“she Has What I Want. Him.”

“she has what i want. him.”

Break Me

Pairing -> Tom Holland x Actress! Fem! Reader

Word Count -> 6,025

Synopsis -> You thought time apart would be the best for you and Tom. Hell, after your last conversation, you’d be happy if you never saw him again. Haha, silly girl – did you forget you had Uncharted press?

Warnings -> Sexual Context [18+ please and thanks. Short kings have more sex on average, claims Tom; spanking - but this is an established green light in their relationship], swearing, lack of knowledge regarding Twitter, angst and a sense of betrayal lol, talk of PR relationships. Some characters in here are kinda trash, too, ngl. I look some artistic liberties.

Author’s Note -> Not beta’d. All mistakes are my own. This fic is purely fictional (I feel like I need that bolded) and written so I could complete my bingo. I couldn’t help where the inspo took me lol. Read the warnings and connect the dots to see if this is a fic you want to read. This is for @venomsilk’s Valentine’s Bingo. My bingo card is attached under the fic if you want to scroll down and get an idea before reading. I suggest you don’t, though, because the surprise is a part of the ride hehe. I had a lot of fun so I hope you will too :) *forgive me by Chloe x Halle blasts through the speakers*

Sidenote: I could not find a straight answer for how long press is so just let the story ride lol.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lol. Feedback is much appreciated.

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enchantedinfinity

1 year ago

i just finished narcos and have a javi obsession🫣

Somewhere to start - Chapter II: Lo estoy intentando

Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: A few little coincidences give you an opportunity to get to know Javi outside of work.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Warnings: Smut, flirting, fingering/mutual touching, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), protected PIV, smoking, forced proximity ish, Spanish translations at the end

Word count: 7k Rating: 18+ AO3

Javi was right. All you needed was, in fact, a refresher for Spanish. With his help, but mostly the textbook and dictionary you've spent your last three weeks worth of evenings with, your Spanish has gotten good enough to where you can read the majority of letters you receive with only a few breaks here and there to pull up the dictionary.

You’re not telling Javi that, though, because the dumb little crush you have on him makes the words on the paper in front of you turn into an incoherent mess of letters when he’s in the room, and he always spots you looking at it like it’s your first day on the job, smirks a little, goes about his day, then pulls up his chair at five PM, ready to tutor.

But to your dismay, you show up at work this morning to see Steve sitting in his chair again, back from Miami. Show’s over you think to yourself as you say hi to him and Javi, walking past them to find yourself a new desk in the corner of the room. You unpack your things and brainstorm, trying to think up another way to innocently flirt with Javi now that these Spanish lessons have nowhere to take place, not with the two agents working overtime most days, leaving Javi with no time for you and your stupid little problems.

“Looks like we’ll have to move your tutoring session today,” you hear Javi say before pulling up next to you and leaning against your desk with his arms folded, subtly tilting his head towards Steve. It quickly dawns on you that he’s taking time out of his day for you, even now that he’s likely busy again, and it makes your heart race. “I’ll take my lunch break at noon, meet you here then?” he suggests, and you feel yourself perspire from his attention on you, dark brown eyes tracking your every move and looking straight into your eyes when you smile, shyly saying suena bien and try not to blush.

“Nos ha llamado la atención” he says, tracing the words on the letter with his index finger, then looks up at you, “Dime lo que dije”. You look at him, blink a few times, look down at the letter again, narrow your eyes and try to gesture at your confusion. “Tell me what I said” he repeats, and you give him a sheepish smile, shrugging carefully.

He tilts your chin up and whispers, “Gotta pay closer attention”, before his eyes flick down to your lips for just a split second, and back up. You can feel your face getting hot, hoping and praying you’re not visibly blushing as you look into his eyes.

His hand is still under your chin, and he spreads his fingers to grasp your jaw and gently turn your face to the paper. “What does this sentence mean?” he asks again, and points to the top of the letter. “Th-.. Uhh” you stutter and look up at him again.

He chuckles a little, looks up and down your face, and chews on the inside of his lip for a second before he gets up and takes a few steps over to a bookshelf, pulling out a dictionary and tossing it onto the table with a loud thud. “Look it up” he says and snaps his fingers before he sits back down, and you follow his orders, flipping through the pages and finding each word one by one, writing them all down in your notebook.

“It’s been brought to our attention” you say slowly as you look at your notes, “Nos ha llamado la atención, nos ha llamado la atención”. You turn your head up and look at him, repeating the sentence, “Nos ha llamado la atención”.

“Muy bien” he says with a smile, and watches you as you use the dictionary to translate the next sentence, picking up a few words you recognize from the previous lesson.

You’re not entirely sure why Javi had to move your tutoring session, considering it’s five PM now and he’s still sitting at his desk, pouring over some documents, but you figure he has his reasons, not point in trying to prod. Everyone else has left and you're still there, all other offices are dark and empty, but you still have a stack of documents to go through before you can think about going home for the night, knowing more will pile up tomorrow.

How is there so much paperwork? You can’t help but wonder if maybe you really are here just to file, if there truly are this many letters coming in that need to be read and sorted. It still doesn’t make a lot of sense no matter how you spin it. Why don't they have an intern? You look up when a thought strikes you - you probably didn't read the contract and now you’re actually a fucking intern and you just didn’t realize until now cause you spaced out so hard looking at that guy’s hairline. Shit.

“Come on, let’s go get something to eat” you hear Javi say, startling you a little and snapping you back from your thought spiral. He stands up and you stay seated, your head tilted up at him and your brows knitted in disbelief. “Now?” you ask, and point to the documents in front of you. “This is your work I'm doing, if you didn’t realize”.

“Exactly” he says, pulling his blazer off the back of the chair before snatching the pen from your hand and tossing it onto the table, “It can wait”. You look at the letter in front of you, still not having much of a clue what it says, and slowly shake your head.

“Javi..” you sigh. “I really need to get this done, it’ll just be another..”, you look at your watch and feel defeated already, “Hour, maybe?”. “You’re gonna stay here till almost six, unpaid?” he asks with narrowed eyes and a condescending smile. “I guess..” is all you have in response.

“You don’t even know what that letter says”, he points to the document on the desk before folding his arms, his face full of amusement. “Yes, I do, Javi” you argue, knowing it’s a lie and that you’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, a sudden influx of new words you couldn’t seem to familiarize yourself with flooding the page. “Tell me then” he says and raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side and waiting for you.

You groan and squint at the paper, making out a few words but not nearly enough to figure out the sentence. “It’s something about a meeting, next week, with the ambassador” you say with your hands at your sides, shrugging a little. He cranes his neck for a second to look at the paper. “It’s about the embassy’s janitorial services” he says, dryly yet amused.

You close your eyes and try to gather the will to argue, to translate, to work - to do anything, really. You glance around the room and, in the corner of your eye, you can see him put his hands flat on your desk next to you and lean over, hovering close to you. “Stop fighting me on this” he whispers, and you tilt your head up, catching his gaze.

You both stay like that for a few moments, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lip and you struggling to resist his coaxing. He glances down at your lips, then quickly looks back up, “Let me do something nice, you’ve done all this filing for me and I feel bad”

Then he tilts his head towards the door, stands up and straightens his jacket, and you scoot the chair back with a screeching sound before you rise, pushing off the armrests and looking at him unamused as you grab your bag and follow him out of the office.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks as you stand next to the cash register, looking at the menu and understanding all the words but getting so distracted by the scent of Javi’s cologne that you can’t think. “Surprise me” you say with a smile, what an amazing save, and he orders for you while you gaze at his side profile, lips parted and eyes wide. He looks so good in that collared, white t-shirt that it should be illegal.

“So,” he says, interrupting himself to take a drag from his cigarette while he watches you take the last few bites of your food, his already inhaled while you rambled about your life the past seven years and asked for advice on how to feel like less of an idiot at the embassy and in a new country. “What made you decide to work in.. Filing et cetera after all that time in school?”

“I didn't decide” you say, covering your mouth and huffing a laugh with your mouth full, “I applied for a few jobs at the embassy, interviewed, they said I’d get one of three jobs”. You swallow and push your hair back over your shoulder, straightening a little in your chair. “And then, two weeks before I was moving, they told me I’d be doing admin work.. But I’d already made all the arrangements, you know? I gave up my apartment, took all these Spanish classes, bought plane tickets.. The embassy had already gotten an apartment for me. Figured it was better than staying in my hometown, even if I was just doing ‘filing etcetera’ as you so nicely put it”.

He looks at you and nods as you talk, takes a drag and flicks off the ashes as he casts his gaze down for a second. “Angelina’s gonna get fired” he says, and looks off into the distance before his eyes flick back to yours. “The advisor?” you ask, vaguely remembering a woman in a pants suit you think might be her.

“Mhm”, he takes one last drag and stumps the cigarette, “You're probably here to take over for her”. Your eyes shift a little side to side, and you can’t quite make sense of the very straightforward sentence he just uttered. “Why is she getting fired?” you ask, feeling like you shouldn’t even be privy to this information at all.

He takes a breath and leans back, throwing his arm over the chair next to him, frowns and shrugs a little before he answers. “Doesn’t really give a shit about her job and it shows.. Nothing gets done in her department, always late, constant complaints lodged against her”.

“Why me, though?” you question, genuinely baffled by his theory, “I’m just a lowly.. Office-admin-paper-person, I don’t know..”. He leans forward and over the table, scanning your face up and down, “Do you think they'd send some idiot down here and pay for their apartment, just so they can run around sorting letters for god knows how long, doing shit Murphy and I should be doing?”. He pauses for a second and tilts his head, “Come on”.

There’s no fucking way, you think. Sure, you have the qualifications, you had an interview for an adjacent job that went well. Very well, actually, so well you were sure you’d gotten the job until the admin bomb was dropped on you and you assumed a better fit had suddenly swooped in and they changed their minds last minute. Why would they suddenly want you for this?

“How do you know? How-”, you shake your head a little and lean in, “Are you supposed to know that?”. “I can tell” he answers and clears his throat, “I sit in meetings with her and people from her department all the time. She’s had two strikes and they’re waiting for a third so she can get canned, simple as that”.

Your eyes dart around the room a little, across the chairs and tables in the restaurant, the other customers, the trees outside blowing in the wind. Javi's eyes are on you the entire time, but he doesn’t say anything until your gaze travels back to him again. “Ambassador will want someone to take over immediately and”, he turns his hands a little, gesturing towards you, “There you are”.

“Why me?” you ask with a grimace, waiting for a serious, legitimate reason you’d suddenly be getting this job, this much better job, more demanding and better paid, actually challenging, with real responsibilities. He chuckles a little and looks between your eyes, studies you a little. “You're capable, intelligent, organized” he says, “Good at talking to people, have your shit together.. Why not you?”

You don’t get the opportunity to answer before the waitress comes by and drops the check on the table. You reach over and grab it, earning you a dirty look from Javier. “You’re not paying” he says, almost condescendingly but with a hint of a laugh, and rips the check out of your hand.

You roll your eyes, mutter thanks, Javi and lift your hand to your cheek, rest your elbow on the table and look out of the window, onto the street, while he pays for dinner. He drives you back to the embassy and you say goodnight, lingering for a little in front of the door to your car, him standing close to you, until someone drives into the empty parking lot and he takes a step back. You smile and get in, about to put your key in the ignition when it suddenly hits you that there’s a planned power outage in your building this week.

Not this week, today.

It also hits you that you got a notice regarding the outage under your door last week and had spent the evening translating it. You lean your forehead into the steering wheel and sit there for a few seconds, trying to figure out whether you should get a hotel somewhere for the night, when you’re startled by a tapping on the window, and you turn to see Javi standing outside.

You roll your window down and he leans into the door, bending over until he’s nearly eye level with you as you shake your head and tell him about the outage. “Stay at my place tonight,” he says and taps the door, “We’ll go to yours and get your stuff, then I’ll drive you to and from work tomorrow”. You lean into the steering wheel again, weighing your options, but realize this is probably the safest, regardless of how inappropriate it might be.

Javi unlocks the door to his apartment and nods for you to walk in first, and your eye is immediately caught by the large windows in his living room as well as the sizable balcony stretching from one corner to the other. “You have a balcony!” you exclaim, realizing you sound way too excited, and even though it’s dark out, you pad over to the glass and peer through it, looking at the city lights.

“Yup” you hear him say, equal parts amused and confused. “Man,” you say as you keep staring out, “All I see from my place is trees, tops of buildings and flashing lights from restaurants on the street, not all this”. Javi gets on the couch and flips the TV on, clicking through the channels and landing on some sort of show while you look out of the window for another minute, then coming over to him and sitting down.

“Free Spanish lesson” he says and glances at you, and you roll your eyes before turning to the screen and trying to understand what’s going on. You get comfortable after a while and find yourself understanding more and more, only catching Javi occasionally looking at you from a few feet away, out of the corner of your eye. An hour or so goes by before you start to yawn and look at the time, and Javi is quick to say that you can have his bed and he’ll sleep on the couch.

“No, no” you say, waving your hand, “Don’t make me feel like a burden, Javi, I’m totally comfortable sharing your bed if you don’t mind it”. He tilts his head a little side to side, trying to look like he’s mulling it over. “If you insist” he says and flips the TV off, then helping you up and showing you where the bathroom is. You grab your toiletries and a t-shirt from your bag and head in to get ready for bed, listening to Javi brush his teeth in the kitchen sink while you quietly peek around in his cabinets a little, just to see if there’s anything interesting to find - which there unfortunately isn’t.

Javi is already in bed, bare chested and stretching his arms when you come out of the bathroom. You smile shyly, walking around to the other side, unable to ignore his eyes following you as you slip into the sheets a respectful distance away from him. Two feet, maybe, it’s a pretty big bed after all, much too big for just one person.

“Thanks for letting me stay over” you say, pulling up the blanket and sweeping your hair up over the pillow, trying not to look at him, knowing that the awareness of him laying next to you, both of you half naked, will keep you up for hours if you think about it too hard.

If you think just a little too much about what he might be like in bed. How we might use his hands and lips and tongue on you, how he might feel inside you. You try to quiet your thoughts, try to breathe through your mouth so you don't feel yourself getting wet from his proximity. “Anytime” he groans and reaches over to turn the lamp on the nightstand off, “Sweet dreams”.

You squeeze your eyes shut and lay completely still in the quiet, dark bedroom, trying to ignore the ache between your legs that rises every time you inhale and smell his cologne on the blanket right below your nose. You push it down a little, wrap it tightly around your chest, and you cool off for a second before you feel him shifting next to you and he throws his arm over his head.

A whiff hits you as he groans quietly and settles - an unmistakable, masculine, musky whiff coming from under his arm, the inevitable sweat from merely existing in Bogotá combined with the cologne that’s been developing on his skin under the suit, which is already intoxicating enough without the added pheromones, making your core tighten at the scent.

“I haven’t had sex in ten months” you suddenly whisper, and you wince as the words leave your mouth. How the fuck did that make it past the filter? A silence follows, and you’re not quite sure whether you prefer for him to have heard you or not.

“Wha-, sorry, did you say something?” he murmurs. “I said I haven't had sex in ten months” you repeat, admitting defeat and feeling your heart thumping. “Is this-”, you can hear him shifting towards you but you look at the ceiling, unwilling to make eye contact. “Are you.. trying.. to seduce me?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Javi..” you mutter, and he can probably sense how hard you’re rolling your eyes at him. “Worth a shot” he says, and you can tell he’s moments away from laughing. “I’m just telling you in case I crawl on you in my sleep or something”, you say, surrendering your hands with your eyes still closed, “Don't- don’t take it personally”. There’s another bout of silence, and you can feel your heartbeat all the way down in your stomach.

“Why don't you just.. Crawl on me now then,” he suggests softly, “Won’t matter if you do it in your sleep if you’re already here”. You don’t answer his question out loud, but you scoot over to him and lay your head on his chest, taking a deep breath and getting overwhelmed by the scent of him, making you jerk your hips a little and throw your leg over his to hide your reaction.

“Don’t take this personally” he mocks, and reaches around to lay his hand on your back, starting to stroke the skin that's been exposed from your t-shirt riding up as you shifted around. You lay still for a while, or what seems like a while, feeling his warm palm stroking you soothingly and molding to the curves of your back as you relax into his chest, inching your pelvis a little closer to him, noticing your panties make contact with his boxers, and trying to brush it off as just shifting around.

His hand lowers a little, sweeps down to your lower back and keeps gently rubbing. You whimper a little at the touch and hope he didn’t hear it, but his hand stills at the noise, right above the waistband of your panties. You close your eyes again and try to somehow reel in your aching for more, take back the wetness that already soaked your panties and at this point is most likely dampening the fabric of his boxers. Hopefully he can’t feel it.

He squeezes a little and your hips roll in response, your breath hitches, and you ask yourself where your self control went when you suddenly feel his hand wrap around your jaw before your head is tilted up, his lips meet yours, and he’s kissing you, parting your lips and licking into your mouth. Fuck, he's a good kisser.

Your hand quickly leaves his chest and your fingers find his curls, tugging at them and hearing him groan. His hand slips down, your thong getting caught between his fingers, and he pulls the lace covered string down until he reaches the swell of your ass. He covers as much of it as he can with his large hand, uses his grip on your flesh to move you subtly, pulling you up and pushing you back down so your clit drags against the wet fabric of your panties that have absolutely leaked onto his boxers by now.

Another whimper escapes, this one long and drawn out, into his mouth. “Let's take these off” he whispers, and you nod in response while he traces the top of your panties, making you shiver when his fingers pass below your belly button. He hooks two fingers into the strap and moves his hand a little back and forth again, brushing the back of his fingers along your hip.

Your eyes have gotten used to the dark now, and the light coming in through those pesky venetian blinds illuminate him just enough to where you can watch him as he slides your panties down your legs, tosses them off the side of the bed, and comes back with a hand going up your shirt as he leans down to kiss you again.

His palm brushes up against your firm nipple and he hums in acknowledgement, retracting his hand to bunch up your shirt and pull it over your head. “I gotta see this” he mutters and turns on the lamp on his bedside table, casting a warm light all over the bed, allowing you to see how intensely he’s looking at you. You could never get tired of those eyes on you.

He lets his hand drag down your side as he licks and kisses along the side of your neck, takes in your curves, travels all the way down, as far as he can reach, and squeezes your flesh. He watches your eyes as he traces up your inner thigh, stops right at the apex, and ghosts his fingertips along your slit, seeing how your lips part and your eyes widen.

“Ten months, huh?”, his voice is so raspy, so deep and dark, and it reverberates through your entire body when he speaks, “That’s a long time”. “Yeah” you whisper with a hint of a laugh. “You wanna keep that streak going or?” he asks smugly with his eyes trained on your lips. “Does it seem like I do?” you respond breathlessly, still half smiling.

“Not really” he says, and plunges one finger deep into you. The moan you let you is embarrassingly loud and desperate, and he chuckles in response. “Fucking tight, though, huh?” he mutters while working in another finger. He slides them in and out, pausing deep inside you to curl them at the spot where you want him the most, your slick running down along his fingers and into his palm, and he kisses and bites your lower lip as you moan into him, unable to close your mouth.

The sensation of his thick fingers is overwhelming after nearly a year of trying and failing to reach the crevice he’s so effortlessly rubbing now. “So good, Javi, so good” you whimper into his mouth, nipples hardening and pussy throbbing, desperately needing release. Then he kisses along your jaw and down your neck while he listens to your little noises, pushing his clothed erection into the side of your thigh.

You pull at his waistband and he moves to retract his fingers, soaked and dripping, pulling his soft pajama pants off with one hand. You glance over as he leans down again and returns his fingers to your opening, slipping inside and curling. The blanket has slid off, down to the mattress, and he’s laying completely bare while his cock lightly bobs from how hard he is.

He lets you take him in, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you stare at him, at the wet head, precome leaking from the slit and threatening to drip down, a few thick veins running from the tip, down his overwhelming length, reaching the thick base, covered by soft, brown hair. “Like what you see?” you hear him murmur against your hairline, and he chuckles a little when you nod. “Yeah” you say softly, and he hums a little before tilting your head back and continuing to place kisses along your neck.

You reach your hand towards him as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out, landing on his stomach and sliding further and further down till your fingers comb through the patch of hair above his shaft and finally circle around him. You can’t even reach all the way around, and you gasp at the realization, dragging your fingers up to catch his precome, slick your hand and start stroking.

The stifled moan he lets out as he licks the underside of your jaw sends shivers through you, and you can feel your clit swelling, so achy and sensitive. Your hand is getting slicker as more precome keeps dribbling out of him, turning you on even more and making you louder until he shushes you with a kiss, his tongue reaching deep into your mouth and your shared spit smearing across your lips. He retracts his fingers and licks off your juices as he looks at you, not letting you glance away.

“Quiero comerte” he mutters to himself, “Taste so fucking good”. He shifts around so he's on his stomach between your thighs, and you notice a worry creeping up when you realize what he’s about to give you. “Should I maybe shower first?” you ask with concern, leaning back on your elbows and trying to close your legs, pushing against his hands holding you open “Sorry I’m so sweaty, I didn’t-”.

“Nah, baby, nothing to apologize for” he says with a calm smile, his eyes burning with desire, “Want you just like this”. And with that, he grabs your hips, pulls you closer to him and hooks his fingers over your thighs to spread you apart. You squeeze your eyes shut and dread his reaction to your scent and taste, your pussy having marinated in sweat all day under the soft fabric of your panties, the heat outside making it impossible not to come home with your inner layer of clothing soaked.

He runs his hand up your inner thigh and pauses, uses his thumb to carefully pull your soft pussy lip to the side, and you tense with self consciousness as he gently opens you for him and runs his tongue up along one side, licking up all your accumulated sweat and gently brushing your clit when he reaches the top. He gives it a slow lick, almost like a wet kiss, and you moan softly, holding your breath.

You feel the vibrations of him groaning against your skin as he shifts to the other side, splays his hand across your inner thigh and pushes his tongue under your outer lip, dragging all the way from your opening and to your clit again, licking up a combination of sweat from the day and slick from him fingering you.

He looks up across your body and waits for you to open your eyes, and you meet his gaze right as he covers your slit with his tongue and drags it up, kisses your clit softly, nips at your folds, then licks the crevice between your mound and inner thigh. Your breathing is shallow and your head is empty, all your attention occupied by the throbbing sensation deep within you, and your clit aching to be rubbed and licked until you come.

He makes his way back, swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud and gives it a suckle, then dives down to push his tongue into your opening so far his nose is touching your clit, a soft whimper escaping you and your chest lifting, rewarded by his dark eyes tracking yours when he comes back up and sucks your clit up into his mouth, flicks at it, increasing the pressure as he squeezes your thighs and you fist the sheets on either side of your head.

“J-Javi, I’m gonna- ” you moan, breathlessly and soft, and he raises an eyebrow, maintaining his pace, covering your clit with his saliva, rolling his tongue and suckling while your own arousal leaks out of you. “I'm gonna come, I-ah” your sentence trails off as you come apart under him, walls pulsing and clenching, back arching off the mattress and your eyes rolling back as your mouth hangs open, gasping for air.

He gently licks until your back hits the mattress, then kisses along your inner thigh and comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand and kiss your neck. “Get on top of me, baby” he whispers, his breath hot over your skin, giving you goosebumps. He sits up and shifts back, leaning against the headboard and watching you pull off your t-shirt as he reaches into his nightstand and grabs a condom, looking at you as he rips it with his teeth. You stare down at his cock, mouth half open and borderline watering as he rolls the latex down and and gestures for you to come to him.

You shuffle over on your knees and he holds his cock up for you to sit on it, reaches out his other hand to wrap around your waist and pulls you closer. He tilts his head up and gazes at your lips, and you kiss him while you lower onto his length, whimpering against his mouth as he fills you. “La tienes tan dura” he mutters to himself, under his breath, and you gasp a little. “Javi” you scold and smack his chest with the back of your hand, interrupted by your breath hitching again at the sensation of his tip reaching the very end of you. “So you understand that but not what's relevant to your job, hm?”, he shakes his head in disapproval, “Dirty girl”.

You roll your eyes a little, starting to wind your hips up and down, feel his hands running up and down your back and over your ass, while his cock fills you and rubs the sensitive little spot deep inside you. “You look so pretty all stretched out, mi amor” he says, grasping your jaw and neck with one hand and bringing your face close to his so he can lick inside your mouth and nibble at your bottom lip while he grunts and thrusts up into you, reaching the very end of your pussy.

He keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, the underside of your jaw, your neck and your chest as you moan incoherently, tighten your core and roll your hips, feeling your clit rubbing against him and your eyes rolling back. His hips move with yours, pushing his length all the way into you, massaging your walls just right. You look down at him and he angles your head down so that your faces are almost touching. You pant into each other’s mouths and he starts smiling, picking up his pace just a little, holding your jaw and forcing you to look him in the eyes while you moan and squirm, your head cleared of all thoughts, your sole focus on how good he feels inside you.

He leans over and grabs the pack of smokes on his nightstand, effortlessly slipping out a cigarette with one hand, sticking it between his lips and picking up the lighter, all while keeping one eye on you, as you lean back with your hands on his knees and move your hips. "You're enjoying yourself too much, cariño" he says, slightly muffled, and lights up while clicking his tongue, "Should’ve known you'd take advantage of my kindness". He groans as he throws the lighter back onto the nightstand and takes a drag, exhaling up and to the right while he gazes at you.

You huff a laugh as you watch him through half closed lids, distracted by how he’s filling you to the brim, how his free hand squeezes the flesh of your ass so firmly it almost hurts a little, and his eyes follow your hips as they lift up, high enough for him to see part of his length slide out before it disappears into you again.

“Fuck yourself on it” he says and takes another drag, “I have to take a timeout, you look way too good on my dick”. He exhales, and leaves the cig in his mouth so he has both hands free, running them down your thighs before throwing one arm over the headrest and leaning over towards the opposite side to flick the ash off into the small ceramic tray. You can barely hear what he’s saying, too overwhelmed by his size still stretching out your hole and putting pressure on your cervix, the movement of his hips burying him so deeply in your cunt you're unable to think straight.

“Can tell you're close, angel” he coos, his voice sounding buttery smooth as he grabs your hand and brings it to your core, “Can you come for me?”. He returns his hand to your hip, and you follow his lead, licking the pads of your index and ring fingers then bringing them down to start circling your clit, feeling your stomach tightening and his tip nudging your most sensitive spot when he pulls you further down into his lap.

He brings his hand up to carefully grasp your breast, smoothing his thumb over your sensitive nipple in circular motions, pushing you closer to your release as you look up at the ceiling and feel it starting to take over your lower half. You hear him grunting, breathing heavily, and feel his tongue on your nipple, licking and sucking it while you ride him.

It feels like he’s prodding at every nerve in your body as his hand on your back holds you close to him and your most sensitive areas are being stimulated, and you need to come so bad you could cry. “Javi, fuck” you moan in an uncharacteristically high pitch, your voice straining to get a single word out as you tumble over the edge, clenching down on him and digging your hips as far into him as possible. He pulls back, raises an eyebrow and smirks, calmly observing as you arch your back while you ride the waves of your orgasm.

“So beautiful” he says and puts out the cigarette, kissing between your breasts while you come down. He places one hand on your back and lifts your thigh with the other, crossing his legs under you so he can lift up to his knees and lay you down on the mattress, his cock still fully sheathed inside you as he settles between your legs. “How do you feel?” he murmurs and noses your neck. “So good” you whisper while you push your heel into his spine, and he slips both arms under your knees, lifting your ass up into the air.

He fucks you so deeply your hands shoot out to grab the front of his knees, preventing him from pushing in any further. Your back arches when you hear him moan, opening your eyes to see his face scrunched and his mouth half open, his gaze roving over your body as he grabs your thighs and pulls you back, letting your ankles rest on his shoulders. He pounds into you, hitting your g-spot with overwhelming speed, your moans getting more and more desperate until his thrusts slow and he growls with each one, burying himself in you for one final push, holding your hips and looking at you while he comes with a rough moan.

He leans over you, lowering down onto his elbows to kiss your lips, then your jaw, then your neck, and eventually your chest, before he pulls out with a groan and discards the condom, pulling you up and onto him as he settles back against the headboard.

“Let’s air the room out a little” he says with a laugh as he puts on his boxers, then picks up a cigarette, nodding towards the door. He waits for you to put on your shirt and panties, takes your hand and guides you out of his bedroom through the kitchen and out onto the balcony you were looking at earlier.

He lights up as you lean over the railing and look down onto the street, comparing the view from his apartment to the view from yours. “Tutoring on Thursday?” you ask as you stand back up. “You only want me for sex” Javi says and rolls his eyes, “This is all just a ruse, baby”.

“Javi…” you murmur softly. “Don't patronize me” he says, making you giggle. Nodding at the cigarette in his hand, you look up at him with a raised brow, “You mind?”. He gives it to you and you take a drag, exhaling slowly as you look out onto the city and feel his eyes on you. “I've learned a lot” you say, still looking out.

“Yeah?” he asks and snakes his hand around your waist. “Mhm.. It's fun”, you look at him, not quite smiling but at the very least looking amused. “That’s good” he says, and pushes his hand into your back so you stumble into him and he kisses you, slowly and tenderly, taking back the cigarette and flicking the ash off. “You're a good teacher” you purr while watching him take a puff. “Lo estoy intentando, hm?”, he exhales.

You look at him and blink a few times, feeling dumb. “I’m trying” he whispers with narrowed eyes and pushes your hair back over your shoulder, tilting his head a little. You roll your eyes at yourself, “People really lodge formal complaints about Angelina?”. He looks down at your chest for a moment while his hand slips down to squeeze your cheek, before he keeps talking. “You translated one, so..” he says and shrugs, “You tell me”.

“I did?”, you grimace and try to remember what little you gathered during that lesson, too damn distracted to even read English. “Yeah, first lesson” he says, and watches you with amusement, “Or were you not paying attention?”. You giggle and tilt your head, biting your tongue between your front teeth, “Might’ve been a bit distracted”.

“Fair enough” he concedes, then takes a drag, “I’m looking forward to her being out, hate to say it”. He exhales out into the air and you admire his side profile, watching as his eyes narrow and his gaze follows the lights from an airplane in the distance. “Is she that bad?” you finally ask.

“Nightmare.. You prepared for the amount of Spanish you'll have to know to take over?”, he looks back at you, and moves his hand back up to the small of your back, spreading out his fingers to hold you steady while he pulls you a little closer. “What” you say, not even as a question.

“There's gonna be a decent amount”, he smirks while taking another drag. You look unamused as you snatch the cigarette back, leaning back into his hand. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve just been tutoring me so I can take over for her sooner and you don't have to deal with her shit?”. Javi tilts his head and looks at you, leaning in for a kiss you dodge, and he laughs at your disapproval.

“Positive side effect, you could say..”, his gaze holds you hostage as you try to look annoyed, “But mostly I don't mind helping a damsel in distress such as yourself”. “Damsel in distress” you mutter, rolling your eyes and slapping his arm. “Nah,” he chuckles, “I like you, why wouldn't I wanna help?”. He looks at your lips, then your eyes, brushing his thumb along your skin. “I like you too” you say, biting back a smile. You gaze at each other for a moment, before you get shy and peek over the railing while he runs his hand up and down your back. “Seeing anything interesting?” he asks. “Eh,” you shrug, “Not really.”

Nos ha llamado la atención = It has caught our attention

Dime lo que dije = Tell me what I said

Quiero comerte = Want to eat you

La tienes tan dura = You get me so hard

Lo estoy intentando = I try

260 notes View Post

enchantedinfinity

3 years ago

the feminine urge to fall in love with anyone who has the ability to genuinely make me laugh

10K notes View Post

enchantedinfinity

1 year ago

I have a soft spot only for mikey.

Fly Away

Michael Berzatto x Reader

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

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

Word count: 11k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you could be there for him too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How have you–”

“How’s law sch–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fun? Wow.” Carmy grins a little.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Business administration specialist.”

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

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

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

“Acquaintances.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hubris.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might never stand out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natalie is tearing up as Stevie hugs her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Birdie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mikey?” You voice is timid. Small.

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

“Yeah, Birdie?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, Birdie–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all goes to shit not even twenty minutes later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Were you too much for him? Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michelle inhales. “We have lift-off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natalie shakes her head in little no-no motions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael throws the third fork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hope next Christmas will be better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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enchantedinfinity

3 years ago

I've been saying this since season 1, but FEZCO CAN GET IT THO. That ginger can beat it up on ANY DAY. Damn, I need a sweet, but protective drug dealer in my life.

Manifesting that the fanfiction girlies on here will write some new Fez stuff.

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enchantedinfinity

3 years ago

YAYAYAYAY