. In his eyes, you are more than capable of dealing with life’s bullshit, but his innate urge to protect you from harm’s way and unnecessary stress made it difficult to involve you.

“What was going on in there?” you motioned towards inside with your head. “Ah, nothin’ doll.” He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to brush off the topic, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just some bills that need payin’, I got it covered. Business good today? Any jagoffs give you trouble?” He frantically read your face, urgently hoping you’d buy his not-so-discreet attempt at changing the topic.

“C’mon, Mike. Cut the shit. You’re suffocating in that office.” The only person whose bluntness Mikey could listen to happened to also be the only person he’d accept ‘Mike’ from. He took the cigarette that had been hanging from his lips in his office out of his shirt pocket and proceeded to light it. Taking the first drag of it, he flicked it, holding it out to you.

Pursing his lips to blow out his puff, he responded confidently. “I got it all figured out, sunshine. Plus, I got cousin helpin’ me with the books and shit. Just gotta pay back those muthafuckas who keep callin’ me. They’re all, ‘where’s my money!?’” he playfully rolled his eyes, making hand gestures and displaying a funny face as he imitated the callers. You both knew damn well they had every right to be calling him. 

“You telling me that Richie is on the books is supposed to bring me a sense of comfort?” Asking him that question with pure seriousness and handing him back the cigarette, Mikey stifled a laugh. “Hey, him and the IRS are like this” he crossed his middle finger over his index while winking and making a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Cousin, where the fuck are the receipt rolls, the office looks like an abandoned and pissed-in office depot” Richie’s exclaiming became increasingly louder the closer he got. “Feels like we change the damn paper in that thing ever- oh shit, pardon my interruption to your rendezvous. Were you guys about to fuck? I can leave” Richie pointed with his thumb towards the kitchen as he sported a fake-worried and devious expression, slowly inching backwards.

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “No one’s fucking anyone, Rich.” Mikey looked to the ground as he faked a chuckle, ignoring the slight pang of hurt in his chest.

“You want a mortadella sandwhich?” You held out the plate to Richie, knowing he couldn’t resist. “Uh, DUH,” Richie grabbed an additional crate to join the two of you, immediately beginning to eat.

“Oh fuck, are you fucking serious right now?! Mikey, if you don’t marry this girl I’ll do it for you. ‘S like a mouf orgathm” Richie had just begun eating yet he already had food on the corners of his mouth. You chuckled, choosing to ignore the marriage comment. “Here, you child. You’re such a slob” you threw him a napkin you had stored in your apron. 

“Hey, the real slob is right over there” he pointed directly at Mikey, not even bothering to wipe his mouth but proceeding to take a another massive bite. “Something’s gotta be done about that cesspool of an office,” Richie shook his head disapprovingly, despite also functioning well in chaotic enrivonments. Mikey took yet another drag, the stress of you and Richie’s indirect demand to get his shit together getting to him. “It’s organized chaos, I know where everything is, s’all that matters.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was the third night in a row that you had difficulty falling asleep. You had tried everything in your arsenal of melatonin-producing activities, and yet, your brain was spiraling, most of your thoughts pertaining to Mikey.

You weren’t going to kid yourself. You needed something and you knew exactly who to get it from. Picking up your phone, you made the call.

“Rich?? You awake?” You rolled over to your side, holding yourself up by your elbow and propping your head up with the palm of your hand. “Yeah I’m awake, but why the fuck are you awake, missus?” “I need a favour…” 

Richie’s dirty mind figured any call from a woman at this hour was for sex, but he also knew about Mikey’s schoolboy yearn for you and wouldn’t dare make any advancements. The silence on his end was telling. “Not that type of favour, God, Rich! Stop being a man for a second. I need weed.” You huffed out, a whiny tone of desperation heavy in your voice. 

“Now that I can help you with” he chuckled.

“YES thank you, Rich, oh my god” You sprung up out of bad as if there were hot rocks in it. “I will meet you at The Beef, okay?!” And that was where he met you.

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You and Richie sat at the back of The Beef, exactly where you had had lunch earlier that day. “You want to do the honours, stoner?” Richie held out the joint and lighter for you. You faked an annoying look and exaggerately took them from him. “I’m not a stoner, Rich. I just have an undiagnosed sleeping problem.” You put the joint between your lips and lit it, taking an ungodly large pull from it. 

“Woahhhhh cheech and chong, relax” Richie practically yanked the joint from you. You immediately began coughing as you hadn’t smoked in a while. “What or who the fuck are you trying to forget, Italiana?” Richie’s joking tone didn’t conceal his concern as he took a puff himself. You looked at him, tilting your head to the side to signify confusion.

Richie took another pull before returning the joint to you. “If you’re calling me at 12am to smoke because you couldn’t sleep, it tells me your big brain was overthinking.” You took a moderate inhale this time, the buzz beginning to radiate out to your extremities. “What were you thinking about, Richie? Something tells me you were awake for similar reasons.”

“I’m not sayin’ anything ‘til you do” he responded whilst shrugging. 

Making a sour face, you attempted to restore the saliva in your mouth. “I have cotton mouth like a bitch, I’m going to get something to drink. You want anything?” you asked, heading inside before he could interrogate you further. “Get me a brio!” You chuckled to yourself, shouting back “You know you’re not Italian, right?!”

You walked over to the walk-in fridge, grabbing Richie’s Brio and a Fresca for yourself. On the way back out, Mikey’s office door caught your attention, and you suddenly had an idea. “Rich. Oh my god. I know exactly what we can do.” 

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“I… I think we just made things worse.” Looking up at Richie in horror, he mirrored your reaction. “Yeah, we fucked up cousin. We’re in some deep shit.” 

You and Richie were both sat on the office floor, waist deep in the paper equivalent of a small forest. You took a swig from your Fresca, attempting to decipher where to start. “We can do this. For Mikey. He deserves this, and fuck, let’s face it, he was never gonna do it himself!” You attempted to motivate Richie, knowing his child-like attention span and patience were on their last legs. 

Picking up various pieces of paper, you attempted to make sense of them. “Okay… I’ll make one pile for receipts, and I’ll sort them by date, and then-” You felt Richie’s eyes burning a hole into you, causing you to look at him and flail your hands around. “What?!” Impatiently waiting for his response, you began gnawing on the inside of your cheek, nervous that he was onto you. 

“You like him.” Richie slowly grinned from ear to ear as he stated it matter o’factly. “You like like him.” You flung your head back and groaned. “‘Like like?’ C’mon, Rich, what are you, 12? Shut the fuck up and help me.” The blood rushed into your cheeks almost immediately at his accusation, the THC physiologically betraying you and making it impossible to put on a front. “You like him. Oh my god. I fuckin’ knew it,” he giggled. 

“I don’t know whether it’s the weed or the fact that it’s 3am and I’m reaching the point of delirium, but since I’m not a pre-teen, I’ll admit that you’re not wrong. But it’s never going to happen. He’s mentally ill with a fucked up family and so am I- that doesn’t tend to be the ideal romantic combination. Now, lets finish this so we can still go home and get some rest before shift starts.” You looked at Richie with a stern look; he was shocked at your mini rampage, and internally, you were petrified about the fact that you had just spilt your guts to Mikey’s bestfriend.

“And don’t get any ideas, because this conversation does NOT repeat itself, you hear me, Jerimovich!” When you addressed someone in the kitchen by their last name, they knew you meant business. “Uh-huh, yup, yes ma’am.” Richie gulped, considering you just displayed more emotions in the last 5-minutes than you had for the entire length of time he has known you. It didn’t help that he was beyond stoned and couldn’t quite comprehend the nature of what you had told him. 

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“Cousin! What the fuck is this? Why can I see the floor?” Mikey was standing at the doorway of his office in utter disbelief that morning. Richie jogged over peaking his head into the office. “It was Italiana’s doing, she just told me what to do. We were preeeetty fried” he chuckled to himself, recalling last night’s events. “Surprisingly, we didn’t throw anything out. She’s got a real knack for organizing, should’ve let her do this months ago. The IRS and I aren’t going to have anymore beef, see what I did.” 

Richie couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. His nervous rambling was an attempt to not tell Mikey about your confession. Knowing how much Mikey admired you, it was killing him to not be able to tell his own bestfriend that the girl of his dreams reciprocated his feelings. Mikey slowly turned to look at Richie, hands still on his hips. “What the fuck did you smoke, crack? Why are you acting all fucked?”

You had walked into the kitchen at perfect timing before Richie blabbed your secret. Going to hang your purse up, Mikey called you over; he didn’t even need to see you to feel your presence. “Italiana, come ‘ere!” You sped walk over and stood in the entrance, your hands folded in front of you with a nervousness. A part of you was worried that messing with Mikey’s ‘organized chaos’ was going to disorient him, but you wanted to lessen the stress he was experiencing. That was what you did for the people you loved; especially the man you loved. 

“You did this?” He looked directly at you; despite being an expert in Mikey’s nuances, you couldn’t tell whether he was pissed or overjoyed. “Uh, yeah! It’s all pretty self-explanatory but I can go through it with you if you want? I just thought it’d make your life a lil easier. And Richie’s! Of course.” You rubbed your arm with your hand as a means of self-soothing.

“This is great, Bella. Truly. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble, I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen it look like this ever” he motioned towards the filing cabinet and the paper baskets you had labelled appropriately, using his other hand to comb through his hair in shock. “I couldnt of done it without Richie. And Richie’s weed! It was nothing, Mike” you smiled at him and showed yourself out as nonchalantly as possible. 

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You were waiting the last tables of the day - mainly consisting of left behind beer bottles and plastic sandwich baskets - when Mikey came up behind you putting one hand on your waist. “Meet me in the office when you’re done here, yeah?” As he whispered into your ear, you had to keep your knees from buckling. “Yeah, Mike! Okay!” Fucking Richie.

You attempted to stall for the inevitably painful conversation that awaited you, slowly walking towards the kitchen. While washing your hands, your brain began to spiral. Wiping your hands on your apron, you attempted to bravely walk towards the office, standing in the doorway. 

“What’s up?” You halted in your tracks almost immediately as you noticed the charcuterie board Mikey was standing in front of and the bottle of red wine in his hands. “Fuck me. Okay, listen.” You walked closer to him. “Before you say anything, I don’t know what Richie said to you, but as someone who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re, he has no idea what he’s talking about. You didn’t have to do any of this.” 

Mikey looked at you like a deer in headlights. “What the fuck are you talking about,” he chuckled. There was that dimpled smile. And now you were confused (and distracted) before you realized Richie didn’t say anything.

“I wanted to thank you for organizing the office…” Mikey explained, twisting the bottle of wine open and pouring you a glass. “I know how much you like your charcuterie. If Starbucks ever stops selling those little boards I’ll wonder what you’re gonna eat.” He earned a laugh from you for joking about your mild salami addiction.

You sported the fakest wide tooth grin you could muster. “Hey, I’m Italian. I can’t help it. I think I’m keeping them in business though” you joked in response. He held out the glass for you and winked. “Thanks, Mike” you smiled, hoping he couldn’t pick up on your nervousness. 

“Okay, let me show you what we’ve got here.” He clapped his hands together, excited to introduce you to his concoction of Italian meets and cheeses. Hunched over his desk with both of his hands planted on the surface to support him, he pointed at each meat and cheese as he went through the board’s contents. 

“We’ve got cacciatore, prosciutto, mortadella, then I added parmesan - I know how much you like it - along with romano and gorgonzola. I was thinking we can add it to the menu. We’re no hipster yuppies but throw some olives and overpriced crackers on here and I mean, we’re talkin’ business, baby.” Looking up at you, he attempted to read your face for your thoughts.

Mikey was passionate. That was his entire nature. And when he presented you with ideas, he seemed to put your approval and opinion on a pedestal. You had helped significantly with business at The Beef, assisting in bringing Mikey’s visions to fruition while also providing your input where necessary; he valued your insight more than you realized. 

Taking a baguette slice, you added cacciatore and parmesan onto it and bit in. “Fuck, Mike.” Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you let out a near moan. “We gotta add this. It could even be part of a date night special. The charcuterie as an antipasto, a soup or salad, a main, and then dessert” you presented.

Mike glanced up at you with a smirk, content with your proposal. “Have I ever told you that I love your brain, Italiana?” You giggled as you continued to devour the board, attempting to ignore his blatantly obvious attempt at flirting as you couldn’t believe he could possibly be interested in you. 

The rest of the evening was spent brainstorming business ideas, reminiscing on memories shared between you, Mikey, and Richie, and consuming copious amounts of wine. 

“Oh my god, Mike. You remember when Richie tried picking up that blonde girl at the bar with a magic trick, and you- y- oh my god.” You flung your head back as you cackled; you were wine drunk and snortling to the point of incoherence. You were sat across from Mikey who was planted behind his desk, his ankle resting on top of his other knee. His forearms rested on the arms of his chair, and he loosely held a glass of whiskey as he watched you with amusement and a sly grin of admiration. 

“You had to go over there and save him from the embarrassment. Poor thing.” You chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the chick he was tryna bag had started flirting with me,” Mikey said, taking a sip of his whiskey and raising his eyebrows as he attempted to recall the events of that evening. 

You looked intently at him, not breaking eye contact. “Can you blame her?” The wine encouraged a new-found confidence to emerge from within you. There was no way you would’ve been this direct with Mikey while sober. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mikey leaned forward to put his glass on his desk then returned to his laid back position. With a dumbfounded look on your faced, you laughed then displayed a look of annoyance. “Don’t play stupid. Look at yourself, Mike.” You stood up, put the wine glass down, and rested both of your hands on his desk, leaning forward until you were mere inches away from his face.

Looking into his right eye, glancing down at his lips, and looking back up to his left eye, he began to shift in his seat. It was evident that you were both under a hazy and horny alcohol-induced influence, the sexual tension very obviously suffocating the room. “Now take me home before I say or do something I’ll regret.”

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As Mikey walked you back to your apartment, you held onto the side of his frame with all your might. He guided you through the streets of Chicago with ease; he was nowhere near the level of drunk that you had achieved. “You okay, darlin’?” He looked down, a slight smile on his face as he recognized your drunken effort to walk in a straight line. “Yeah, Mike. Thanks for tonight. No one’s ever gone through such an effort to appreciate me.”

You peered up at him with a smile; you wanted to put into perspective how much his actions meant to you, however, Mikey felt an even stronger urge to spoil you moving forward. Quite frankly, he was bewildered that his small gesture that evening exceeded all that you’ve known. 

Arriving to the door of your apartment, you began rummaging through your purse for your keys. Finding them, you held your arm out straight and dangled them in front of Mikey. “You’re gonna need to unlock the door, mister. I do not currently possess the fine motor skills” you joked, earning a laugh from him.

You caught the glimmer in his eyes. Mikey felt like your fierce protector. You both knew you didn’t need protecting- while this was a part of you he admired, his masculinity often fought for dominance; for the chance to show you how well he could look after you and how much you deserved it. 

He opened the door, propping it open for you as you stumbled through, immediately attempting to take off your shoes. You hadn’t thought this out thoroughly as you ended up toppling over, Mikey catching you in the process. “Easy, doll. Here, sit down,” he motioned toward the ottoman in the foyer of your apartment, guiding you as you lowered yourself. 

He crouched down at your feet and placed the heel of your foot on his thigh, proceeding to untie your shoes. Grasping your ankle one at a time, he wiggled your feet out. You looked down at him, admiring his gentle touch, the concentration present in his furrowed brow; you loved to watch him, whatever he was doing, and you’ve known for a long time that you’ve loved him.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Holding out both of his hands for you, you stood up, letting him walk you through to your bedroom. You had a case of the over-tired drunken giggles, prompting you to laugh as you slurred your intentions to take off your make-up.

Mikey picked out some pjs for you, then proceeded to pour you a cold glass of water while you got changed. Opening the door to your bedroom, you motioned for him to come inside. “Sleep next to me?” You proposed with a curious tone despite knowing he’d decline as he (annoyingly) insisted on being a respectful gentleman at all times. “S’all good doll, I’ll be good on the couch” he motioned to the living room with his head. “Lemme tuck you in.” 

As you got under the covers, Mikey offered you the glass of water to which you happily obliged. Handing it back to him, he placed it on your bedside table as you snuggled yourself into the sheets. He turned off the lamp, the room engulfing with darkness save for the midnight blue hue that the window cast in. 

Mikey began to walk out of your room when you called out to him. “Hey Mike, c’mere” you turned over, watching him as he slowly approached. Motioning for him to come closer, you whispered into his ear. “I like like you.” 

Knocking out after the words escaped your lips, as if they were made of melatonin, Mikey smiled to himself as he looked down at you. “And I love you, sunshine.”

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EEEEEEEEK my very first Mikey imagine! Which means I am still learning to integrate his personality into my writing- it’s hard when he has extremely minimal screentime. ALSO I am writing this in whatever year Mikey was operating The Beef, so Carmy, Syd, and the others aren’t there, and Richie and Tiff are still together. I am completely open to feedback and would also love to get more requests for Mikey. Let me know what y’all think!!! :)