mikalaseabrooke-archive

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄 — a strange and incoherent retelling of one's life and vibes with songs that both do and do not go together even slightly, ft. favorite albums and most replayed songs. // find the full spotify playlist here.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

“Is this your idea of above and beyond?” Mikala’s own fond smile is playing across his lips, soon occupied by Asa’s, and he savors the taste of him while he can. “You need to raise your standards,” comes as a gentle joke, though there's something akin to relief that his idea of a Valentine’s Day date is sailing smoothly. It's not necessarily different than what they would do on any other night, yet the intentions have shifted slightly for the sake of the holiday.

His chin rests lightly atop Asa’s head now that they've both positioned themselves comfortably, slipping into a slow sway that's determined by the music. It's not that he doesn't know the song playing—If I Didn't Have Your Love—it’s more so that he's not paying attention, eyes closed and focus centered around Asa.

The way he feels pressed against him, the way he smells. How easily an inked hand fits into his. It's after a long pause that he breaks his silence, “Are you enjoying yourself?” It sounds more conversational than anything, as if he's had to remind himself to speak, to be present. Too often does he succumb to quiet lulls.

Of course, by now he can feel Mikala's eyes on him. The keen interest, the observatory gaze that settles on Asa's bones. He finds he enjoys it - the voyeur staring and making sure the underboss has things handled. And normally he does. With a knife, it's hard for Asa to go wrong - unless he plans it out on purpose.

Soon enough he's being led by the waist, and a shy laugh leaves him before he can figure out what to say. Instead his hand slips into Mikala's. Fingers tangle there quickly, and he tilts his head back to take in Mikala in all his glory. The grays and the long curtains of hair. Asa's smile is softer than he means it to be - fonder than perhaps he should allow it. But it doesn't matter much.

"You really do go above and beyond." The illustrator can't help but still be a bit overwhelmed as he presses a kiss to his chin, then to his lips. The music is a beautiful backdrop - Asa's not sure what plays, but it's lovely, and romantic. His face rests against Mikala's chest. Cheek resting there, ear against his hear.

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Time passes quickly enough, with Mikala spending most of it sipping his wine and watching Asa, though it's not to make him nervous. It's hardly even to supervise him, knowing that the man is perfectly capable of wielding a knife—in fact, that's what he's unable to avert his gaze from. How truly enchanting it is to watch those inked fingers grip the handle, the glare of the blade when soft lighting hits it just so. A beloved sight.

Regardless, he attempts to make himself look busy… if quickly reaching out to preheat the oven then pour himself more wine counts as busy. He makes up for it when he takes over, finishing the rest of the prep work and getting the carefully cut vegetables into the oven.

At long last, he can devote his attention wholly to Asa instead of their dinner for the night.

“You did very well, sweet Asa,” he murmurs, if only because he's so acutely aware of what praise does to the underboss. His hand reaches for Asa’s and soon enough, his other hand has set aside the wine glass in favor of resting on the other’s waist.

“May I have this dance, my darling?” he teases, decidedly lighthearted, as the fifth track softly fades in.

Mikala is so close as he puts the plaster on. Wraps it carefully and grins. Asa wants to kiss him then, so he does. Leans briefly to find his mouth and lets it be quick. Cooking to do, after all.

The subtle praise is a dart thrown right at Asa's heart and his advisor must know it. Asa's flushing, shooting him the tiniest sidelong look as he moves to continue cutting vegetables. "Poor thing. Waiting on me to cut all these vegetables." It's just a tease, a little smile to himself as inked fingers deftly work and cut the potatoes, beetroot, carrots. Flawlessly.

And the thought of dancing... that Mikala has remembered Asa's request, that he's willing to do it at all. He's not used to the kindness Mikala shows him. He's not sure if he'll ever be. Even if they share the rest of their days in each other's spaces, sharing breaths, warmth, time... Asa will still be in awe of the things he's been given from a man he knows doesn't do this. Not normally. Only for him.

Everything's done quickly, and he helps slide all the cut veg where it needs to go. Leans himself into the other as he lets him handle some of the harder bits.

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“No you won’t,” comes his instantaneous reply, however the amusement in his tone is clear as day, back turned as he rummages around for a first aid kit. Mikala is still familiarizing himself with Asa’s flat, more intimate with the man than his residence, though he adapts day by day. Finally, he retrieves a band-aid and, like any well trained dog, is at Asa’s side again.

He bandages the minute wound swiftly and allows himself to grin at Asa, no matter how brief it is, “Without cutting yourself this time, will you continue preparing dinner? I’m starved, darling—” There’s more than one meaning to his words, spoken with a subtle urgency. “And I would like to dance with you, soon. As you requested.” By now, they’re edging towards the third song of the album.

He reaches for his glass of wine, takes a sip that’s visibly greedier than the last, and leans against the counter. “Go on, sweetheart. You were doing well before this.”

He sees the look of exasperation and Asa tries not to grin too much. Maybe the knife had slipped a little too intentionally- while the underboss isn’t exactly into hurting himself, he is into seeing Mikala’s devotion and dark tendencies laid out in front of him. Tongue to finger and then a beautiful mouth sucking the digit clean. Any smug smile is gone as Asa just watches, and flushes.

The illustrator would be content to have that mouth keep traveling down. It’s such a soft press of lips to his inner wrist and he sighs. Wants them to head to his forearm, maybe up to bicep and then neck. He’d take bites too - at his pulse point, or where his ear meets jaw…

But he reluctantly pulls back. Moves his finger under the faucet and lets the water wash out any residual bacteria. “I’ll try to be more careful.” Asa almost teases, glancing back with dark eyes.

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“I’m merely observing,” and how often does he say that? Worse, how often does Mikala simply watch people? He supposes it’s in his job description at this point. Still, he parts from the doorway as told and steps towards the desk, cane in one hand and a manila folder in the other. “A contract’s come in,” he begins and with that, he finally drops the folder on Joaquin's desk with a soft thump. “It’s complex, requires specific skills.” It’s obvious where this is going, when the documents for said contract mention torture, sending a message.

“Toes the edges of the treaty,” and there’s the exciting part. Then again, whenever tasked with taking down the elite, they’re always at risk of dismantling fragile boundaries and agreements.

where: the crooked hand's office (l'antique, c'est chic) when: open! with: open (jolly rogers)!

"Well, you've officially been lurkin' in my doorway for five minutes, and that's about as long as I can stand," Joaquin says, finally glancing up from deciphering the report Sal had left on his desk, the customary cigarillo dangling from his bottom lip, "So, whatever you've got to say, spit it out, or piss off back downstairs."

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

Favorite memory?

"A singular favorite memory?" A pause as he mulls it over. "Meeting Asa and finding out that he's part of our organization was an interesting day. I'm convinced he was somewhere else entirely while I was talking to him; as if I was speaking with a feral animal recently escaped from its cage and I suppose, in a way, I was. Still, he did what he could to engage, seldom averted his gaze from mine, no matter how unrelenting his—or my own—was. It's a vivid memory, at that, and one that's stuck with me partly due to the dichotomy of then versus now."

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

hc + 💌 for a romance-themed headcanon :)

💌 for a romance-themed headcanon.

Ah, romance... That one little mystery in life that Mikala can't seem to wrap his head around, nor has he really ever tried. Outside of sex, romantic endeavors are foreign to him and, even at 58 years old, he's still figuring out how to navigate them. He's gotten away with not having to care, limiting how close he allows people to him, up until the last few years. As a result of his devotion bond to Asa, he is now forced to confront what that means and how to behave; how to exhibit selflessness when he has only ever known how to be selfish, though the latter always slips through. This strange and unfamiliar territory has yet to stop feeling so new to him.

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA. // THEMATIC HEADCANONS.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

hc + 😃 (happiness-themed headcanon)

😃 for a happiness-themed headcanon.

Mikala has a complex view on what happiness even is, and likely wouldn't quite recognize or connect to it very much if he experiences it. For him, joy, pleasure, contentment, amusement... these are all fleeting and seldom experienced in simplicity. This is all stemming from a disconnect from his genuine emotions, so consumed by this need to be in control and the many masks he wears that the layers based in sincerity and humanity are too deep for him to access more often than not.

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA. // THEMATIC HEADCANONS.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

+ 🗡 for a weapon-themed headcanon

🗡 for a weapon-themed headcanon.

Mikala is gross and his choice of weaponry reflects that. Unless he's specifically instructed to otherwise or the contract calls for subtlety, he... how do you say... really goes for it? With poisons intended to leave a mess of blood, bile, and whichever fluid happens to leak out at the time of dying, leaving an unforgettable image for the (un)lucky person to stumble across his work—if he isn't tasked with disposal as well. For a personal touch and violence that warrants the intimacy, he's a fan of knives, teeth, these weird clawed gloves. Big fan of theatrics and viscera, loves him some torture, guns are lame, simple as.

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA. // THEMATIC HEADCANONS.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

What's the weirdest funeral you ever had to do?

"I truly hate to disappoint—" No he doesn't. "However, I've not experienced any truly strange funeral requests. Not in my opinion, at the very least. The funeral is only as weird as the guests make it, and that's out of my hands."

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

What would it take for you to leave the JRs?

"I presumed we were all operating under the pretense—the oath, even—that leaving is not an option." Though, he's seen the small, lucky handful escape and live to tell the tale. Opinions are withheld, for the better. A shrug, paired with a dismissive wave of his hand, and then, "I've been with the Jolly Rogers for nearly twenty-seven years now. If I were forced to escape, it would be in a body bag, and I desire it no other way." Loyal to a fault.

ASK GABRIEL. | ASK MIKALA. | ASK CASSANDRA.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

All is well from Mikala’s perspective, with Asa following his advice, and he dares to turn his attention to preparing the steak. He doesn’t get very far, hardly steps away, before he hears a soft hiss. It’s not even necessary for him to spare a glance to know exactly what unfolded in mere seconds, yet he does anyway, dark eyes trailing from a bleeding finger to Asa’s face.

An exasperated sigh, put on for show, and he’s right back at his underboss’ side. “Is that what it was, sweet Asa—” as he’s reaching for his hand, fingers curling around his wrist in a needlessly possessive grip. “A distraction?” He brings the weeping wound up to his lips, tongue peeking out to allow metallic red into his mouth, disgusting and unabashed as ever while he maintains eye contact with Asa.

Eventually, and it’s wholly unnecessary, he guides a tattooed finger further into his mouth with hollowed cheeks. Puts pressure just to coax more blood out of the small nick. When he’s satisfied, lips trail down to a pale wrist and Christ—he wants to bite, tear into flesh with reckless unrestraint, like any feral animal would.

With an exhale, he pulls away and releases his grip, shaking his head, “Go wash your hands while I get you a plaster. I don’t need you getting blood in our dinner.” Oh, sweet irony.

A hand settles on his lower back as Mikala comes close to watch him cut. Warmth always grows from wherever the man touches - and now is no different. There’s always a little itch when a knife rests in his hand - beyond the trimming off of carrot greens and the segmenting of potatoes and beetroot. His lover’s words would come across as condescending if this hadn’t been their dynamic - a tender tone that’s spoken so softly. Almost feels like a whisper meant only for Asa’s ears. 

He shifts a gaze to him before dark eyes come to rest back on his inked fingers. Curl them inward… he tilts one hand, and the knife comes down, and he knicks the side of his left pointer with the blade. A hiss at the blossoming of intriguing pain from the small but effective cut.

“Too much instruction can distract, Mikala.” He nearly purrs regardless, as blood beads from the side of his finger. He turns more intentionally towards his lover, eyes the reddening mark in curiosity before he looks at the other. Waiting.

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“Steak and roasted root vegetables,” he murmurs before turning his attention briefly to pour his own glass of wine, promptly taking a small sip. There's temptation to make a joke towards Asa, something about not losing a finger, however Mikala decides against it; not wanting to inspire any nervousness, especially while he's still guiding Asa as he learns to cook. He's not sure if he would offer anyone else the same patience and assistance the way he does to Asa.

He steps away for less than a minute, only to set the vinyl of his choosing—You Want It Darker by Leonard Cohen, a favorite of his—carefully into the record player and starting it on the first track. He returns to Asa’s side immediately after, watching him carefully, hand resting on his back lightly. “You're doing well, darling boy, but curl your fingers in just a little more when you're holding what you're cutting.” He didn't want to tend to any bloodied wounds tonight, at least not ones that he didn't create.

“And with the knife, place your hand closer to where the hilt meets the blade. Let it do the work for you.” Where he would usually take a commanding tone in telling Asa what to do, he doesn't this time, opting for low and gentle.

“The beetroot may stain your fingers a little, by the way,” as if either of them aren't already familiar with being stained in similar hues. “Try not to get it on that nice shirt of yours.” There goes his intentions of not making any unhelpful comments.

Asa watches Mikala turn in his arms, and then he must retract them promptly so he can take the offered glass. After a kiss, of course, that he leans into. He'd be happy if it lasted about a few hours longer.

Still, he sips the wine. Eyes Mikala, then the bottle, then the two glasses again as if putting a few things together all at once. Dark eyes shine but he says nothing. Just another appreciative sip of a wine that is tart and sweet.

"Cutting vegetables." He repeats it with a chuckle, nodding. "Yes, I think I can do that..." He really hopes he can. Asa's hand lingers on Mikala's arm but he slips away to the cutting board, and the various veggies to cut up. He sets the wine to one side and takes a deep breath as he picks up the nearby knife, turns it with fingers.

"So what exactly are we making, darling?"

It's asked casually as he begins to chop, careful. Slow. He doesn't mind a bit of blood, but a lost finger might not do so well with his illustration work. Not as easy to hold a gun either.

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oh, and my love did i mistake you for a sign from god or are you really here to cut me off? or maybe just to turn me on? 'cause these days i would be lying if i told you that i didn't wish that i could be your man.

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

Valentine’s Day—it’s not a holiday Mikala gives much thought to as a general rule, nor does he place any weight in it. However, romance hasn't shriveled up and died after all, and he had put effort into a date night of sorts for him and Asa. A simple idea, admittedly, that involved cooking and drinking wine together with the addition of listening to a soft and somber record.

It's why he's stood in the kitchen now, unpacking groceries from their bags, though there aren't too many. He knows to keep it relatively straightforward while he's still teaching Asa how to cook. And as he waits for Asa, he's already opening the bottle of wine, timing it well enough as he hears the door open and watches one of the cats head for it instantly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling boy,” he murmurs, a hand resting on the arm around his midsection as he pours a glass of wine with his free hand. For once in his life, he's compromised, having bought a sweeter bottle than he would typically opt for. “Of course. No fires tonight. You know arson isn't my preferred method.”

He turns around only to lean down and press a brief kiss to Asa’s lips, offering the glass to him immediately after. “I’ll guide you, perhaps start you off with cutting vegetables. Do you think you can do that for me, sweet Asa?” Beat. “I already know you're quite talented with a knife.”

( @mikalaseabrooke )

To say Asa is overwhelmed at the idea of Valentine's Day plans would be an understatement.

His lover is right - he's a touch-starved man, even nearly 12 years out of St. Irene's. He craves affection, needs validation. And nowhere does he get it more than from his advisor. His lover, his flatmate, his beloved. There are a thousand other names he could give him. Tonight, his valentine. Cheesy, maybe. And yet his chest pangs with an unspoken word that always sits just beneath the surface.

When he arrives home from work, he's already warm with nerves and those soppy feelings. A blazer is slid from his frame, a tie loosened and hung up. It's a collared shirt of pthalo green beneath, unbuttoned just enough for inked collarbone and chest to show. Still tucked into his nice slacks. There is the ever-present cluster of cats around his feet as shoes slide off. He pads into the kitchen, rolling up sleeves.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my love." Asa murmurs, soft smile and softer eyes. Arms slipping around a trim waist, face pressing into a clothed shoulder blade. "You'll lead me, right? I don't want to set our flat on fire on such a nice evening, after all."

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There’s a sense of relief when the cat is taken from his grasp, though Mikala knows it won’t be long before Mr. Ears is invading his personal space again, given how Asa is talking about paperwork to adopt the admittedly sweet animal. “What happened to only wanting to look, darling boy?” he teases, but this outcome is predictable and he knew it going into this. At least he won’t arrive home to a surprise sixth cat.

The mention of the head scar has him biting back another smile, as he's simply done too much of that, before he leans closer to Asa and murmurs, “Perhaps he’s your kindred spirit.” A reference and a joke of sorts, after hearing the same about himself and the other five cats.

“Igor, yes. It’s far more charming than his current name.” It’s a name he had thrown out almost immediately after rejecting the offer of renaming the cat, primarily for its ties to Frankenstein and similar characters, only a slight upgrade from the irony of Mr. Ears. He supposes he’s become a bit predictable, himself.

Casually, Mikala reaches out to pet the black cat a little more, before his hand returns to Asa’s back. “Do you think he’ll learn to respond to it? His new name,” and no, he’s not entirely sure why he cares, other than to possibly discipline the cat on misbehaviors. Even then, all of the cats respond to Asa far better than they do him.

“For his sake—and yours—you should hope that he doesn’t tear up the upholstery in my car.” His prized hearse that he’s refused to part ways with, even after his retirement. It certainly proved useful for getting them here, and moving boxes of his belongings to Asa’s flat.

"I absolutely can." Asa murmurs against the cats fur with a smug smile before he's passing the sweet, purring creature to Mikala.

He loves watching him hold Mr. Ears, even if Asa's sure he won't last long. His advisor even coming with him is a feat in itself, and especially now that they share Asa's flat, he almost expected more of a fight about a sixth cat.

Inked fingers slip between fur and Mikala's chest, easing the sweet baby back into his own arms. "Hullo, angel..." He whispers, and the cat is back to rubbing his face into the side of Asa's stubbled face, purring. "I think we need to sign some paperwork, hm?" All his questions are asked of his new child cradled in his arms as Asa sees the shelter employee who's been supervising nearby. Who clearly overhears and heads off to get papers and things together.

"You may have to stay in the bedroom on your own a bit, first... the others need some time to get used to you." Asa continues. He scratches behind the bumps that were once ears, frowning. "A little head scar is no big deal..." He adds comfortingly, thinking of his own.

Finally he acknowledges Mikala's presence again. Absolutely beaming. "Igor then, darling? Or have you thought of a different name? Bowie, after the rabbit we aren't adopting perhaps?"

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

Keanu Reeves The House of Suntory presents The Nature and Spirit of Japan