Originally, this was going to be an OC story, but that would be boring; am I right? Is anyone else still obsessed with this man? Anyways, I wrote this months ago so everything is semi-written I just gotta tweak and adjust a couple things may take a while since I'm replacing my OC with self insert. It's loosely edit bc I needed something to occupy my time between dispatching ambulances, enjoy :/
Threshold
The first knock didn’t sound like a knock at all
It sounded like something heavy giving out.
You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in suds, rinsing out the pots from your dinner.
Robert Johnson had long fallen silent on the record player, the needle whispering in its groove. The window above the sink was open just enough to let in a thin breath of night air heavy with damp earth and the far-off chirp of crickets.
Then came the sound again. A dull dragging thump against the front steps. Then another
You froze, hands hovering over the water.
The house was too far from town for visitors to just “stop by." Folks didn’t make that walk unless they meant to be here.
Another scrape. Then a low ragged cough.
Your heart kicked up. For a moment, you thought of Barbara's warning, of boys snatched and bodies torn. Animal attacks, they said. Wild dogs gone rabid. Wolves, some whispered, though no one had seen a wolf this far down in years.
You wiped your hands on your apron and moved as quietly as you could through the front room, The floorboards remembered every step, creaking soft under your bare feet. You stopped just shy of the door, listening.
Nothing. Just her own breathing, too loud in her ears.
“Who’s there?” you called, voice steady enough., “If you’re lookin fro trouble, I dont keep none in this house.”
Silence answered. Then faintly
“Ma’am…”
The word rasped like it has been dragged over gravel. The voice of a man, worn down to the bone.
You hesitated only a heartbeat more before sliding back the latch. The door groaned as it opened, your other hand slipping to the little knife in your pants pocket.
He was on his knees on your porch.
For a second, your mind couldn’t make sense of him. He looked half-melted by the sun. Skin blistered and peeling across his face and hands, red and raw where it had cracked. His shirt, white once, now streaked with dirt and old blood; clung to him in damp patches. His lips were split, dry as riverbed clay, and his eyes…
His eyes were off.
Not in color. Just too bright for a man that tore-up. They watched you with a sharpness that didn’t fit the rest of him, like the body had given out but something inside hadn’t.
“Sweet Lord,” You whispered before you caught yourself.
You stepped out onto the porch, doorway framing you in lamp glow. The last light of evening was clingin’ to him, the sky behind his shoulders still smeared pink and gold. He must’ve been walking in it for hours. Maybe days.
“Please,” he managed, voice a rough scrape. “Ain’t… lookin’ for trouble. Just… needed a place to sit a spell.” He tried to smile and it nearly split his parched lips open. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, miss.”
You glanced past him, out toward the road. Empty. Just the long stretch of dirt, the ditch, the fields beyond. No wagon, horse, not even a soul in sight.
“You walk out here alone?” you asked. “In this heat?”
He laughed once, low and strained. “You could say that.”
Your fear slid sideways into something else…habit, training, that healer’s instinct that always rose up when you saw someone hurting. The blisters along his neck had gone ugly, some already weeping clear fluid. His hands shook where they braced against the boards.
“That’s more than a little sun,” you muttered. “You stayin’ out in it all day?”
He looked away, jaw working. “Didn’t have much choice, ma’am.”
You should’ve sent him on. Told him the truth; that a Black woman living alone didn’t have the luxury of letting strange white men cross her threshold, no matter how pitiful they looked. That gossip traveled faster than blood out here. That's all it took, was one person seeing the wrong thing.
Instead, you saw the way his shoulders trembled. The way his breath hitched like every inhale scraped his lungs raw.
“Can you stand?” you asked.
He blinked up at you, surprised. “Reckon I can try.”
You slipped a hand under his arm before you could talk yourself out of it. His shirt was rough under your fingers, sticky with sweat and dust. He was hot, but not like fever; like someone had taken him fresh off a stove and set him on her porch to cool.
“Hold on,” she murmured. “Lean on me. I ain’t that fragile.”
He staggered when you pulled him upright, a low groan tearing from his chest. Up close, you could see the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, the tired crease between his brows. There was an accent in the few words he’d spoken—something lilting, edges softened in a way that wasn’t from around here.
His weight nearly sent them both stumbling, but you dug your heels into the wood and dragged him across your threshold and inside, one shuffling step at a time.
You got him as far as the couch in the front room and eased him down as gently as you could. The springs complained, but held. He sagged back, head tipping against the worn fabric, eyes fluttering shut.
“Hey,” you said sharply, patting his cheek with your fingertips. “Don’t you go dyin’ on my couch. I just had these cushions cleaned.”
A ghost of that cracked smile touched his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
You rolled your eyes skyward in exasperation and went to work.
First the water. Cool, not cold; you’d seen what cold shock did to folks already too close to the edge. You filled a basin from the kitchen sink, carried it in, and set it at his feet. A clean cloth, wrung out and folded.
She started with his hands.
They were torn up something awful. Not just sunburn—scratches, cuts, raw knuckles like he’d been fighting stone or tree bark. You dabbed gentle, biting your lip when he hissed between his teeth. The clear fluid from the blisters mixed with old blood, turning the water cloudy.
“How long you been out there?” you asked.
“Couple days,” he murmured. “Hard t’ tell. Heat plays tricks.”
“And you walked the whole way?” you shook your head. “Foolishness’ll kill you quicker than any sickness.”
“Wouldn’t be the first thing to try,” he muttered under his breath. If you heard it, you pretended you hadn’t.
You worked in silence for a while, cleaning what you could. The skin along his neck and collarbone looked the worst. He flinched when you peeled back the edge of his shirt, the fabric stuck to the burns.
“Gonna have to cut this off,” you warned. “You scream in my house, I’ll stick a rag in your mouth, can’t be drawing attention.”
His eyes opened at that, a flicker of amusement cutting through the pain. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
You fetched the scissors, snipped the ruined fabric, and peeled it away as slowly as you could. Underneath, his chest and shoulders were a patchwork of red and blistering, some places pale and angry, others almost… healed? Too smooth for how bad he looked. You frowned, fingers hovering over one patch of skin that seemed newer than the rest.
“You been burned like this before?” you asked quietly.
Something unreadable flickered across his face. “You could say that, too.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but didn’t push. Folks carried all kinds of stories on their bodies. Some they told. Some they didn’t.
“You got a name?” you asked instead, dipping the cloth and wringing it out again.
He watched you move, that strange sharpness back in his gaze. “Remmick,” he said after a moment”.
“Remmick,” you repeated, testing the weight of it. It didn’t fit with the local names she knew. Didn’t sound like Mississippi or Georgia or Texas. You told him your name, it slipping off your tongue softly.
He inclined his head slightly, as if yall were meeting proper in a parlor instead of halfway between life and death on your couch. “Pleasure’s mine, Miss. Forgive the state I’m in. Ain’t usually this ugly.”
You snorted softly. “You’re half-cooked and tore to shreds. Ugly’s the least of your worries.”
He winced as the cool cloth touched his throat. “Fair enough.”
They fell quiet again. Outside, the sky finished darkening, the last line of sun slipping away. The room seemed to loosen with it, shadows settling into their familiar corners. You lit another lamp, the warm glow softening the harsh lines of his face.
“What happened?” she asked finally. “To you.”
He hesitated, gaze flicking toward the window. The night pressed up against the glass, thick and close.
“Crossed some folks I shouldn’t’ve,” he said at last. “Men who think they own every road they set foot on. They been trackin’ me for a while now.” His mouth twisted. “Got a little careless with my timin’ is all. Sun caught me worse than I planned.”
“Men?” You repeated, raising a brow, then nodded toward the marks on his arms. “These look like more than men and sun.”
He met your eyes, something dark and wry in his own. “Some men ain’t far from beasts.”
You thought of the boy torn up by “dogs.” The way the mother had screamed when they carried him in. The pattern of the wounds not quite matchin’ what the doctor said. You pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand.
“You got enemies chasin’ you, and you pick my porch to collapse on,” you muttered. “Should’ve fallen out in front of the sheriff’s instead.”
“Sheriff shoots first,and ask questions later” he said calmly. “I could tell you wouldn’t”
Your hand stilled for a moment on his shoulder.
“That supposed to be flattery?” you asked.
“Supposed to be truth,” he said. “You got kind hands, Miss. World don’t make many of those anymore.”
Heat crept up your neck at that, unexpected and unwelcome. You pulled your hand back, reaching for the small jar of salve you kept tucked on a shelf; your own mix of comfrey, plantain leaves, and a little something extra you didn’t talk about from the clinic.
“This is gonna sting some,” you said, unscrewing the lid. “If you pass out, that’s your business.”
“I’ll do my best to stay awake for the show,” he murmured.
You dabbed the ointment along the edges of the worst burns, careful not to press too hard. He sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn’t pull away, fingers digging into the seat cushion.
“You from around here, Remmick?” you asked, mostly to keep him talking.
“No, ma’am.”
“Figured.” you eyed his face, the curve of his cheekbones, his jaw. “You got a way of talkin’ sound like you from somewhere overseas, remind me of them Irish folk that come and go.”
He huffed a quiet laugh at that. “Been a few places. Stayed in fewer.”
“How long you plan on stayin’ here?” you asked, trying for light and mostly succeeding.
His gaze slid to the ceiling, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear.
“Long enough to get my feet back under me,” he said. “Don’t aim to bring my trouble on your doorstep any longer than allowed to.”
You nodded once. That was fair. The truth was, you didn’t know yet if you wanted him to stay or go. All you knew was he was here now, and he was hurt, and that meant he was yours to tend until he wasn’t.
“Reckon that’s enough pokin’ at you for one night,” you said, screwing the lid back on the salve. “You hungry?”
His jaw worked, something like hunger passing over his features that didn’t look like it had anything to do with food. It was gone in a blink, replaced by tired politeness.
“If you got a bit of bread, I won’t say no,” he said.
You brought him what you could, bread, a little leftover stew, and water cool from the tap. He ate slow; bites small chewing long as if he were savoring the flavor. You pretended not to notice when he left half the bowl full but drained the water like a man dying of thirst.
When you finally stepped back in the room from fetching him a sheet and a shirt your father had left behind, the room had gone quiet in that way it sometimes did out here. No wagons or voices. Just the hum of crickets and the occasional lonely call of some bird too stubborn to sleep.
“You can rest there for the night,” you said, handing him the items in your hand; nodding at the couch. “Ain’t much, but it’s soft and off the floor.”
His eyes followed you as you moved to put out the lamp. “You’re trustin’ a man you don’t know to sleep in your house?” he asked softly.
“I’m trustin’ you barely got the strength to stand up straight, let alone cause trouble,” you said. “And if I’m wrong…”
Your fingers tapped the pocket where your knife sat.
He smiled at that, small and genuine. “Fair enough, Miss.”
You turned toward the hallway, pausing just long enough to look back over your shoulder.
“Night, Remmick.”
His eyes had already drifted half-shut. “Goodnight.”
You woke twice that night, heart pounding, sure you’d heard something moving in the front room. The second, just the wind pushing at the porch screen.
The third time, it was silence that woke you.
The kind that felt… emptied.
Dawn light was just beginning to silver the edges of the window when you stepped into the front room, bare feet cold against the floor.
The couch was empty.
The sheet you’d laid over him was folded neatly at the end of the settee. The pillow fluffed. The basin empty, wiped clean, and turned upside down to dry.
The door was shut. The latch set just as she’d left it.
You stood there a long moment, fingers curled around the edge of the doorway.
“Gone in the night,” you murmured to the empty room. “Didn’t even leave a thank you.”
But when you stepped closer, you saw it there, tucked under the edge of the folded sheet. A small, carefully wrapped bundle.
Inside, you found a gold coin, worn smooth with years of handling, and a scrap of paper with handwriting neat and old-fashioned. You’d never seen anything like it, just wooden, and the occasional silver coin.
You saved my hide, Miss. Hope I can square that debt someday.
There was no signature; not like it was needed anyway.
You turned the coin over in your palm, feeling the weight of it. The morning felt different somehow, the quiet around the house deeper than it had been yesterday.
You should’ve put the coin in a drawer and forgotten it.
Instead, you slipped it into the pocket of your apron, right beside your knife.
And somewhere, far from your little house and its lavender-and-linseed smell, a man with healed skin and a banjo on his back walked the road at the edge of sunrise, already thinking of the porch he meant to find again.
cw: afab reader, reader can visibly blush, breeding, cucking, scratching, size difference, simon thinks about eating you a lot :)
medieval!au based on this post of mine. your lord husband is letting you down and simon knows he can do something about it
Simon remembers the first time he saw you.
How could he not? You were a stranger in a strange land.
A flower from the south, grown up in warm soil and rich sun. Looking like you lived on fruit and honey, and Simon bet you smelled like it, too. Blackberry jam, and sweet cream, and nectar, he'd reckon. It was the first thought that passed through his head—that he'd like to smell you. Wanted to shove his ruined nose into that soft part in the hollow of your neck, where you were warm and delicate and he could feel your pulse thrumming just beneath, and inhale. He had to get close to anything to get a scent—his nose was mostly scar tissue, burned and singed from coke smoke over and over throughout the years—but he had wanted it.
You stepped out of your vulgar carriage, a little bird, bright and smiling in the bitter, sodden morning, and he had wanted it.
He doesn't know why. Hours in the forge leave him plenty of time to mull thoughts like warmed, spiced wine, but he hasn't yet figured out his taste for sweet things. Finespun things. Things he could crush in his hands like eggshells. He only knew that the sweet things never liked him much. Sweet things were frightened of the large, scowling thing making iron sing among the flames.
Until you.
You looked him in the eye. Smiled at him that day when he stood in the receiving line in the courtyard. You had a flash of teeth for everyone, it was true, but often even those generous with their smiles could never quite find one for Simon. They got lost somewhere, swallowed by his imposing frame. And maybe you didn't know to be afraid, maybe you'd never learned to be wary of mutts in your fair, tempered home, but Simon thought it was something else:
Curiosity. Interest in the beasts bred in the north—because your lord husband certainly wasn't an example of one.
The first son of a first son with a great old name and a castle. His family had lived within its walls for four hundred years, building and defending it in the name of some faraway king Simon couldn't give two shits about, and your mooncalf lord was going to run it all into the mud. He was a dull axe, meek and mollycoddled. Played at war to take the spines of other, greater men. A bare branch, too, Simon figured.
You'd learn all that when he returned from his latest campaign.
Married in absentia for your father's wealth of fighting men, you'd meet your new husband for the first time a month after your arrival. For now, you're alone, a warmblood getting used to the frost. It's no wonder you wander into Simon's forge.
Three days into your residence at the keep, your maids have you dressed for the winter. All wrapped up in a dull-coloured cloak. Hiding you beneath thick fur and delicate embroidery—as if anything could dull what you hold within you. The waifs are too flighty to follow you into Simon's workshop. The smell, the heat, the man within—all of them offend their delicate sensibilities in one way or another. Not you, though. You run to the bellows with no mind paid to the bull hammering metal beside them.
Simon only stops his work when you clear your pretty throat.
"What is your name, ser?" you ask. You're a daisy blooming in the winter muck. Or a weed, sprouting stubbornly where it doesn't belong. Wilting petals sucking sunlight in a smithy.
The only light here is from the fireglow; all else is choked. Coal smoulders in the hearth, belching sulphur and tar into the dense, stifling air. Breezes are throttled the moment they pass the threshold, so there's nothing to kick up the ash and soot—they lie in a blanket over the vices and punches, chisels and swages. Anything in Simon's forge doesn't stay clean for long. Even you, satin eve. Linger, and you'll melt into the walls with all the rest.
"Not a ser, little bird. Just a blacksmith," he says.
He had been mending a mail hauberk ruined in your lord's last battle. Some bannerman had a terrible day, and it was Simon's job to set the chain back right so another soldier could have one more. He sets the armour aside, and the loops of steel shimmer like stars in the firelight. You demand his full attention, and Simon wants to see what you'll do with it.
"My lady," you say, tone polite and proper. You run him a cunning once-over, top to toe, and Simon wonders what you see.
"Not no lady, neither."
"No, blacksmith, I'm a lady—the lady of your liege lord," you remind him with a smirk. As if he needed it. You look the part enough—clean and soft, highborn, grown up never scraping a knee, no doubt. But there's mischief twinkling in your eyes, like a child looking at a stream they want to ruin their boots in.
Simon doesn't know if he wants to stamp out that mischief or if there's something else he'd like to do with it.
He'll have to get closer to find out.
"And what does the lady of my liege lord want?"
"Your name." You're puckish and enjoying it, a smiling imp playing in the tick of your mouth. Even as your neck cranes to look up at him.
He rounds the heavy anvil to stand in front of you. Simon knows he's a big man. Can't forget when he's looking at the tops of people's heads all the time. And he's reminded, often and loudly, by highborns who think their sigils and names make them large. If I were your size, I'd rule the fucking kingdom, they say, and they're right. Simon probably could be a knight if he wanted. A ser. Fight hard enough for a lord who would give him a holdfast and a wife of his own. But he prefers the forge, prefers bending iron to his will to being bent to a lord's.
And if he were some perfumed knight, you wouldn't be here, looking up at him with intrigue.
Mud-madness, maybe. Maybe you want to know what it's like in the dirt.
"Riley," Simon says. He gives you his last, a secret joke just for him.
He's stepped into your space, something that would get him flogged if there were anyone around to see. But it's dark, and warm, and lonely in his poor hovel, and he likes how a little bit of your bravery is sapped away with him so close. Likes to see the uncertainty bleed into the curve of your brow with every notch your fine spine bends.
"Riley the blacksmith." You run a delicate finger on the flat side of a blade Simon was working on earlier, pressing prints into the cooled iron where it rests on the table beside you both. You're pretending now, pretending you're not afraid. But you can't look at him, and Simon can see your chest rise and fall.
"You'll forge a new sword for my husband," you continue. "I've brought good steel from my home for you to use."
"Not some jewelry?" he asks.
You hum. "I have enough jewelry."
"Didn't mean for you."
That gets your eyes back on him. You're affronted at the insult to your perfect lord. You draw yourself to your full height, taking back the measures you shrank. It's still lengths below Simon, and you know it. Simon sees the exact moment you realize just how tall you'd have to grow to match him, so you put another kind of distance between you and him. You glide to the other side of his work table, and when you speak, it's harsh and proud. "No jewelry. A sword, a longsword."
"Why?"
Chin tipped high, shoulders squared; a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. "Because I want for it."
"Used to getting what you want, little bird?" Simon follows your path, but when he steps, you step, and it's a dance. Not the measured steps you were surely taught as a girl, not the proper trips of light to plucked strings. It's a different sort of dance, and it doesn't help you. The only thing it does is get his blood hot.
If it's a chase you're after, you'll get it.
"Yes," you say.
Simon likes how your throat looks when you swallow.
"You don't know what you want," he tells you.
He could show you. In his mind's eye, Simon sees the woods outside the keep. He hears your soft footsteps thumping on the forest floor and the sounds you'd make when he catches you. Can almost smell the frozen leaves tangling in your hair, and the prey-sweat on your skin, and his jaw tingles.
"I do." You circle the table, never letting Simon get within arm's reach. Smart bird, but you sound as petulant as a child.
"And what's that?" he asks.
A table between you and him, and you think it is enough. That's the problem with highborns—they never think the lowbreds are half as bloodthirsty as they are. They think they are the teeth. Think their rank is armour. But what's a title in the mud, and even a worm will turn. That table could be across the room in a second, if Simon had the mind. You stir some creature in him, your furtive steps like the beating of wings. It rises from his chest like bile, that urge to hold you down, stop your movings and twitchings with his weight, feel your muscles flex below him.
Like a hound on a coursing—only what runs is hunted.
"A happy husband," you tell him, and Simon can't remember what the conversation was. He's busy keeping his feet planted, even as you step into the doorway and his every instinct begs him to act. He hadn't even realized you'd circled all the way back to the entrance to his forge, where the cold and daylight await.
"And a sword. By the end of the month, Riley, for his return."
Your scent sits in the air like poppy oil long after you've left.
You come back the next week, a winter rose tucked behind your ear and flakes of snow dusting your crown.
You're a bright thing, too full of life for this unwelcoming keep. Simon keeps thinking you'll wither, that one of these days he'll see you round a corner and you'll be sallow and wet like the rest of the north, but you keep surprising him. He eats his fill of you in glimpses, flutters of your cloak through the keyhole of his doorway, traipsing through the snow with your litter of gamines at your heels. You haunt his nights, his dreams, walking the scorched halls of his mind like a shade of witness, and in them, too, you run.
Simon wakes every dawn before you're caught. Always just around the next bend, soft soles padding on the stone.
Seeing you, then, measures from his wingspan and unaware of the danger dripping drool at your feet, Simon feels of consequence. Feels like a whispered name of a fable, too treacherous to say too loudly, or something may hear. Infamy, that's where Simon's thoughts lead him. Or into the loop of a noose.
Where you got that rose, though, he'd like to know. Crystal ropes of ice line the petal edges. A precious beauty frozen in time, black as liver blood. When he asks, you pluck it from your ear and hide your smirk behind it. "I met a handsome fairy in the wood, and he said he would give me a secret if I gave him a kiss. All I received was this rose," you tell him. Grinning like this is the start of a fun game, like you're the Good Neighbour between the iron oaks.
In your southern home, perhaps, The Folk are just stories. Here, in the unyielding North, people don't have the luxury to laugh at tales. If you're born in the snow, you don't take bargains with a light heart.
"Trading kisses, eh?" Simon grunts. Coke smoke and steam billow around him as he quenches a blade in a pail of water. Metal screams and hisses as it chokes for breath. "What do you want, then? A pair of earrings? I could give you a necklace you'd like."
You come to his side, straining around his torso to watch the steel drown. You're nothing, just nothing beside his great frame. He could bend you as easily as red iron, but your teeth flash with alloyed courage.
"Is that your usual payment, Riley?"
"Give me a kiss, little bird, and you'll get more than a necklace."
Sheltered, highborn lady, whistling in the dark. You don't even know what he's saying. You may have a shade of an idea, words sipped from distant whispers not meant for your ears, but it's like the light that slips through coloured glass. Insubstantial, just a facsimile of the real thing. You're here to catch rays to see what they feel like. To know.
Because you came back—like a moth to a flame, you came back alone to singe your wings—and you don't call for the guards when he drifts into your space. Simon wonders how far he can push you, and how quickly. Cool a blade too fast, and the core bows. Warps. Its edge turns to brittle glass, itching to chip and crack. Heat it too fast, and the steel tempers and softens. Becomes just another useless lump of metal.
He wants you boiling when you come to him, and you will come to him.
You've caught his scent just as much as he's caught yours. Like a doe snuck into his territory, you tease his edges—not wise enough to realize just how threadbare his control is.
For now, he'll let you feel the warmth sitting, perpetually, just underneath his skin. Let you feel your own size as he looms over you. Some birds like their men grizzly, like towering beasts with hard fists and mean jaws—you love it. Simon can see it in the twitch of your chin, the draw of your pupils, the hard spots of heat on your cheeks. Bad luck that you're married to your dim, fallow reed. Frightfully bad luck.
"There you go again," Simon whispers. The tips of his boots touch your fine shoes. Your delicate hands wring together in front of your belly.
"Pardon?"
So mannered, so decent, even as Simon can see your thoughts swimming around your empty head like water wraiths. Just the promise of a kiss below the murk, or a wet grave. He could pluck the pictures from your mind, roll them around his mouth like spit-stones, and he knows what he would taste. Interest, and imaginations, and lilac honey. Sweat and dew. Clotted cream. So virtuous, even as your lips hang slack, and he can see the pink, wet muscle of your twitching tongue.
"You blush when you look up at me," Simon tells you. Lets some scorn, some mockery, flavour the words as they burrow into your ear. "You even know what you're blushin' over?"
Your hand flies to your cheek, cooling away the flush with dancing fingers. An indignant huff puffs from your mouth, and Simon is sure you'd stomp your foot if you had less of a hold on yourself. It almost makes him smile. Do it, he thinks. Give him a reason to take you over his knee. Welts on your ass and three fingers in your cunt would wipe that whiny look off your face, he's sure.
He doubts anyone's ever taught you that lesson—doubts you even know just how hard lessons can be learned—but he wouldn't mind being the first.
"I do know," you puff.
"Know what, little bird?" There's a sparrow, just there, embroidered on your heavy wool cloak. The hours it must have taken to thread it carefully between the weave, the years of practise to accomplish a stitch with such beauty, precision. And Simon could ruin it. Ruin it in a moment. The urge bites at him as he reaches forward to pet the fine fabric between his fingers.
A risk if he's ever taken one. Simon likes his hands. They're rather important to him.
"Why ladies blush." Your voice is just a promise.
"Do you, now?" You're looking at your hem balled in Simon's heavy fist, at the scrapes on his knuckles so close to your belly where you're warm and heaving with breath. "Good little ladies like yourself blush at pretty highborns with flowers in their hair. Why're you blushin' at me?"
You're looking at him like a traveller near a bluff, aware of the drop, feeling the call. One tug, and you would fall into him.
He doesn't get the chance, though. At least, not yet.
The spell breaks, your lady's maid calling your name from the snow, and you take flight—spinning when he, for just a moment, doesn't let your cloak slip from his grasp. Simon knows it's no matter. Your winter rose rests on the cobblestone at his feet, already withering in the heat and choking air. You'll visit him in his dreams again, and maybe he'll see what will happen when you're snared.
Some rabbits chew their foot off. What will you do?
Your milklivered lord comes home clean as spring, and brings disappointment with him.
You try to hide it, but Simon knows. Plucked and preened, you greet him in the courtyard as you were greeted a month before, and present to him the sword Simon forged. The sword with the bloodgutter shaped to the exact curve of your lips, Simon's sickness hammered into the folded iron. The sword your lord can hardly hold upright as his thin arm trembles. Chagrin dusts your tepid smile when his frail hand cups your chin. When he wraps you in his hold, and so much of you is left exposed to the chill.
He's weak, another thing Simon can crush in his palm, but that one, he hates.
And the disappointments only grow, only follow you—dragging behind you like a limp mule slowing down the retinue. Better to cull the lame thing, put everyone out of their misery, but you, the dutiful wife, do try. The servants say you read to him by the hearth in the evenings, and tug him on gentle walks through the wood, and they whisper about the noises he makes as he sweats over you every night. And you glow and simper in the mornings, but he can't keep you happy.
Simplest thing in the world to breed a bird, and your lord is failing.
He's letting you wilt. When more months go by without an heir in your belly, the folk start to whisper. They think there must be something wrong with you. The women make you eat comfrey and daisy, and carve words into the butter you lathe on your bread. They stir hare's egg powder into the tea you choke down. You plant parsley alone in the dawn light, nails cracking in the hard, cold soil, and if you aren't growing soon, you'll be sent away. Back to your father, who may not receive you, or to a lone and quiet convent to dwindle into old age.
Or worse. Much worse can befall a woman who doesn't give her husband a child. You're in a different sort of trap, now.
Simon knows it's not your fault, but he seems to be the only one who does. So he waits—lingers in your periphery for you to work it out for yourself—and it's the dead of night when you come back to him at last. Your lord has just left on another campaign for his king, and you're shivering and washed with the snowfall, standing in Simon's forge. Winter-dimmed, strained in the face and hard around the mouth, but the blustering bellows dance warm, orange light over your skin.
It's what you've needed. Some heat. Should've come to Simon weeks ago. He can press some warmth back into you.
You open your mouth to speak, but Simon hasn't forgotten your last conversation, and it's time you listened to him. "It's because you like blushin' at me, isn't it?" he asks, coming to you where you stand by his work table. "Like lookin' at me. Wonderin' how it would be to have me in your bed and not that tallow-faced lord of yours."
"He's not—"
"He is. Can't even put a baby in your belly." The keep is dark and quiet in the distance. Only the mice are awake. Even though you don't scream when Simon bullies one paw beneath your cloak, planting his palm on your soft stomach, he doubts anyone would hear if you did. "I can do it, little bird. I can give you a pup, and it won't take me no season either."
You grip his forearm like you're going to push him off, but when your nails sink into the scars and mottled flesh there, you hesitate. Something mercenary sits in your gaze, something hard-won and hewn in ice. No more mischief, just purpose.
Simon's a venal man. What's another ware to be sold?
"I need a son," you say at last. Jaw set, shoulders tight.
Simon was never one who needed to be told twice, and he's held long enough. You squeak when he lifts you, hefting you with hands around your ribcage to be set on his worktable, but don't protest when he undoes the clasp of your cloak. Shoves it off your shoulders to find the thin shift beneath. Diaphanous, flimsy—your nipples pebble through the linen. You were probably tossing in bed thinking about this, of coming to him in your night things, wondering what he'll do with you.
Brave thing. You're a conscript yet. Simon can't blame you for your means to an end, and this is as sweet a bargain as he's ever struck.
You run trembling hands over his shoulders, as if picturing a child with his build. "A son, blacksmith," you repeat, as if you can speak it into being.
But that's Simon's job—you only need to lie there and let him.
"I'll give you one. I'll give you three."
Propped in front of him like a dinner plate, eyes round as the moon, gone is your stiff upper lip. Maybe you thought you'd take it like a soldier—get the job done like farm animals and be back to your soft bed within minutes. You don't know, though, what you owe him. What you've done to him in his thoughts. Simon has a score to settle in your flesh, and a hunger in his belly he intends to sate in your sweat. Made him wait, you did. He's going to savour it.
He slips between your legs, bending down and down to bump your chin with his own. You know your pact. He wants his payment.
The kiss you give him is hesitant, cold lips on a warm, scarred mouth. His melted flesh pulls his lips into a permanent sneer, but you don't seem to mind. It's your tongue, first, which presses into his teeth. Your jaw, first, to pop open, expecting. You taste like the first spring day—snow-melt and sunshine, new grass and dripping, shining, icicles—and you hold him like you're going to blow away in the wind. Tugging at him, his clothes, like you're skinning a deer. Folding stripped flesh over itself to get to the warm, wet muscles beneath, still filled with the blood that made them run.
Your shift is insubstantial, so delicate that Simon could shred it like wet paper—so he does. Rips it down the front in one, great sheer to lay bare the body below that he had been thinking of for months. Months. Wondering what you hid beneath your many layers of wool, how your breath would catch when Simon grabbed heavy handfuls of your curves, picturing sooty handprints marring your pretty dress.
You break the kiss to complain, some indignant protest that falls on deaf ears because Simon isn't listening.
He's looking, swallowing the sight of you so he can never forget the way it felt slipping down his throat. The swell of your breasts, the soft roll of your stomach, the plush give of your thighs, knees knocked wide around his hips. Simon's longed for this painting. His muscles cramped with it.
How dare that lord of yours let you walk the halls of the keep. If you were Simon's, really his, you wouldn't be allowed. He would take you to the woods, the vast, unending forests of the North, where no one could ever find you, and he'd tie you to the bed. Make sure the only thing on your mind is the next time his cock will be seated inside you. Drip honey in your mouth and fill your womb with his seed again, and again, and again.
He has half a mind to do it. Take you. Bring you to a place where you could run for lengths and never come close to another heart beating between the trees.
You're halfway to letting him, he thinks. Dropped back into some primal part of your mind as he lays you back, tools clattering to the floor, and latches his mouth to the soft velvet of your breasts. Everything he does, you react as if it is the first time, and Simon wonders. Wonders if he could mark the warm curves of you, sink his teeth in, take a bite and swallow, and if your lord would ever notice.
Limp, pidgeonhearted lord. Wasting you.
He wouldn't waste you. Thoughts catch like fingers on cliff edges, cock swelling, achingly hard, at you so sweet and fictal looking up at him. He'd crack his ribs open, tuck you there, if he could. Make you sip the air from his lungs, breathe when he breathed. Your years of careful comportment, of being hidden in high towers, crumbling in his palm like white ash.
Simon's never wanted anything like this. His stomach aches. He feels washed away, uprooted, by the want—vicious and cruel, rearing now after months of suffocation.
The want to raze and build anew.
Simon has a bed, somewhere—a threadbare nest tucked in some corner—but he likes you where you are, laid out on his table like another thing to be forged, moulded into whatever he sees fit. You move how he wants, pliable as liquid metal, as sweat blossoms in the dips and wells of your body. He could make you, but you let him. You only falter when he parts your legs and dips his head between them, looking like a filly. New to the world on weak knees. Eyes wide, confused, as he kisses your thighs. You rest your hands protectively in a knot below your navel.
It's a near thing, holding back the sleeping creature within himself. The one that howls to devour, claim, own. But things can be owned in other ways—forever changed, tied to him. Something, finally, for himself. Made to keep.
The first brush of lips against your cunt has you squirming, and he has to hold you down. "Is this … necessary?" you ask.
Simon hooks your legs over his shoulders, opening you up more to him, and his mouth waters. He can feel his cheeks tingling as saliva collects, and he can smell you. Finally close enough to really know. Loam, and lye soap, and the tang of dandelion milk. Gooseflesh blooms in the wake of his searching nose.
"Yes," he tells you.
"No wonder I'm not withchild yet, my husband has never—oh." A needless sentence, aborted with a bleat as his mouth descends.
Even though you run from him. You're prim and proper about it, hiding sighs behind a furrowed brow and the flit of your fingers. Simon doesn't want the Lady; he wants what he knows is beneath, but he knows he's going to enjoy teasing it out of you. You're jumpy, writhing and twitching, swallowing soft hums and hiccups as Simon parts you with his tongue. Sipping nectar from the source, kitten-licks around your pulsing entrance until he finds the sensitive bud at the apex of you and wraps his lips around it.
Soon, other wetness joins his spit, and your hands leave their knot to scratch against Simon's scalp. Gripping his hair at the root, pushing his face into your bucking hips, and it tastes like victory. Your lord is off conquering a strip of land no one cares about, and Simon is here conquering his wife. Simon can feel the rumble in his own chest as he groans into you.
He pulls back, chin wet, to watch his finger disappear inside you, practically sucking him in as you whine. He'd give up breath to keep tasting you, to keep your velvet heat under his tongue and feel you pulsing as you're wrung out, but he has to see. Has to witness the crescent of dirt under his nail, the dark lines in his knuckle sinking in. Watch your stomach as it jumps, and your pretty face twisting up. Your walls flutter around him, giving in to his prodding, his petting, until he can slide another inside. And because he's greedy, Simon's tongue follows too. Muscle against muscle, he could drown in you.
Live forever on only this. On your trembling thighs and plaintive cries, nuzzling his ruined nose against your clit until you shout.
Supine, you thrash, limp limbs tensing and releasing like the crash of waves. Like you're scrabbing for purchase in the dark, and only Simon is there to lead you. "Wait—stop," you mewl, voice high and reedy, and Simon halts—barely. He doesn't ask why, doesn't trust his voice to be anything but a growl, and he doesn't want to frighten you. Not yet. Not when you're teetering on the edge of where he's taking you.
Tears rim your glossed eyes when you catch his gaze down the line of your body. "I don't know what's—I feel—"
Rage and male pride swirl in his chest, a potion he could get drunk on. Ire-honeyed mead his fists could siphon out. Sweet, sweet bird. Poor, mistreated highborn. Simon'll give you a dozen, a score, until you're spent and dazed. Until your eyes can't focus, and the only thing you can say is his name.
"Told you this was necessary, didn't I?" he asks.
You nod, a pout Simon wants to chew off tugging at your lips.
"Then stop whinin'."
You hold his hand through your release, lacing your fingers in his and holding them, locked, to your chest. Your eyes are closed as if in concentration, and Simon can feel your heartbeat against his wrist, thumping in time with your pitiful laments. They pour from your throat as if hooked out, spiralling upward in rungs like a silver-keen melody. It's winsome, how you curl against him, shoulders bowing inward, fingers scrabbling at the singed hair of his forearm. How you clench down on his fingers, still petting inside you, gummy walls pulsing as your muscles tense. Tight as a bowstring, horse tendons dried and twisted, until you're loosed, limp and panting.
Simon's decision is made. It drives into place like a rosehead in his nape, clouted in with your lips on his knuckles. Wrought-iron against bone, muscles making room for rusted metal. Can't pull nails without a fight, not once they've been clenched.
You scrunch your face up when he kisses you afterward, pressing your own taste back into you. He expects you to shy away again. To fawn, coltish and faltering. But you're on him the moment he pulls away, chasing him, sitting up from the table to follow the heat of his torso like you're an early-spring lamb. His tunic, you shove halfway up his chest without a care for the ties, and your nails follow. Clean, shaped things that leave lines in their wake, coaxing Simon's blood to the surface—a red bloom on pale flesh and stark, pink scars. Old burns still holding flame inside him.
Perfect, kept teeth sink into the plush of his chest as you tug at his trousers, paw at him, hard and leaking, straining against the fabric, like you can't wait another moment
—and you're his. Another man's wife, traded to him for swords and arms to wield them, but you belong to Simon. From the moment you smiled at him in the courtyard, you did. And not you nor any man could stop him. You mark bites into his skin like you could chew him living, and Simon thinks about making off with you like a monster in the night. Not Beowulf, but Grendel. But no one is nailing his arm to any wall, not when it can slip around the curve of your back and bring you close to him.
You come readily into his hold, trembling legs locking around his hips, fingers letting blood at the back of his neck, as you're carried. Anywhere. Any flat surface Simon can find so he can sit, can hold you fast in his lap and feel you tense atop his thighs. Let you work yourself full of him as the fire spits.
He doesn't know where he lands. Somewhere hay-filled and dusty. He can't stop relishing the feel of you, better than he could've ever conjured in his rotten mutt mind. So fragile, so soft—your ribs give when he presses his palms into them. A thing to protect, or shatter like overheated glass. Because blood-heavy, aching in anticipation, Simon wants to be cruel. Wants to let free the leash, the vice clamped somewhere in his stomach, and see what crawls out the back of his throat. Pour it into you, let your wrangle or succumb. Plant an ugly seed and watch it sprout.
Simon likes the thought of your lord finding out. Of him stitching it together like piecemeal and coming in the night. Likes the thought of grinding his jaw into the anvil. Making his skull into a fine cup.
You buck clumsily in his lap, hunting for friction. Grinding a wet spot into his trousers because he hasn't even freed himself yet. You cease at a growled command and wait so nicely for Simon to pull himself free and line up, even if your brows furrow at the sight of him.
"It will fit?" you ask. It's vulgar, the sight of him—mean and thick and dripping white globs of seed as his fist tightens around the base of himself—next to you. Shaking thighs and supple flesh, spit and slick dripping down your legs as you hover above. "Riley?"
"Yes, little bird."
"It's only … You're much larger than—"
"M'not him, am I?" He wraps his other paw around your nape, bending your neck to make you stare down between your bodies. The two of you watch together as you slowly sink down on him, the angry, red flesh and veins like bruises pushing inside, just past the lip of his crown. You're too tense to allow anything more, strangling him already; he can hardly breathe. "Look."
Your hands grasp at his shoulders, fingers clawing at the flesh and meat there. Can't do that to your lord, Simon thinks. Your husband is made of bones and twine. He can't take the bruises you want to mould into muscle, can't fill you so full you can't even swallow. Simon can just picture him wheezing over you in your marriage bed, you silent and smiling. Nowhere near the creature Simon's made—the lap dog panting in his hold.
You need him.
Need him to protect you, someone to cover your whole body with his own until you're not even there. Until nothing can find you. Your lord can't make you safe like that. Simon can.
You suck in gulping breaths like a gaping fish as you lower yourself, squeezing him in steadily. It's velvet heat and mouthwatering pressure all around him that make his thoughts dart like wide-eyed hares. Your forehead slides against his, slick with sweat and the mixed putty of settling ash, and he can taste your lungs on his lips. You grind back and forth as you work him in—too fast. Too fervid and impatient, you constrict around him, forcing him in with hurt twisting your pout into a grimace.
"Careful," Simon warns. He moves his grip to your hips to guide you, sliding you up and down his length in slow, shallow dips as you hiccup. "Like this. That's it."
Teaching you how to take him, making you ease him inside because you're too eager to check yourself, choking down pain just to get him in, in—it cracks open something wretched in Simon. It spills like spoiled egg yolk through his chest, dripping through the rungs of his ribcage to dry and split. He wants to pop out every one of your teeth like willow buds and hold them in his cheek. Wants to bite your knuckles into his mouth and feel the bones grind together. He wants. He wants.
You, eyes fastened to the joining of your bodies and none the wiser, spill a warm whine over his mouth. Protesting the pace, you scratch your grievances into his skin.
"Slow at first," he tells you, nipping at the curve of your jaw to quell the ache in his own. "Just this time, little bird."
"No," you complain, pettish and sullen. Sour in your urgency, piqued in your restlessness. "I want—"
"Patience," he murmurs, but he can hear the strain in his own voice. Simon's been patient for months. You can weather a palmful of minutes. It's only a blink of time to get you used to his size. Simon's ox-built in all countenance, so it's steady, patient work, but your muscles give to him eventually. Suddenly, he's seated inside you, fully sheathed and struggling for control.
You're a vice around him, battened down like a garrote. He feels smothered, having to clamp down his insides so he doesn't do something awful.
"Can I move?" you plead, ignorant of the maelstrom happening inside his head, his stomach. You plant sweet kisses on his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, supplicating for movement. Supplicating to be eaten.
Simon rolls your flesh under his palms, hobbling his desire with thin-spun thread. "You think of this when he's inside you? Think about if it were me?" he demands, unable to keep the cruelty behind the ladder of his teeth. "I'll show you."
He starts off blunted, keeping his clip deliriously slow, letting you languish in the feel of him dragging inside you—but that can only go on so long. You cry for him to speed up, to fill you harder, and deeper, more savage, more bruising, and Simon obliges.
And Simon tells himself that this—snapping his hips into you, the head of him grinding against the plug of your womb, bullying himself inside again and again as your eyes roll, hands spasm—is for you. That he's freeing the snare, not tying a new one round your twitching ankle. But it's for him. Because maybe Simon likes sweet things because of the opportunity they promise, the chance of ruin. Nothing sweet lives in the world for long, not without interference, and you have so many lights Simon could snuff out
—or fuel. He could make you burn only for him.
A selfish sort of preservation, like a lover's hands kept in milky jars of vinegar.
His back aches with the strain, that old injury born of being bent over anvils for all his life flaring now as he pistons upward, but he's chasing. His own release and yours, hunting oaths and promises and the feel of you coming apart around him. He tucks you against himself, forearms squeezing your torso into his to lock you in place, but also because he cannot fight the instinct that's telling him to hide you away somewhere warm and dark and that might as well be somewhere beside his liver.
Your skin slides against his, your arms, so much smaller than his own, crushed between your chests so all you can do is huff and squeak as he drives out and in and out again. Rude, crudish squelching sounds dance in tandem with your high cries. Simon shoves your head into the crook of his neck, wanting you close to his pulse hammering there, and tilts the angle of his hips so that your sensitive bud grazes his abdomen with every thrust.
His name is a stunted cry whimpered out between heaving breaths as you clench, but it's not the pulse of your walls constricting around him, or the tender way your muscles run taut as you come, that sets his own release spinning. It's the thought of spilling inside you, filling you full and some part of himself taking root there. Of you, raised on silver and grace and careful comportment, letting yourself be bred by a lowborn smith with only the dirt to call his own. Because only he can—and you want only him to.
A lifetime of prudent rearing, unravelled in seconds. You've left the door open
—and a wolf wandered in.
Simon's body draws tight as his hips stutter, settling finally for just badgering the head of himself against your womb as he floods it with his seed. You thrash in his hold, bucking like an ill-tempered mare, at once running and grinding back on him in your own throes. You shake in his hold like a needle clinging to a pine, simpering out your afterglow into the humid heat of his neck. You're both left panting and sticky, the air in the forge suddenly suffocating.
You try to pry yourself from his arms, to sip cool air instead of the steam between you, but Simon grips you fast. "Can't spill a drop, little bird. You're going to sit here until it takes."
You whine, but settle, nuzzling at the strong cut of his jaw in a sated, satisfied way that makes his chest puff up.
You're very good, listening at last. Sitting there with Simon licking the soot and sweat off your skin until, eventually, he grows hard again, still inside you. So Simon flips you over so you're tucked beneath him and he can finally know what your muscles feel like straining below his, and know how you sound begging him to go slow, please. And he does—take his time, this go. Drives into you slow and hard until drool and tears slip down the side of your face, and you're begging him instead to fill you again.
You pay with a froth-spit kiss, and take your own price with eight red scratches up the curve of his back.
Simon wraps your cloak around your shoulders for you, fastening the cotton tight together up to your chin, and tells you to move quickly and silently when you return to your rooms. He tells you he will burn your shift, but you leave without ensuring it. Instead, Simon folds the tatters carefully and holds the linen to his nose as he closes his eyes—inhaling steady mouthfuls, looking forward to a dreamless sleep. Ragweed pollen, and sunwarmed skin, and the chimney tar he knows he crushed into you like powdered marigold.
He'll keep the shift.
Rage brews in his stomach at the thought of your lord returning, of him putting his spider hands on you, rubbing smooth palms over your growing belly and demanding the world proclaim what a splendid job he did. Simon tamps down the violence clawing at his throat—saves it for later, storing it in the cold cellar of his fists.
Yes, he'll keep the shift.
How else will Simon prove to the little lord that you're not his anymore?
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.
Summary: You and Mikey have been casually seeing each other for a few weeks. After a late night text from him, you make the drunken insomniac executive decision of calling him back. Naughtiness ensues.
Or: the one where you and Michael have phone sex.
Warnings: 18+, SMUT, M/F. Minors DNI // PWP, P!rn With Feelings. Phone sex, flirting, teasing, sexual innuendos, dirty talking, mentions of oral sex (m. receiving), masturbation (m. and f.), sexual fantasies, role-playing scenarios, librarian k!nk, mentions of rough sex. // Blink-and-you-miss-it angst, alcohol use, mentions of insomnia, anxiety and self esteem issues.
Word count: 3.8k
Read below the cut OR on AO3
Notes: Reader wears glasses in this - don't look at me like that, it's integral to the plot 🙄
For the history nerds, the quote at the beginning is from the book "Fire from Heaven" by Mary Renault, about the relationship between Alexander the Great and his friend and lover, Hephaestion.
Enjoy! As always, likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡
His feelings were confused; he wanted to grasp till Alexander's very bones were somehow engulfed within himself, but knew this to be wicked and mad; he would kill anyone who harmed a hair of his head…
… you yawned at the page you’d been reading (i.e., staring at without absorbing a single bit of information), before turning your head to the nightstand and seeing the clock mark 2:49 am.
“Good god”, you whispered, tiredly rubbing your face with one hand, while the other reached for the half-full glass of red wine keeping you company in your insomnia.
Technically, you knew drinking was the last thing you should be doing on a weeknight, when you were having a hard time falling asleep and were expected at work in the morning. But living alone was really not helping you behave like a responsible adult with bills to pay. So, you slowly sip your wine, read your book, and hope that eventually your brain will give up and allow you to pass out for at least a few hours.
Suddenly, your phone lights up with a text. Michael B., it says on the screen. A pang of excitement hits you, and you immediately scoff for reacting so earnestly to a text from a guy you’ve been with (not even biblically, just the daytime coffee dates that people with busy lives manage to pack into a crazy week) for a grand total of two times and less than two hours, overall. Not pathetic at all.
Still, you can’t help but reach for the phone.
Hey, I know it’s late and you probably won’t read this until morning, sorry. Wanna have dinner at that spot we talked about? I can pick you up at the office ;) – M.
You smile, and without really thinking, hit the call button.
He picks up quickly, an amused tone in his voice. “Well, I was not expecting that. What the hell are you still doing up, princess? No work tomorrow?”
You laugh. “God, I wish. I just can’t sleep. Haven’t had one of these nights in a while… my brain won’t shut up, even though I’m so tired I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck”.
“Ooof. That fucking sucks.”
“Yup.”
“Well, I’m glad to be your booty call in this desperate time.”
“Michael”, you laugh so hard you choke on some wine and must set the glass back on the table. “I really don’t think that’s what this is”.
“Oh, no?”, he feigns innocence.
“No…”, chuckling, you continue with the most sultry, mock-seductive voice you can muster “… a booty call is if I was like: Sooo, Mikey… are you, like, busy right now? Do you wanna… come over? I’m aaall alone…”.
You make sure to put particular emphasis on the word ‘come’ and Mike sounds like he is doubling over with laughter. “That was the worst proposition I have ever heard, no doubt”.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re officially off my booty call list. I don’t need this kind of negativity in my life.”
“Ah, shit… I fucked up now, didn’t I?”, you swear you can hear his grin from the other end of the line. And see the laugh lines that form on the corner of his eyes when he smiles genuinely, the rare but so cute nose crinkle that makes your belly flutter…
You would love to get a fucking grip, thank you very much, but the wine was making you incapable of keeping a level head in this flirtation.
“Well… all is not lost. Taking me out to dinner is a good start to redeem yourself. If your game is on point tomorrow, your booty call list status might be revised… in the not-so-far future”, you add, suggestively.
“Shit. Now the stakes are on. I gotta be on my best behavior tomorrow, then”.
“I don’t know about best behavior…”. You feel like slapping yourself for your lack of subtlety.
He chuckles. “So… you like them a little nasty, huh?”
You’re glad he can’t see you blush furiously. “Not like that… but I do like a man who isn’t afraid to… take what he wants. Respectfully, of course.”
“Of course… damn, girl. You’re getting me thinking about all sorts of things…”
“Well, you’re the one who started talking about booty calls. It’s technically your fault”.
“That’s fucking rich. I was being a gentleman, sent you a sweet text and all. Not a single sex reference!”, he says, proudly.
“Ok, that is true”, you concede, laughing softly. “Are you still at the restaurant?”
He sighs deeply. “Yeah… paperwork coming out of my eyeballs. I don’t even understand how the hell I organized this mess”. You hear rustling through the line, and imagine the mess of letters, invoices and bills that must be covering his office desk.
“That fucking sucks”.
“Word”. His chair squeaks loudly. “So… what are you wearing?”
You laugh. “You’re unbelievable”.
“What? I’m just trying to keep the conversation light, you know? Nobody wants to hear about my fuckin’ paperwork at 3 am”.
It was subtle, but you could sense something deeper in his words (sadness? self-deprecation?).
“I wouldn’t mind hearing about your ‘fuckin’ paperwork’ at any time of day, Michael”.
The line goes silent, and you fear you went too deep, too soon. Made this weird in record time, wow.
“I didn’t mean it like… I meant if you want to talk to me about your shitty day, you know, you can, but I don’t want you to be uncomf-”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart. I get it… thank you for that”, he says, softly. “Maybe some other time. Right now, I honestly just wanna forget about this for a little while... I was really pumped when you called”.
“That’s okay. Really?” You smile, relieved.
“Yeah, really. So… wanna make a guy happy and tell him what you’re wearing?”
With a chuckle, you concede. “Well, nothing. I’m in bed and I sleep naked, so… yeah”.
There’s a heavy pause. “Holy shit. Are you for real?”
“Um, yeah?”
“Jesus, fuck… baby, you can’t say stuff like that and expect me to be normal about it”.
You grin, having just decided that, actually, you wanna play dirty.
“Who says I want you to be normal about it? Besides”, you throw back, suggestively, “I hardly think a woman can be held accountable for what she says after four glasses of wine on a Thursday night… naked and alone, in such a big bed…”
“Now, see, that was a much better pitch for a booty call than the first o-”
“I’m gonna hang up.”
“No, no, no, I’m sorry”, he laughs.
“You’re an asshole”. Even as you say it, you’re smiling.
“And you are a minx, lady. Gettin’ a guy all worked up…”
“Oh, my... I don’t know what you mean…”, you whisper into the comforter, now balled up in your fist over your mouth, as if to cover up your blushing cheeks from an invisible audience.
“Oh, I disagree… I think you know exactly what you’re doing”. There’s a note of sarcasm in his voice you find exhilarating. A sudden noise – like a chair squeaking loudly on a panel floor – can be heard from his end. Followed by… a metallic rattle, more subtle but still clear. A… belt unbuckling?
Wait. Is he…?
You grin, amused. “Mr. Berzatto… I’m hearing suspicious noises. What is going on over there?”
A deep grunt. “Nothin’ much, sweetheart. Just making myself comfortable, is all”.
“And how exactly are you doing that, mister?”
“You know… freeing the junk.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Well, that certainly helps set the mood”.
“Hm… baby, can I ask you for something? It’s totally fine if you don’t wanna do it… but I figure I might as well shoot my shot.”
You notice you are sitting up very still against the pillows in your bed, holding your breath in anticipation. “Sure… what is it?”
A heavy pause follows. Your heart feels like it’s about to beat itself out of your ribcage, your throat feels dry, and your tongue sits heavy and thick in your mouth, the taste of wine suddenly overpowering your senses. And you are so horny.
“Could you… send me a photo of you right now? Are you wearing those new glasses?”. He sounds… eager, almost nervous with the way he trips over the second question.
Oh. Something clicks for you, then. You smile. “So, you really liked the new glasses, huh?”
“Shit… c’mon, don’t bust my balls about it”, he says, with an embarrassed chuckle of admission.
“I’m not! It’s very flattering, actually”. You hope you conveyed how much you are not making fun of him. However, you hate misunderstandings, and to dispel any that might be going on here, you decide there is only one acceptable solution.
“Give me a minute”, you tell him, determined. You don’t wait for an answer before you drop your phone and get to work.
Meanwhile, Mikey sits in his rusty office chair, in what he thinks must look like a very… undignified position. Cock out, right hand stroking it lazily, slumped back with his jeans barely down his ass, work shirt dirty and stinking of cooking oil, his entire body tense in a mix of anticipation and shame. A part of him can’t help but wonder if you are fucking with him: laughing from the other end of the line, leaving him hanging – literally and figuratively (he chuckles dejectedly at the realization that he still remembers something from high school Lit class). He guesses he would kinda deserve that. What type of freak asks for nudes after two… dates? Do those rapid-fire coffee-grabs even count? He is so shit at this. Anything more than a casual hook-up or a quickie behind a sleezy pub is rocket science for him. ‘Congrats, loser! You just fucked it, yet again’.
Then, his phone pings. 5 photos received.
In the first one, you are lying on your side, in bed, a dim warm light illuminating the scene. He can see the contours of your body clearly, despite being covered by a layer of nearly sheer white sheets. His gaze follows your exposed collarbone, to the silhouette of your breasts – he is sure you purposefully allowed a bit of side-boob to slip past the entrapment of sheets… just for him.
He swears he could stare at the shapes of your body all day and never get tired – or limp. His dick is throbbing painfully, now.
It does not get better when he sees the rest of the photos. Your face is visible, on those. The last two are his favorites. You are laying on your stomach, with the reading glasses on, as promised – except they sit lower on your nose than usual, so that your eyes peak out from over the top of the frames. Your hair is down, tousled and wild like it’s just gotten messed up. ‘Is this what she looks like after…’. You are holding a glass of wine to your mouth – lips plump and lightly tinged red – that detail drives him a little insane –, and in front of you lays a book, delicately held open with your other hand. And in the last photo, the sheets have slipped lower down your breasts, revealing a generous cleavage. You’re staring directly at the camera with an inquiring gaze, biting your lower lip. ‘Come get me’.
“… Mike? Are you still there?”
It’s been some time since you sent the photos (twenty seconds, which your anxiety tells you is actually half an hour), with no reaction from him. Your cheeks heat up, and you suddenly feel very silly and insecure. Are they even… good? What makes a good nude? Do these even qualify as nudes? You’re not showing anything super explicit… they’re suggestive, at best. Is he going to think you’re a prude? God, why is this so diff-
Mike clears his throat. “Yeah, I… fuck. Fuckin’ hell. Holy shit. Sweetheart… these are so hot. Jesus… thank you so much. You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous…”. The last part comes out as a whisper, like he’s starstruck.
You didn’t know it was possible to get more flustered than you already were. “You’re welcome… I’m flattered I managed to make Michael Berzatto incoherent over some low-res thirst trap selfies.”
“Baby, these are genuinely the hottest pics I’ve ever seen. You look like a hot librarian or something”.
You laugh out loud, triumphantly. “Ah! I knew it!”
“What?”, he laughs along.
“Something you wanna share with the class, Mr. Berzatto?”.
“Fuck, don’t stop calling me that, sweetheart”, he says, sounding out of breath.
“Yeah?”, you whisper.
“Fuck, yeah. It’s just… I’ve got a thing for girls with a kinda nerdy, librarian type of vibe, you know? And when I saw you this last time, holding a book and wearing your reading glasses… I gotta admit, my mind went straight to the gutter.”
Interesting. “Really? What did you imagine then?”.
A pause. “I’m not sure you want to hear it… I don’t want you thinking I’m a pervert or something”.
You sigh. “Mikey, I just sent you near-naked photos of me. We’re having phone sex. We are two horny adults having fun. Besides…”, you switch your tone to what you hope comes across as faux innocence, “… I asked you about it. It is kinda my fault, right? I guess I was kind of… bad”.
“Oh, is that what’s happening?”. He chuckles, as if saying challenge accepted. “Alright, then. When I saw you like that for the first time, this image popped into my head, right? I mean, you looked like a really hot librarian. So, I started picturing you in that scenario, with big glasses and all – just like the photos you sent me… except you had your hair in a cute ponytail, and your lips were even redder with lipstick… and you were wearing fishnet stockings up to your thighs – fuck, you got such nice legs, baby –, and you had a pair of those… what are they called. Uh, kitten heels. Yeah. Fuck, your ass would look unbelievable like that. I mean, it is unbelievable, you know what I mean? When you show up at the restaurant wearing those cute little dresses and skirts, I feel my dick twitching in my pants… that’s how hot you are, baby… that’s how crazy you make me feel.”
His words were streaming out like an avalanche – a filthy stream-of-consciousness. Flash images of all the times you were together pop into your mind. He was always nice and polite to you, if cheeky – that was his personality, after all. You’d never felt disrespected or threatened around him. Maybe that’s why, now that you knew he had been actively thinking about you like this… you were very turned on.
“Too much, sweetheart? You wanna keep listening to this filth?”
“… yeah, Mikey. Keep going. What happened then?”
“Then, I took you to a hidden corner in the library, rucked up your pretty little skirt and ripped your real nice dress shirt open… you know, so I could suck on your tits while I fucked you hard against some shelves. Didn’t even need to rip your panties off, ‘cause you weren’t wearing any. Just lifted you up and slammed my cock right into your pussy… God, you were drippin’ wet for me, and you mewled so sweetly… loud, too. Had to shove my fingers into your pretty mouth to keep you quiet. That’s what I imagined, sweetheart. More or less.”
The crass and vivid way in which he described his fantasy made you speechless. It was exhilarating. Knowing that all those times he had talked to you with a straight face, he had been actively fantasizing about fucking you hard. His words.
“Jesus Christ, Mikey”, you breathe out. “That’s… I can’t believe we had entire conversations while you had a cheap porn flick playing in your head”, you laugh softly, unconvincingly.
He sighed deeply. “See, I knew this was a bad idea… honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. I guess I’m just a fucking perv-”
“Babe…”, you interrupt him, gentle, but firm, “shut up, please. I’m messing with you. I told you, it’s very flattering that you’re attracted to me. In fact… it’s super hot. Knowing you were having all those dirty thoughts about me while still being a gentleman… is making me feel all kinds of things, right now.”
“Yeah? What kinds of things?”
“Good things, Mikey… I’m so wet right now”, you mewl, the need for release in your core overwhelming the embarrassment you would be feeling otherwise. Without thinking, you kick the sheets away from your body and cup one of your breasts, kneading it and flicking your nipple – a moan leaves your mouth in a desperate plea.
“Fuck”, he whispers, “you got wet over that filth? Jesus Christ, baby. I won the fuckin’ lottery”.
You are burning with desire, and you can feel your pussy throbbing when you finally give in, sliding one hand down and shoving two fingers inside with barely any resistance. “Mikey… I wanna come so bad. Can you talk me through it… please?”
“Fuck… yeah, sweetheart, anything you want”. He moans, then, and you don’t think you have ever been so turned on in your life. Mikey Berzatto, a horny, moaning mess, jerking off in his mess of an office at 3 am… because of you.
Chicago’s Helen of Troy. You chuckled softly at the thought and decided to up the ante. “Baby… do you know what I was thinking when you were telling that beautiful story just now?”
He laughs, voice recked. “What, baby?”
You pout, and add another finger in, increasing the pace of the thrusts. “I wish you had pictured kissing me real hard, while I unbuckled your belt… would you let me get down on my knees for you, baby? I really wanna have you in my mouth, Mikey, like, right now”. Your words come out broken, sentences all messed up – you sound pathetic, but you are so past caring.
“Shit-”, a gasp, followed by a deep breath and the noise of something hitting a surface really hard. “… holy shit. Baby, I imagined all that and a whole lot more – seriously, you have no idea. Hell, if the lady wants to suck my dick, who am I to deny her, uh? Fuck. Would you let me fuck your mouth, baby…?”
You moan loudly at that and realize you need both hands, putting the phone on speaker – fuck the neighbors – and bringing your other hand to your clit, rubbing lightly, but fast. You were so close. The thought of kneeling on the floor, clothes and hair all messed up from Mikey’s hands, lipstick smudged… looking up at him, and watching his composure unravel because of you…
“Hm… yeah, Mikey, I think I would… ‘cause you’re so nice to me… such a gentleman, even when you’re fucking me hard… would you ask me real nice, baby? Hold my face gently in your big hands, while you fuck it?”
“Fuck, baby… I would treat you so right, you deserve everything-”, he chokes up and, for a few moments, you hear a distant cacophony of noises, like he’s put the phone down. Then, he’s back. “Sorry, sweetheart, I need both hands now”, he chuckles.
You giggle, “Me too… you got me so hot I’m fucking myself on my fingers and rubbing my clit at the same time… and it’s still not enough. I need you…”
“Fuck, that’s so hot. You fuckin’ yourself because of me… I know it’s not enough, baby… you need my cock, don’t you?”
“Yes! Mikey… please…”, you howl, completely out of your mind.
“How do you want me to fuck you, baby? Hm? Want it nice and slow? Nah… I think you like it fast and rough, don’t you? Long as I keep kissing you real good, touchin’ you real gentle, all over your body… you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”. How he manages to say such filthy things with so much honey dripping from every syllable, is beyond you.
“Yeah, fuck, baby… it doesn’t matter. I’m so wet already, you don’t need to do anything else, just hoist me up in your arms and pin me against the shelves… and shove it in me”.
You are still holding onto a shred of decency because you blush at your own crass admission – still, there is clearly not a whole lot left, as you start rubbing your clit and fucking yourself harder and faster. “I don’t want you to be gentle when you fuck me… I just need to feel your cock stretch me open… wanna feel the sting of it for days, be at work and not be able to focus because all I can think about is how you fucked me so good-”
At this point, you have no idea if he can understand anything you’re saying, because your words are intercut with moans and gasps and mewls and incoherent babble, as you’re about to reach your peak imagining Mikey’s on top of you, railing you into the bed.
“Baby, I’m gonna come… fuckin’ Christ”.
“Mikey- fuck!”.
Your body shakes and your eyes roll back from the strength of your orgasm. Distantly, your brain registers a broken string of moans and curses from the other end of the line.
A few seconds pass, and you feel yourself coming back down to Earth. You lazily stretch out on the bed, completely relaxed and fucked out. “That’s so cute… we came at the same time, babe”, you happily whisper, a ditsy smile on your face.
He huffs, amused “Yeah… what can I say? I’m a romantic at heart”.
You laugh sincerely. “This was… so good, actually. I’m glad I gave into my instinct and called you”.
“Well, I’m even more sticky now”. You both laugh at that. “But I’m also glad you called… like, really glad. Uh, can I ask you something?”
You notice a shift in his voice.
“Yeah… what is it?”
“I don’t want things to get weird between us after this… Like, I don’t want you to feel like you need to do all these things to get me off. You know what I mean? It’s just a fantasy… I’ll have you in any way you want me. Okay?”
You feel a tightness in your chest, and you wish, not for the first time tonight, you had him right in front of you so you could kiss him all over and hug him.
“Mikey… I genuinely liked tonight. And the more we talk, the more I like you. You’re not the only one who feels like you won the lottery…”.
“Baby… you’re too sweet. Don’t you think you already got me blushing enough for one night?”
“That’s fucking rich. I must’ve gone through all shades of red tonight, because of your filthy mouth”.
“Please. You loved it”, he chuckles.
“Yeah, I guess I did”, you concede, with a smile.
After saying goodbye – and confirming that yes, you would very much like for him to pick you up and take you to dinner later – you fall asleep fast, your mind finally catching up to the pleasant tiredness in your body, a soft smile on your lips.
Lost in your thoughts, focused on your busy hands washing dishes in the sink under the soothing sound of the faucet running, you miss Mikey's stealthy entrance into the kitchen until his arms lock around your waist from behind.
His warm breath touches the back of your neck, making your skin stick out when he plants a sweet kiss on that spot.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he purrs along your skin as he noses his way into the crook of your neck, pressing his shirtless torso on your back. “I missed you.”
It puts a smile into your face to find how sickly sweet he is sometimes.
This is what being with Michael is. There's no room for personal space for more than two minutes. Some people might call that clingy, but you don't mind it at all. He has little self-control with anything in his life, but specially when it comes to you – he's always craving more. It's something that you absolutely love about him. He makes you feel adored and wanted; those two things you've never felt before with anyone before him. At least not as strongly. He would never let you go touch-starved as other people have. Michael has plenty to offer and not enough time alone with you to give you all he wants. So he takes any opportunity to indulge both you and him as much as he can, hoping you’d never grow sick of him.
His wandering fingers travel down your waist to slip under the hem of your shirt that barely touches the tops of your bare thighs. They gently land between your legs and trace your slit over your panties, tucking the fabric between your outer lips.
“Mikey… I'm almost done with here. Can you wait a minute?”
“Uh-uh,” he grins against the shell of your ear. “I wanna make you come here, over the sink.”
He's been really adamant on having sex in every nook of the apartment, the kitchen is yet one you have to break in.
You turn off the faucet, put down the sponge on the corner of the sink to brace your hands on the counter, but he tells you to keep, that you don't get to stop until he says so.
He's crazy, but you're crazier for following along to his request.
It's hard to focus on what you're doing when you can feel him harden against your ass while his hand slides under the elastic of your panties to meet your folds. With his mouth attached to your neck, he massages your pussy thoroughly. First with his whole palm cups your sex, squeezing lightly before using his fingers to run up and down your folds until you're soaked.
Your breath hitches and you stop for a moment when his thumb starts rubbing directly on your clit.
“Sh, sh, sh, keep going sweetheart.”
You bring your focus back to your hands as the buzzing touch of his finger pad makes your knees tremble.
“Look at you, you're doing so fucking good,” he praises.
You struggle to keep yourself steady and sharp on your task when you feel two thick fingers probing your opening.
You close your eyes and absentmindedly keep lathering the same pan while he slowly finger-fucks your pussy.
“Please, Michael,” you moan, bucking your hips to get more friction.
“I got you, sweetheart.”
It's then that he gradually ups the rhythm and pressure. His thumb becomes rougher on your swollen bud, stimulating every damn nerve on that area. His other two fingers find the right spot to press over and over within your walls, coaxing your juices to drip down his hand.
The tenderness of your opening enclosing around his knuckles, the way you moan every syllable when you plead his name tells him you're reaching that sweet edge.
Right where he wanted you, it's then that he bends you forward, putting a stop to your chore that you couldn't keep doing any longer.
He tugs the elastic of your panties down to your knees, and there they fall on their own to your ankles.
Quickly wiping your hands on a dish towel, you glance over your shoulder as he pushes his sweatpants and boxers just below his cock so he can stick it inside you in one swift motion.
The pressure of his cock filling you up to the hilt almost makes you come at first contact, thanks to his handy work. You're juiced up and ready for him to pound you like a madman. He slips in and you so fast, your breathing turns quickly into desperate moans that melt with the lewd sound of his skin slapping against yours. You brace yourself to the edge of the sink, while his fingers tips dig at the curves of your hips, keeping you in place while he enters the final stretch. It's loud and hot and soppy when he gives you that last heavenly push that unties that knot in your core that blossoms into one of the wildest orgasms you've ever felt. As your walls contract around him, his seed is spilled to paint your tender walls hot white and sticky.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
