(probably) Unpopular But Cal Coming Out Was So Fucking Funny He Burned His Whole Family With His Dick

this series was so good!!

FINAL ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, fluff, sssmmmmmuuuut (fingering, oral fem receiving, p-in-v unprotected (do not follow their footsteps) you get the idea), mentions of staples in head. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. also i didn’t feel like waiting until 6pm est to post this so here’s an early last chapter? happy friday? sorry if there’s mistakes alright godspeed.

WORD COUNT 10.4k. alright. no one say anything. it was originally around 5k but like the ptputss final chapter, i couldn't let that happen. hope you enjoy this scrap.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER motion picture soundtrack by radiohead

Sarah is usually a pretty good roommate.

Despite growing up with cleaning services and maids and private chefs, she's always done a good job at tidying up after herself. Dishes are rarely left in the sink (you two normally have a truce of doing the dishes the morning after a night out, rather than dealing with them in your drunken splendor), communal spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and bathroom are, for the most part, always crumb-free and organized, and you'll even take turns cooking for each other on occasion. The two of you have fallen into a nice routine in terms of sharing your own space.

However, Sarah has little to no concept of privacy.

Especially now, as she pounds on your door and yells your name as if there's a fire.

"Why the fuck are all the condoms all over the floor?!"

It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry for the LAME ending hope u enjoyed the series!!! thank you for all the support this has been super fun to write. also NOT CONDONING DRUG USE okay thanks!!!!

i second this.

Gals, Gays, Theys, and everyone in between, we as a community need to contribute to the Billy Hargrove collection of fiction. Please, please make more. 🙏

Anyway, Stan Rudy Pankow

i love this movie so much

SEBASTIAN STAN as STEVE KEMP in FRESH (2022) • Wardrobe Appreciation

The Sound of My Voice

Based off this request:

Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

Word count: 2.2k

Content warning: cursing, mentions of smoking.

Y/N arrived at the festival grounds at 12:17 PM, her right hand gripping a paper cup filled with black coffee, her left clutching a crumpled setlist. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, the temperature hovering around 95°F. Roadies, their shirts drenched in sweat, darted between stages. Multiple soundchecks filled the air with a mix of drum beats, guitar riffs, and microphone feedback.

Y/N's gaze fixed on the large LED schedule board. Her name appeared in bold letters, slotted for 8:45 PM - her debut as a solo act at a major festival. The sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

And maybe that was the worst part.

new obsession

no words.

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.

Not Prick | Tom Holland

masterlist found here

pairing - Tom x reader word count - 1,877 warnings - language A/N - for the anon who requested x

summary - A fan gets a little aggressive with Tom at the mall, and he takes it out on the wrong person. But he’s a good guy, and when he realizes his mistake, he’s determined to make up for it.

Tom was having a bad day. There was no rhyme or reason. He was just cranky and tired and wanted to be home. Instead, he was out at the mall with Harrison. Apparently his favorite store was having a sale, and Harrison wanted a new pair of shoes.

“Why don’t you just order them online?” Tom had asked as Harrison all but dragged him out of his apartment.

“I gotta try them on and make sure they look good,” the other argued. Tom rolled his eyes but agreed to go. Now, they were out, and Tom was regretting it.

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