#i spent too much time deciding the color palette for this shit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yinses · 3 years

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—hawks ft. established relationship + dom!keigo + exhibition + overstim

rating: 18+ a/n: thank you so much to @ultimate-astridwriting for allowing me to be part of this collab !! it was the shove i needed to get back into the fandom. hawks has always been my favorite hero so i hope to do him justice.

➳ impatient collab masterlist

fist pressed against his cheek, he browsed over the sight before him, taking it all in without considering really any details. fighting a smirk, he cocked an eyebrow.

“i’m not feeling the color. change it for the other one.”

to be frank, he had no particular preferences for color, design, texture or any of that shit–though, he did have a weakness for anything with a pretty flare to it, the air of innocence that he loved to bathe you in with all the frills and fluff. however, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t fond of deciding which palettes suited you best. but he had a specific reason as to why he voiced that particular opinion of his.

sale’s representatives, all mascara-lined eyes and glossy lips, held your hands by your side in a surrendering position as they paraded you in front of your boyfriend as though this was his own private fashion show. and in a way it was, he’d spent good hard earned money renting out the area for a few hours. enjoying it all from his throne placed perfectly in front of the changing rooms, watching how you were dragged in and out by the forceful employees with him picking out what items you wore.

the clatter of the sale’s girls dragging you back in the changing room again, drew him from his thoughts. you were a flushed mess, struggling to wriggle away from their sharp nails while insisting that you could walk on your own. overall, you'd have been rather accommodating to his whims. but you always were. and as such a good girl, he would reward you for it. for now though, he couldn’t resist giving you a mocking smirk when you tried to grab him and failed miserably at that.

back to the prison of hands again, he noted, as they closed the door behind them and made a fuss over what you disliked and what he wanted. as more girls pecked at you to stay still while they taught you how to wear the clothing properly. outside, keigo waited patiently for them to be done as his eyes travelled from one end of the store to the other, looking at the fancy lingerie and wondering what would actually be perfect for you. but then again, to be painfully honest, you made anything here look good.

and then there's also another fact that he had to come to terms with.

he liked you best without anything on.

with only your bare skin, lying amidst the fluffy pillow with silken sheets tangled around your body. legs demurely spread, hands placed above your head and looking as though you were begging to be dominated. that was certainly the very image of excellence that any man could ever ask for. wanton eyes, warm cheeks, slightly parted lips, panting–ah, but you would gasp wordlessly as he’d stolen your voice many rounds prior. keeping his eyes peeled on the floor, the man shuddered briefly and rolled his shoulders back to remind himself that he was in a store and any further acts of indecency would totally be out of the question. especially when he remembered how you straddled him last night, thighs over his torso. sinking in inch by inch, throwing your head back when he bucked up a bit too hard on you–

"mr. hawks, what do you think of this?"

there you stood, with your hands still raised again, eyes watering under the torment of these awful ladies. biting your lips with warmth tainting your cheeks, hair cascading over your shoulders and meeting the body that was hugged by a pair of lingerie. strapless and curvaceous mounds of yours, covered with a brassiere. a matching panty, complete with small laces forming gathers on the hems as they trailed invitingly towards to garter at your thighs.

he stared.

and blinked.

only once.

"sir?" one of the older females repeated, raising her eyebrows. "…what do you think?"

trying to cover up the fact that his awkward silence was making the room uncomfortable with anticipation, keigo casually leaned backwards and crossed his legs together. his wings fluttered in reflection of his thoughts, rising and falling with each new epiphany. dark eyes walked all over your body, drinking in how your breasts were perfectly pressed together and how your legs trembled when his eyes stopped at the ribbons of the panty. finally hovering over your face, where when eyes met, your blush darkened and you immediately dropped your gaze to your bare feet. he smirked at that sinfully innocent reaction of yours.

coy today, were you not?

without skipping a beat, keigo drew out a card and threw it over to one of the sale’s girls, who fumbled as she tried to catch it with her clammy fingers. eyes still locked at your face, knowing that with his stare alone he was making you feel uncomfortable. and damn, he still loved seeing you squirm around like a virgin on her wedding night.

"i'm taking everything that she tried on just now," he answered loftily, still seated on the cushiony sofa, leaning his head against one arm and letting the other one tap rhythmically on the armrest. when the employees all squeaked out a pathetic noise of agreement, keigo allowed his lips to curve upwards in a smirk as he drawled out the next order; "charge what you need on it, i don't give a shit. and oh, and don't forget to charge what it takes to buy this section for another hour. turn off the surveillance too while you're at it because this area's mine from the time being."

needless to say, their faces instantly decolorized. but they wouldn’t challenge his demands. the brief raise of his massive scarlet wings was an unnecessary reminder as they stretch languidly without threat. he was a hero after all. who were they to challenge a frivolous form of stress relief?

he had no doubt that they had an inkling of what would occur over the next hour or so. but he was certain the gossip would get lost in the rumor mill.

hawks was a rather eccentric individual. what isn’t he up to these days?

keigo had never saw the staff evaporating and clearing the area within less than a minute as they closed off the doors behind them, leaving this particular section untouched for the next event that was about to take place.

it really did not make you feel any better though.

"little dove."

he watched as you jumped, realizing his attention was solely on you now. you raised your eyes to his again, locking eyes with deviously glinting ones. right now, at this moment, keigo knew how much power he held over you, and damn well he was about to abuse his privileges to no end. leaning snugly against the soft backing of the sofa, he cupped his chin with his palm and arrogantly raised an eyebrow when you shuddered under his disturbing gaze. you looked much as though you were lost and backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. keigo smirked; haughty, superior, dominating you single-handedly, and his other hand rose slightly from the armrest.

a single finger curled inwardly.

a low voice

commanding.

"come here, now"

you knew what came from that tone, but the words didn’t ignite the same spark as it did within the safe space of your home.

you only hesitated briefly, but it was still a second to long for his tastes as his lips already began curling down in disappointment. your heart rapped heedlessly against your ribcage, sent spiraling into an off-beat staccato as you quickly tried to alleviate the shift in mood.

never in your relationship had you considered denying keigo. not the man who laid out everything you could have asked for on a silver platter. it's just that-

your feet crossed the minimal distance necessary to appear agreeable though your face still twists in concern.

“really? …. you want to have sex …. here?”

fingertips grapple anxiously while your eyes dart across the empty but still very publicly accessible room.

“now?”

keigo already look bored with the exchange, digits curling once more with something just outside of patience.

“yes, now.”

his wings flex in consideration, yet he doesn’t move to rise form his seat. instead he changes tactics.

“i just want to show a bit of appreciation for all the pretty things i just bought you.’’

it sounds backwards … as if those should be the words coming out of your mouth not his. but the hint doesn’t come any stronger than the easy grin that spreads across his lips. he even makes a show of lounging back against the cushioned seat, body open in invitation should you dare.

and bite you did, teeth nibbling at the bait as you approach. keigo remains still, though his eyes dance with barely contained excitement as you gingerly crawl into his lap, fancy garments already rubbing enticingly against his thighs?.

the flap of his wings welcome gusts of winds and gratitude as his arms curl around you. the hand at your cheek tilts your head up to meet his gaze. it was always so easy for you to get lost in those specks of liquid gold. but now there was hardly any left to admire with the way his pupils were blown wide with lunch.

a shiver tickles your spine and you’re vaguely away that he’s kissing the line of your jaw, whispering soft words of encouragement as his hips raise to rock subtlety. it all left you shuddering in peaked anticipation as your worries melted into the recesses of your mind.

the hand cupping the roundness of your face stops you before you can lean in for more, the nose brushing against the tip of your nuzzling there in brief affection as he garnered the fraying tips of your attention. “yes?”

the fog of arousal abated a little at the question as your conscious thoughts swam back into the surface to input the code that would spiral you into your deepest desires.

“yes,” you verbally consented as you leaned up into him for a needy kiss. keigo swept his tongue out, meeting the the soft upper palate of your mouth with languid strokes. a rumbling trill greets you when you nibble in response. keigo eagerly chases you into a fevor of song and dance, building your body up to the inevitable fall he plans to send you crashing down in.

when he breaks the kiss, his eyes drop to the price tag still resting innocently against the swell of your bosom. he snaps it away from the fabric, uncaring of the threat against its delicacy as he tosses the flimsy paper to the side.

there were plenty more where it came from. and he was yearning to get the real show on the road.

“now then. how could i possibly show my thanks?”

nails dig into his shoulders for purchase as you rock traction into the firmness of his lap. keigo meets the upward curve of your hips with a sneaky dive of his hand between your thighs where his hand warms the skin there.

you expect him to dip right in, cognitive of the spare time the two of you had to play. but as a dangerous smile twists at his mouth, you realize this is hawks time, a reality that flows differently than everyone else’s.

“trying to decide if i want you to keep these on or not. “ he contemplates aloud, fingers plucking at the elastic.” i mean it would be a shame to leave them out.”

you nod mutely, ready to agree with whatever favored progression. keigo’s gaze narrowed at the silent insinuation “what? you want to make this into a quickie? but we have so many outfits to try.”

you already knew that, acutely aware of each and every article of clothing that had been zipped, tied or squeezed around your body. and you were grateful of each and every addition, would even gladly spend the next few weeks letting him fuck you in each variation against your shared mattress at home.

what you wanted now was for him to come so that you could start that private show within your own walls.

keigo chooses to go for an adorable pout, lips pulling on aged heart strings, yet managing to make them go taut all the same. he waits until your body soften from the tension, aiding the transition with slow strokes against your back and inner leg.

“one pair.”

it’s your back that losses his touch in order for him to bring a single finger in front of your face.

“let me ruin one pair with my come and we can call it quits.”

and you say okay. brining your pelvis back into an enticing dance as you meld that pout into an eager kiss. you were already dressed for the occasion and had all the tips and tricks in your inventory to help him reach his goal. one easy step and you could be on your way.

how naive you still were.

eight pair now. he’d brought you near completion just as many times before halting the grind of your hips with a frown. he mad for a rather convincing curator, inspecting each and every pair of to the finest thread.

‘too blue.’

‘too much lace.’

‘it just doesn’t feel right. ‘

‘why don’t we try something else?’

true to his word, keigo had been determined to find the perfect pair to meet him at the edge of nirvana, and dragged you from one painstakingly near orgasm to the next along the way.

"stop."

you whimpered desperately, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you forced yourself to remain seated with him throbbing deeply within you. pulsing, hot, too hot. scorching you inwardly and causing strange sensations to sear through your veins. his hands were still on the armrest, they were not on you, they were not driving you crazy with their constant teasing and whatnot this time. because he was not doing anything to make you this crazy when you were already this crazy for him.

his lips smirked against the shell of your ear, a moist tongue peeking out to leave a wet trail. you fought every inch of yourself to stop your hips from moving again. because of his command, you could not move. you could not bring yourself to move. simply because it was his desire and you could not deny him.

"close?" he murmured darkly into your ear, wispy breath tickling your neck. making a sharp sensation run down your spine, forcing you to arch against him and pressing your bare breasts against his chest. he knew it, he knew that he drove you this wanton for him, all desperate and wanting more.

and yes, you were too close.

too close until one more move, he could make you topple over the chasm of ecstasy without even doing anything to you.

"hmm," he whispered this time, continuing his words with a foreboding edge as his lips brushed against your neck, against your ear, over your cheeks and teeth lightly nipping at your bottom lip. making you try to kiss him, but he pulled away just like that and watched in sadistic satisfaction when you gave an exasperated groan. "i was too. and then i saw a pretty olive green peeking out of that pile over there."

there was hardly any vigor left in you to groan.

you pressed your forehead against his slick neck, letting your warm gasps leave his skin, as your head desperately twisted in pinpricks of denied pleasure at his command. it was all a game, one that you could end with a single uttered word from your lips. but you’d never been a quitter, something keigo admired in you. his desires took you on erotic journeys you would have never dared to attempt in prior relationships. perhaps you were becoming just as debauched as he was.

there probably wasn’t even fabric of that color lying around and if there was it they weren’t within his eyesight. keigo was painfully teasing you with this, building up your desire to the most desperate extent because you could not stand anymore. and he knew it too. he throbbed against your walls, the sporadic pulsing sending shrapnel of lust into your loins, and you told yourself that if you were compliant to his orders, then he would surely reward you afterwards.

he would.

he always did.

"okay," he spoke up again, pressing his cheek against yours because he knew that you had if he didn’t end it now, then he wouldn’t get out of it what he wanted. bright eyes were still glowing deviously under the chandeliers of the store, making him appear feral. it provided a visual desire for you to nip his ear, to lick his neck and to kiss his lips.

"you can move now, dove. let’s finish this and go home."

what an alluring goal that was, twinkling encouragingly from finish-line.

you gulped harshly, feeling your legs too weak to push you upwards again. because he stopped you countless times and made a pleasure overload overrun in your body, turning your limbs to jelly.

a simple shake of your head was all the answer that you could muster.

it was either that or you would faint from the sheer ecstasy.

that made him smirk devilishly again when he looked at you, taut cheeks, lust-darkened blue eyes, a trickle of sweat running down his temple from the amount of restraint he was putting on himself. you felt as though you were opened, taken, torn from within by this man alone when he chuckled, pressing those sinful-stained lips to your forehead.

"maybe if you would beg just right, i’d bother to move."

whining, you shake your head as every cry you knew spilled past your lips. you begged, to pleaded keigo to move so that he would put you out of this torture. so that he could make you reach that blinding bliss, that your nerves would tighten and your toes would curl. so that you would clench around him tightly, that he could come together with you in this passionate endeavor.

too desperate, nerves tingling with his every wicked command, your shaking hands slowly rose and cupped his cheeks, feeling his soft, flushed skin under your touch and forcing him to look at you in the face. your lashes falling part way over your gaze. plump, bitten lips drawing closer and closer and closer to him and closer and closer and closer with every second. him slowly moving forward to join his mouth with yours in a desperate kiss, and you suddenly paused, letting only your lips brush against his, not moving forward anymore.

his eyes hardened when he felt your words form at his lips.

please.

it seemed as though playtime was finally over, for now.

keigo adopted a fast and hard pace, thighs jerking up to meet your earnestly with each slap of skin. the force of his thrust jolted you into a haphazard bounce as you fumbled desperately for traction and stability. each pull and push of your joined bodies was accompanied by a tremulous whimper as you gasped and groaned against the shell of his ear. keigo knew the sweet vocalizations weren’t completely for his sake, but more of the aftershocks of the broken damn as they spilled through the cracks of your lips.

he still hummed, pleased as his mouth latched onto a pebbled nipple protruding from the fine silk still managing to encase your breast. it was a combination of the gyration of your hips and his own weakening resolve that triggered his own orgasm as he finally let go with broken explicative.

your own pleasure was brought to you without chase, almost a reward for your efforts as you withered through it. keigo’s quiet praises wash over you like aloe, softening the worst of the burnings sensations as your thighs quake in protest. he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck as his arms encircle you and drag you down with him.

the already too small chaise had to be uncomfortable for his wings with your additional weight but he never voiced a complaint as the rose and fell over your sweaty skin. neither did you, despite the sticky resistance of his spent coating the inside of your thighs. at least you wouldn’t have to walk home in this particular pair. not that you planned on walking period as you grumbled a demands that he would be flying you both home.

he snickers all while peppering a series of kisses against your nose,” anything you want, little dove.”

#hawks x reader #hawks bnha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha hawks #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #hawks smut

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hinatastinygiant · 2 years

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Chapter Twenty Six

Pairing: Mitsuya x Fem!Reader

Wicked Games Masterlist

It's been about a week since you handed Hanma and Kisaki the stash of money you won with your brother. And ever since then you've spent each moment of your life trailing behind Emma, Draken, and Yuzuha as they pull together everything they need for their wedding in a panic. Ever since Yuzuha mentioned to Emma that she was having her wedding next month, which is now only three weeks away, Emma decided she wanted an early wedding, too. Neither of them wants anything super crazy, but still, the planning is a lot. You would know, you've been with them through the whole mentally draining process.

Despite a lot of times when Emma and Yuzuha pull you away with them to get things done, you are able to see Hakkai and Mitsuya quite often. The only person you really haven't seen much of is Chikao, not that anyone really cares besides Yuzuha and maybe Emma.

Luckily, today you get to be with the whole group minus Chikao when he sneaks out to go deal with 'work' whatever the hell that means. But as long as you can keep an eye over Draken yourself, you don't care. It's a serious relief when you can watch over him with your own eyes. But it's not like that, you just prefer to see for yourself that he's still got oxygen flowing in his lungs.

Your group is going over popular wedding color palettes at this particular moment after Chikao hired a professional to give Yuzuha some help. You think it's probably to make up for him actually having to show his own face over shit he doesn't even care about.

Anyway, Yuzuha invited your little group over to her place to converse, allowing Draken and Emma to pick through the colors for themselves, too. It's pretty much an unspoken rule that you, Mitsuya, and Hakkai show up as well. You're basically on the wedding planning committee without your consent.

"Isn't it weird?" Hakkai says to you as he pulls the sleeve of your shirt and tugs you into a corner behind the staircase, "You know, that it's been a week and nothing had happened?"

Out of nowhere Mitsuya appears and scares the crap out of both you and Hakkai. "We shouldn't be talking about this in public."

"It's not like we haven't before," Hakkai pouts as he broods over the embarrassing fact that he just got scared by one of his closest friends in front of a girl, no less.

"It is strange though," you admit. "What are they waiting for? Him to be alone? Do they know we've been around him and suspect something?"

"Maybe from Chikao..." Hakkai whispers.

The conversation then goes quiet. Nobody knows quite what to say after that. Suddenly, you get jump scared for the second time within five minutes.

"Boo!" Yuzuha shouts as she places her hands on your shoulders behind you. "What're you guy whispering about?"

"I have a surprise," Mitsuya tells her, saving your asses from having to give the real truth. "That's what we were saying. It's for you."

"No way!" she beams as she wraps her arms around your neck, beaming at Mitsuya from behind you. "Do I know what it is?!"

"Go upstairs and check," he grins.

Yuzuha lets out an excited gasp and pulls you along with her as she runs around the corner to the stairs. The second unspoken rule as of recently is that Yuzuha has you act as her plus one for things such as taste testing and any other activities that Chikao misses. So it doesn't really catch you off guard when she brings you up to her room.

When the two of you get to her room, she squeals in excitement and runs right over to her bed. There lays a beautifully tailored wedding dress just for her. Your mouth drops when you see her gorgeous material and spin around to face you.

"Wow, that's beautiful Yuzuha," you breathe.

"Mind helping me into it?" she grins.

"Yeah, of course."

You walk over to Yuzuha and take the soft dress from her hands. She spins around and strips carefully. Seconds later she's stepping right into the dress and pulling it over her shoulders.

"Wow," she says with stars in her eyes as she checks herself out in the mirror. "Taka-chan really went out of his way with this! It's gorge- it's perfect!"

"Yeah," you hum with a poor attempt at a smile, "it fits you just right like he sewed it right around you."

"That boy better land some gigs soon because I swear his talent is way too good to be wasted!" she giggles as she spins gently to admit the flow as she moves.

"I have a feeling it will," you reply confidently, thinking back to the day you went to the noodle bar with him.

"Now, since Chikao isn't here it's not wrong of me to go downstairs and show the others, right?" she asks as she turns to face you, no longer observing the dress in the mirror.

"I think Mitsu- Takashi deserves to see it," you admit.

"You're right!" she beams. "You're so smart, Y/N, thank you!"

You shake your head and smile at her compliment as you tell her to hold still as you pick up the train of her dress before she slips and falls or rips the dress. The two of you then begin making your way slowly down the stairs.

About halfway down your eyes instantly meet with Mitsuya as though you were itching to see his reaction to the dress. His eyes are wide, mouth almost hanging to the floor as she delicately descends the stairs.

It doesn't take a genius to see it, Mitsuya made that dress for them, not for Yuzuha and Chikao. He loves her.

Your eyes then shift over to Emma and Draken who step closer and look seriously flabbergasted.

"Wow!" Emma gasps, "Yuzuha, you look like a princess!"

Yuzuha practically skips down the last two steps and runs over to Emma, gushing over Mitsuya and how perfect the dress is. You watch as she then throws her arms around Mitusya and thanks him a million times for the perfect dress.

However, the only thing that catches your attention is the way his hands trail delicately around her waist to pull her in for a hug. Yet you're so rudely interrupted by Hakkai clearing his throat. When you look over at him at the bottom of the stairs, he gives you a seriously annoying grin.

"What's that for?" you grumble as you walk down the remaining few steps to stand beside him.

"Hm? It's nothing," he smiles sweetly. "You just look like you want a wedding dress, too. Or... maybe it's something else you want?"

"Oh, please," you scoff. "I need a drink."

Wicked Games Masterlist

Taglist: @darkmess0 @wakasa-wifey @plaggi @daiserenade @lunastellanova @sseorin @jinchuriki-hunter

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angellesword · 4 years

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YOUR EYES TELL | JJK (03)

Summary: You live in a world where people see in black and white. The solution to finally see the colors? It's simple. You need to meet your soulmate and look at him in the eyes, but what if the person bound to you is already contented with the monochromatic world? What if...Jeongguk, your soulmate, is already in love with someone else?

Alternatively;

"A future without you is a world without color."

Genre: soulmate au, e2l, slow burn, angst, fluff, roommate au

Pairing: Artist!Jungkook x Lawyer!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

SERIES: CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 4

Note: OC is a lawyer but the author knows nothing about law except the three law subjects she took last semester. errors. ah. there will always be errors here bc english isn’t my first language. anyway!!! enjoy!

Jimin wasn't lying when he said you were a mess. This was evident to Jeongguk the second he stepped inside your apartment.

Pile of cardboard boxes and papers were cluttered all over the floor, causing him to feel uneasy. The faint colors visible in his eyes didn't help to calm his nerves. It was as if he suddenly became hypersensitive to his surroundings.

He assumed that your house wasn't really that untidy, but as stated, the colors made it seem like it was untidier.

"Hi there, buddy." Jeongguk forced a smile at the cat glaring at him. He remembered Jimin telling him that your cat was a bitch. The fury pet was making this strange, scary sound. Jeongguk suddenly wished you were here to stop the cat from attacking him.

He wasn't expecting you to lock yourself inside your room the moment you realized that he was your soulmate.

He was so startled by your reaction that his first instinct was to run after you. The thing was, your cat was blocking your bedroom door—stopping him from intruding your personal space. It was obvious that the little animal didn't like the fact that Jeongguk invited himself inside your home.

Jeongguk didn't know why you were hiding from him. In your defense, you were embarrassed. What were you supposed to say to your soulmate? How were you going to explain to him that the reason why you looked like a mess was because of your demanding job?

Being a civil lawyer was exhausting. One second you're negotiating settlement with the other side's attorney, then you would just find yourself filing motions in court and of course, there were many instances where you're standing before the jury and judge to present a case.

Expertise wasn't the only thing necessary in law. You also needed a great amount of empathy so that you could understand your clients. You cared for them a lot; this was why it was such a big deal for you whenever they choose to omit facts.

You hated it when your clients were being dishonest, you didn't need them to be innocent. You only wanted them to tell you the absolute truth so that you could properly defend them. It wasn't like your job was easy. The fact that most people living in your world see in black and white was already a pain in the ass. Earlier this day, you had a client who was suing a businessperson for selling fake whitening products. She claimed that she spent a whopping two thousand dollars to get that fair skin tone. Sadly, it didn't work.

The opposing side asked your client this: how can you say that the products don’t work when you can’t even see colors?

You were shocked to learn this. Your client was subject to a color test for eyes. She said she could see colors when in fact, she couldn't. Actually, the only reason why the vendor sold your client the whitening products was because she also lied to the seller. The latter's rule was that she wouldn't allow people who see in black and white to purchase her products. This was so she could protect her business' image from fraudster like your client.

Things like this often happened in court. The one you encountered were usually easier to resolve, unlike what criminal lawyers face. This, however, didn't mean your job should be taken lightly.

What happened in court today actually took a toll on you. Your boss humiliated you in front of your colleagues, saying that he couldn't believe an experienced lawyer like you would make such rookie mistake. This made you feel like a loser that's why you decided to go home early to rest. You knew you couldn't work when your heart was this heavy.

You ran yourself a bath the moment you reached your apartment. Jimin was bombarding your phone with text messages to remind you that Jeongguk, a friend of his, was going to drop at your place later today since he was interested to be your roommate.

You simply replied 'Yes, I haven't forgotten. Stop pestering me,' to your best friend. Truthfully, Jimin hadn't shut up about this guy named Jeongguk since last week. He kept telling you that he was the perfect replacement for Seulgi, your former roommate.

You just shrugged it off. Honestly, you didn't care if Jeongguk was the perfect roommate or not. At this point, you would take anyone in. You seriously needed someone who could help you with the household chores.

The warm water grazing your skin made you feel sleepy. Before you knew it, you're off to dreamland; however, your little slumber was disrupted by loud knocks coming from your front door.

"Shit!" Your eyes went wide upon realizing that your supposed to be new roommate was already at the door. As if to confirm the horror, your phone rang.

Jimin was calling.

"Where the hell are you? Jeongguk is in front of your door!"

"I know. I'm so sorry! I fell asleep." You got out of the tub, hurriedly putting on your bathrobe.

"Talk to you later!" You ended the voice call, rushing towards the door. Unfortunately, you slipped on the wet floor.

You whined in pain. Luck was truly not on your side today, but instead of getting annoyed, you simply stood up and went your way to the door.

"I'm sorry, I was in the shower. I swear I heard you the first time you knocked, but I was panicking so I slipped down the floor and I..." You were already blabbering right after opening the door. You hadn't seen your future roommate's face because it was easier to lie without looking at someone in the eyes.

You didn't know why you told him you heard his first knock, when in reality, you didn't. You guessed you just hated disappointing people. What happened with your boss today was something you couldn't let to be repeated again. You couldn't bear to irritate another person.

You kept yourself busy as you reasoned out. You ran your hand through your wet hair, eyes widening when you saw your fingers covered in soap suds.

"Oh, my God!" You were panicking again. This time, you finally looked at Jeongguk to see his reaction.

It was like the world stopped.

No. You did not see colors instantly. What you felt was something strange—mystical perhaps. It was just like how they described it in books and movies.

You thought people were exaggerating about what they claimed they felt when they met their soulmates.

Apparently, they were not.

You know the feeling of finally seeing the rainbow after the strong storm? It was like that. Except this was way better. Your young self was probably rejoicing now. Being able to meet and look in your soulmate's eyes was dazzling.

The colors were becoming visible now, it was faint—this was in contrast to the embarrassment you were feeling.

You suddenly became very self-conscious with what you looked like. You were wrong. Your young self wasn't that happy because she wasn't expecting to meet her soulmate like this.

You were aware that you looked awful. The bags under your bloodshot eyes were probably so deep. The soap suds in your hair made you appear ridiculous. The most horrifying of all? You were wearing a bathrobe designed with the face of your favorite cartoon character.

"Uh—"

You ran away, locking yourself in your room before Jeongguk could finish what he was about to say.

Your heart was beating so fast as you stared in the mirror. The disgust you felt intensified. God. You looked horrible. You mentally cursed the brand of the mascara you were wearing. So much for claiming to be smudge proof! Curse yourself too because this wouldn't happen in the first place if you only refrained from crying over your boss' mean words, but it seemed like you never learned. You just scolded yourself from crying easily, but here you were, tears were painting your cheeks once again.

"No..." Your lips quivered. You were stronger than this. You weren't going to ruin your chance with your soulmate.

Determined, you quickly changed into a sage dress. Your hands were trembling because of your new found excitement. You loved colors ever since you were a kid. The fact that you couldn't see them didn't stop you from learning its meaning. You studied good color combination before. You were aware how to aesthetically match the hues. For instance, you knew that you would look ridiculous if you wore a neon green shirt and bright pink jeans. You were always careful in choosing what to wear, so now that you could finally see colors without referring to your color palette generator, you were beyond happy.

When you looked decent enough, you decided to finally face your soulmate. The first thing you saw as you opened your bedroom door was Jeongguk sitting on your couch—this was a very shocking scene. No. You weren't surprised because he was casually plopped down on your sofa, what you didn't expect was to see Miri, your bitch of a cat, to be so comfortable on Jeongguk's lap. Your pet looked at peace; the usual hiss she was making was replaced by a silent purring. Her bambi eyes mirrored your soulmate's same big, doe eyes.

You cleared your throat to get Jeongguk's attention.

"I let myself in, I hope you don't mind." You couldn't decipher what he was feeling. Jeongguk's voice was soft, but there was no hint of emotion there. His expression was also unreadable.

Jeongguk tore his gaze away from you when he realized that you were staring. As if this wasn't already awkward for him, you went on to say something that made him more uncomfortable.

"I've been waiting so long to meet you! Are you going to move in with me now?" You plopped down beside Jeongguk, squeezing your body between him and the arm of your sofa. Miri hissed since she was astounded by your sudden action. Actually, Jeongguk was surprised too. Your couch was pretty spacious; he didn't understand why you had to press yourself beside him.

Jeongguk also didn't know why you sounded so hopeful. The sparks in your eyes caused him to scowl; however, this didn't stop you from speaking your hopeless thoughts.

"We could do a lot of things together! I had planned everything since I was young!" You giggled. You didn't know why you were so comfortable telling him things. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you two were soulmates.

However Jeongguk was confused with your weird idea of wanting to do all of this romantic stuff with him. The uneasiness he felt couldn't be contained anymore when you abruptly talked about dating—as in dating him.

"Whoa, whoa..." He cut you off, arching his brow and moving away from you. "Slow down, will you? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh." You blushed, immediately realizing that you had gone too far. "I'm sorry I got carried away. I was just excited to meet you." You couldn't help but beam at him.

Jeongguk continued to raise his brow at you.

"Why? Are you really that desperate to find a roommate?"

It was your turn to raise a brow at him.

"N-No, I just..." You breathed in, unsure of what to say. "I'm just happy to finally meet my soulmate."

"Soulmate?"

You flinched because of the bitterness in his voice. His innocent eyes turned dark, he was glaring at you. Miri was startled once more. She jumped on your lap because she was getting scared of Jeongguk.

"I'm sorry to break it to you, but I don't believe in soulmates." The word 'soulmate' sounded so rough coming from him, making you flinch again.

Many people had told you that you were good at gauging the feelings of other people, this was why your heart skipped a beat when you saw pain and anger crossed Jeongguk's feature. It was as if he was betrayed by someone.

"It's the most absurd thing I've heard in my entire life. Only stupid people believe in soulmates. I mean—" Jeongguk sucked in a breath. He was so annoyed that he didn't even know how to express his thoughts without breaking apart. "It's limiting the possibilities for people. Why am I required to fall in love with someone I barely know? Why should I leave the person I truly love just because a person meant to be the love of my life," he paused, quoting the words love of my life in the air. "Helped me see colors? It's like forcing me to do something I don't—no, I can't do. It's such a burden. Love can't be bought. I refuse to be with people just because they helped me."

There was silence after Jeongguk's long speech of the reasons why he didn't—or as what he claimed—couldn't love you.

Jeongguk wetted his bottom lip. The silence was making him hate himself. He hated himself because he saw the tears forming in your eyes, an obvious sign that you were hurt because of what he said. But most importantly, he hated you.

It was unlikely of him to hate someone he just met—or to simply hate anyone at all, but everything about you was making him mad as hell.

He hated your hopeful eyes, he hated your beliefs, he hated that you were the person hindering him from being with Red.

He knew it was unfair to blame you since Red chose to leave on her own, but he still couldn't help himself because the idea of soulmate was what urged her to leave.

You were Jeongguk's soulmate and for him, it meant nothing. So with a furrowed brow, he stared hard at you as he said this:

"I'm making you choose right now. Either accept me as Jeongguk, your tenant or Jeongguk, your soulmate. But just so you know, I will never stay with you if you treat me like a soulmate."

His word stung, though you were aware that the only way to make him stay was to choose the former option. At least this way, you got to be with your soulmate.

The colors you see were starting to fade away and it was okay...

#jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #ficswithluv #bangtan angst #bangtan ships #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook enemies to lovers #jungkook friends to lovers #jungkook roommate au #jungkook soulmate au #jungkook fic

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honeysorwell · 3 years

Text

(a very unprofessional) game changer

Pairing: Audrey Tidall x fem!Reader x Diane Sherman

Summary: Audrey Tidall ends up conquering the role of the protagonist in the expected film that marks the great director and screenwriter Diane Sherman return to the film market, Run, that the blonde one desired really much. The filmmaker has only managed to return now since she left her job almost twenty years ago to take care of her daughter. She has no real plans other than finishing the film that will mark her return, but her nonpeaceful coexistence with Audrey during the filming, along with the loneliness that consumes her personal life ends up instigating an unexpected affection - and that grows every day - for Y/N, the costume designer for Run.

What Diane did not expect, when giving Y/N anonymously flowers during the recording months, is that the costume designer has been in a secret relationship for more than months with Audrey. However, the feeling of indifference and disdain that the director feels for the actress gradually dies after a heated argument between the two, leaving an unnamed tension in the air, while Y/N searches for her secret admirer with her girlfriend.

[gif by @sapphiclesbian ]

[gif by @cherry-jimin]

A/N: I was extremely surprised when I posted You rush into my life, stay a little while (I know that we can have it all), and in less than a month I got +50likes (after all I barely know how to use tumblr and I discovered these days how and where to look at the followers that I have lol). And thanks to that, I will use (a very unprofessional) game changer as a social experiment, to see if you guys really like what I write, and if the answer is also positive, I will open requests to write things in my free time. And yes, my first language is not English so maybe something might sound strange.

I had this idea as soon as Run was released, thanks to Diane's passion for films... And since Audrey is an actress, I thought it would be good to combine these two...

I can say that this is a big AU because Diane is a lovely mother, and no one from Roanoke dies (because I don't have time to develop any of this shit).

Hope you all like it!

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 (final one)

Chapter 1

Chapter’s summary: Audrey and Y/N get to know each other thanks to Diane, and even though they are about to start recording Run, they decide that it is worthwhile to continue with their relationship. Even if secretly.

Warnings: In this chapter at least, none. Just implicit mentions of smut, it's not really something!

Word Count: 1,2k

In theory, when someone wins an award as important as The Saturn, their career between movies becomes more likely to invitations to productions. Films, miniseries, or even theatrical productions. But that didn't happen with Audrey.

There was a voice in her head that said it was thanks to her age. But since none of the actors in Roanoke's cast, especially women, were so different in this aspect, Audrey continued to ignore that voice.

Everything was relatively ready for the British woman to participate in Return to Roanoke: Three Days in Hell, however after her breakup with Rory, the blonde one preferred to focus on something new. She quickly fell in love with him, but when the red-haired man asked about marriage, everything was clear to Audrey. Their paths and thoughts were so different, even with the significant feeling between them, that it was better to break their love relationship before their friendship was affected. And this was what she did.

It was audacious. Refuse a proposal for the same program that gave her fame and awards, to audition for a new film that she barely knew would happen. Some people would call her crazy, but the email she received from her agent was enough to give her courage.

Or rather, four words from that email. Directed by Diane Sherman was what caught her attention and prompted her to try to venture out to take the test.

She can still remember. Years ago, while she was still fighting for a minor role in any theatrical production in England, Diane Sherman was already acclaimed worldwide for the grandiose films with unexpected endings that she produced, even at a young age.

All the films of the woman with a reddish tone between her brunette hair strands became hits. But in the midst of it all, Diane decided to take a break from her career, and less than five months later, a pregnancy was announced.

After that, twenty years passed and no film was released, no interview, no magazine cover. Such a gloriously famous woman disappeared from everyone's view with her baby. But only up to now.

That test was probably the one that tired Audrey the most in her entire career. To portray in a few minutes the pain of the life of a woman who is obsessed with her daughter to the point of making her sick was difficult. But she did, and so, while her former co-stars were locking themselves up in a seemingly haunted mansion, she was getting a call from her agent saying that she got the lead role.

Everything worked well when the blonde received her script and started working with Diane on how they would like this character to be seen by the audience, but as the conversations flowed, Audrey understood why all of the woman's films were such a success. She was a perfectionist and her authority was clear.

Everything needed to be perfect. Including the costume.

And so Audrey met Y/N. A beautiful costume designer with so much talent to spare to the world.

The first time they saw each other, Diane was not present, after all, it was just a date to take Audrey's body measurements. As the story was about a housewife, movable and comfortable clothes had to be designed, which did not force Audrey to strip naked to have her measurements known by Y/N, even if an unprofessional part of her wanted to.

Quick encounters followed, some with Diane briefly present, just to define new color palettes or to approve and disapprove something. The director never stayed more than twenty minutes with the two women, but thanks to Y/N's perseverance, in producing everything exactly as Diane wished, and Audrey's free time, due to her mind being ease in memorizing lines and just a few friendships outside England, the two woman became relatively close.

When the costumes were all designed and in the final process of being made, Diane decided that she would like Audrey's hair to be longer. Some wig tests took place, but a joint decision was made.

The film would be postponed in five months from there, so that the blonde's hair would grow.

It was frustrating, to say the least, and maybe that was the trigger for Audrey's disapproval with Diane, but one thing was good. The time now acquired has started to be spent on Y/N.

Always at discreet lunches or afternoon teas in their homes...

Y/N thinks it might be extremely inappropriate and absolutely unprofessional to get personally involved with a co-worker, even outside the set, and even though their work on Diane's film was relatively distant. But, after many glasses of wine and random conversations, nothing made more sense to Y/N than Audrey's lips against hers.

A one-night stand. That was what they thought they were born to be. But the skin on Audrey's stomach was so smooth that Y/N didn't know if she wanted to kiss her until she moaned or laughed, confused as she tried to understand which one of the sounds was the actual responsible for her heart beating faster.

A one-night stand. Because Audrey didn't feel ready to start a relationship after such a recent breakup. But there was nothing more beautiful than Y/N's face full of pleasure while she was being touched, or her face concentrated on redoing a crooked seam, even if she was the only one that noticed the defect in the piece.

A one-night stand. That turned into two, three, ten, thirty... and when they noticed, Audrey's hair was long enough for the film to start recording and their mind was unconsciously bought each other's favorite foods at the supermarket.

And on one of those nights, when they were both lying on Y/N's bed and Audrey was drawing imaginary flowers on the bare skin of her right hip, a whisper escaped the actresses lips:

"I don't want this to end because we are going to work together... Does that make me unprofessional?", The moment the question escapes her lips, she raises her face towards Y/N and looks deeply into her eyes.

"Well ...", the costume designer starts and stops, distracted by the beauty of Audrey's brown eyes and a lock of her hair - now longer - that is hindering the Y/N view of the blonde's cheeks, but that soon puts the hair strands behind her ear and continues - "Count me in because I don't want this to end either..."

It is a smile so beautiful that it takes hold of Audrey's lips, that the courage to take possession of Y / N's body and one more phrase escapes her lips.

"I think I'm in love with you."

The word think sounds so low, it's like it's not even there. Because Y/N's mind knows that she is sure, even scared and that is why Y/N's eyes focus on the whole room, except the face in front of her. Until delicate fingers touch her chin and direct her to see brown eyes bathed in tears, amid the same glorious smile of seconds ago.

"And I don't know how you didn't notice that I fell in love with you too."

And so they come to an agreement. Nothing will be explicit while they are on set. At work, they will be just friends, close friends if the distance wraps their stomachs, but still, just friends.

For the sake of their reputations, their jobs, and the Diane Sherman film they will be just friends.

#audrey tindall x reader #diane sherman x reader #audrey tindall x diane sherman #diane sherman imagine #audrey tindall imagine #audrey tindall #diane sherman #sarah paulson imagine #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson #audrey tindall x diane sherman x reader

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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

Text

kings of the southside: CHAPTER 2

The storefronts on the block were different now— fragile minimalist displays and organic coffee shops uprooting the aged wooden bar signs with peeling paint and bullet holes— but against all odds, and with everyone else moving on, he and Mickey had decided to stay.

(a canon divergent fic in which ian and mickey stay on the southside and take over the alibi)

read chapter 2 here on ao3, or below the cut! (see notes on ao3 for various credits)

The end of the first weekend of them running the Alibi came quickly, and with it came Mickey’s focus being pulled in a million goddamn directions; they still had to unpack all of their shit upstairs, still had to figure out inventory and restock the bar and balance the books. Between all of the swirling and circling tasks Mickey felt like his head was going to explode, a sharp shift after the smooth waters of doing fuck-all for the past few months before the weed security business took off and he’d been forced to snap back into business mode.

Ian had bounced back from that first Saturday night of running the bar, the slump relaxing and fading out of his shoulders, and he was chipper as ever all Sunday afternoon, constantly grabbing at Mickey’s waist and singing fucking songs in his ear as they brushed elbows while pouring beers beside each other at the bar. As always, Ian fucking sunshine Gallagher’s mood seemed to have some sort of trickle-down effect on Mickey on Sunday, despite Mickey’s best efforts to not be a love-crazed loon. So even though they had a million things to do for Ian’s 80s night bullshit and Mickey had every reason to be stressed, he found himself fucking whistling when he rinsed the dishes behind the bar on Sunday night, and Tommy started giving him shit— and Mickey realized that he didn’t think there was a time he’d remembered whistling, ever, in his goddamn life.

He couldn’t really help it; Ian was radiating this new, breezy energy that Mickey still hadn’t had the time to feel the past few months, with all the bullshit going on with Terry and his family next door that set his teeth on edge— but now Ian was melting into their new life, acting settled, acting like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world and everything was all figured out. And Mickey started to realize, in the fuzzy back corners of his brain, that maybe, just maybe— he could start to feel that way about their new gig at the Alibi and their new place, too.

They didn’t have to run from anything anymore.

Mickey practically couldn’t believe his ears the other week when Ian had willingly accepted custody of the Alibi with a too-relaxed air of nonchalance, with a well, maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands, on one of their final days scarfing down sugary cereal in the late hours of the morning in the Gallagher house kitchen. There was no way Gallagher was being serious about this— Ian was always talking about going somewhere, about being something bigger than he was, so there was no way he was offering to Kev that they would take over his dump of a bar. Except he definitely was— and for a sharp and splintering instant Mickey was worried Ian was saying this for him; that once again, he was holding Ian Gallagher back.

But Mickey had felt Ian’s warm palm resting on his leg under the kitchen table— and he’d seen the warmth, that fucking warmth that always heated Mickey’s insides, as Ian turned to him with his eyebrows raised in a question, in a wordless proposition— and once again it struck Mickey like a goddamn lightning bolt just how much Ian Gallagher loved him, if he looked this blissed out about the prospect of living in a shitty Southside apartment and running an even shittier bar with Mickey Milkovich for the rest of his days.

Mickey knew part of Ian doing this was for him, after all the Westside bullshit that Mickey had resisted at every turn. Mickey knew he’d lost his shit when he made that yuppie poodle lady rip their lease to shreds, but could anyone blame him? The few hours they’d spent at the apartment complex made Mickey feel like he was going to crawl out of his fucking skin, like the glares of everyone he passed by in the too-clean, air-freshened hallways made him itch from the inside out. There was no fucking way he could stay in a place like that. But he was going to try, if Ian wanted.

But with a simple sentence, with a simple maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands spoken into the dusty kitchen of the Gallagher house, Mickey was saved. This Alibi plan pulled them both above water, gave them both a shore to rest on— and now they were finally, finally on the same fucking page, after figuratively (and literally) butting heads about the future for so long.

So now they were here, and they were doing it, and it was scary as fuck. Mickey had never lived in a place so quiet, a small space so devoid of the press of other people screeching and fighting and leaving trails of clutter, and he knew that Ian hadn’t either; both of their childhood homes were always crawling with various drunks or Russian prostitutes or batshit crazy relatives, and the silence of their too-small studio, in the morning hours before the bar was opened downstairs, was deafening.

Mickey could feel his jaw start to clench as he laid twisted in the sheets on Monday morning, when Ian had gone for a run and Mickey was left in the apartment alone for an hour and it was quiet, too quiet— but instantly the boisterous noise of the Southside streets had started to flow just outside the open window, a cacophony of honking horns and shouted slurs and gunshots, and the trickling in of the sounds tickled Mickey’s scalp, and reminded him that he was still rooted— he was still home.

And then Ian came clomping up the stairs like a sweaty monster after his run and tackled Mickey into the mattress, flopping onto him like a fucking Saint Bernard—and Mickey remembered why they did this, why this was good for both of them.

Against every single one of Mickey’s instincts, against everything he’d always known— he was going to let himself have this.

Ian’s brows were furrowed, a pressed series of creases narrowed in focus, as he stared at the paint swatches with a too-sharp glare.

“Mick, I really don’t see the fucking difference between Charcoal Gray and Burnt Ember.”

Mickey huffed, snatching the series of paint swatches out of his hand. “Nevermind then. You’ve got no eye for this shit, Gallagher. Charcoal Gray has cool undertones, Burnt Ember has a warmer vibe. We’ve definitely gotta go with Burnt Ember, the lighting in this place is shit and I wanna make sure the kitchen has a good ambiance.”

Ian’s lips curved into a smile of disbelief, rolling his eyes. Annoying motherfucker. “They both look like gray to me.”

Mickey flashed a grin in reply, then swatted Ian’s chest with the remaining paint swatches he was holding. “It’s a good thing you’re good at manual labor. If we wanna have this place painted by Wednesday, we’ve gotta get moving.”

“On it. Lip’s coming by with the paint for the main room and the wallpaper stuff, too.”

And just then, there was a gentle tap at the door. “Ey, it’s me and Liam.”

Ian bounded across the room to pull the paint-chipped door open. “Speak of the devil.”

Lip strode into their shithole apartment carrying cans of paint and a wrench clenched between his fingers, Liam trailing behind him.

“Damn. It’s only been two days and I already forgot what a dump this place is.”

Ian shoved Lip’s shoulder. “Fuck you. If you can renovate our shitty house, fixing this place up should be a piece of cake.”

Mickey noticed Liam scanning the room— in a fit of annoyance the other morning, with the bright fucking sun streaming in because they hadn’t gotten curtains yet with the bar pulling focus downstairs, Mickey had sliced a black trashbag and pinned it to the window as a makeshift curtain. Liam’s eyes lingered on the hanging trashbag, and he raised a judgmental eyebrow at Mickey.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Ian chuckled. “Yeah, Mick’s a real interior designer.”

Liam just sighed. “You guys need all the help you can get.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “Fuck you both. That was a temporary solution.” He walked over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer, just so he had something to do.

Ian grinned again, then reached out to ruffle Liam’s hair. “How’s the new place, superstar?”

Liam shrugged nonchalantly. “I like it. I just hung up all of my posters. Added a bit of vibrancy to the color palette that Tami chose to paint my room.”

Ian smirked, and nodded a head towards Mickey, who was standing by the fridge and fumbling with his beer bottle. “You should talk to Mickey about color palettes—we’ve been arguing for the last half hour about what shade of gray to paint the kitchen. Something about cool and warm undertones?”

Liam turned to examine the kitchenette in the back of the studio, hand on his hips. “Definitely warm undertones in a small space like this, unless you get some updated light fixtures.

Ian grinned. “Damn. Guess I really do have two interior designers in my family.”

Liam smiled back, his eyes lighting up. “You need any other advice? Mickey, I’d love to hear what unified aesthetic you’re aiming for with the décor.”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with the rhythm of smooth paint rollers sliding against the wall, the old radio in the corner of the room (that had probably been there for decades) turned to a low hum— Liam and Lip helped them shuffle through their belongings in the trash bags, moving the mattress to the center of the room and not even bothering to cover the already-stained hardwood floors with a drop cloth before they coated the studio’s walls in thick layers of paint.

Mickey and Liam were tackling the kitchen, priming the walls in a comfortable silence. Frank’s death had hit Liam pretty hard, and Mickey could only imagine how fucked up it was, to have all the heaviness and all those complicated clumps of emotion that came with Terry dying inside you when you were only a kid— losing a shitty father was almost harder than losing a good one.

But Liam seemed enthusiastic about helping with the renovation efforts— he covered the walls dutifully in multiple coats of primer, ran to the corner store to pick up canned pints of “Burnt Ember,” and even offered Mickey advice on various wallpaper swatches for a feature wall in the studio (which Mickey actually appreciated, because he was still learning all this shit and fuck if he knew what a “feature wall” was or how to make it look good). Liam also gave his review of the various pieces of furniture Mickey had circled in an Ikea catalogue with a black Sharpie. Mickey was flipping through the catalogue, Liam methodically painting a final coat of paint in the kitchen beside him in a comfortable silence, when Mickey tuned in to Lip and Ian’s conversation from where they were painting in the main room.

“So, you guys are really doing this shit, huh? Running the Alibi?”

Ian paused, presumably taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Don’t know, man. The neighborhood’s changing. My bet is the crowds’ll get thinner and thinner.” Lip paused, ripping a paper towel to wipe his hands. “You sure that you and Mick have thought this through?”

Mickey tried to hold back an audible scoff from the kitchen. There were a number of things he could’ve yelled from the other room— for starters, when in the last 12 months had fucking Phillip Gallagher thought anything through— but he decided to hold his tongue, listening for Ian’s reply.

“Jesus, Lip. Yes. We’re already living in the place, not gonna give it up now.”

A pause.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

Mickey could hear Lip twisting open the soda can he’d been drinking from.

“I don’t know, man. It’s my job to care about this shit, isn’t it? I thought Fiona taking over the laundromat was a bad idea, and she still did it anyways.”

Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah.”

The soft tempo of the paint rollers on the wall continued.

“You sure this is what you wanna do with your life?”

Mickey felt that twist in his stomach again— the ice cold one, the feeling of fear that always sunk into his bones in moments like this, when he knew other people saw what he saw: that Ian Gallagher was far, far too good for him, and that all Mickey doing was ensnaring him in the dirty streets of the Southside and holding him back, when everyone else was moving on with their lives into gentrified apartment complexes.

But he’d heard the smile in Ian’s voice as he replied.

“Absolutely.”

Finally, after a long fucking day, Lip and Liam had left the creaky apartment— the place was looking pretty good, the kitchen and the main room both painted, and Lip had even been able to do a bit of work on the plumbing and fixed the leaky sputter of the upstairs bathroom faucet (he had also tried to convince Ian to install some sort of fucking backsplash thing in the kitchen, a multi-day project that they’d both resisted). Now, with Lip and Liam out the door, he and Ian were ready to crash. Mickey strode across the room and opened all the windows as wide as they could possibly go, trying to dispel all the paint fumes and let in gusts of humid summer air so they could collapse on the mattress. They probably could’ve crashed at one of the other Gallaghers’ places for the night if they felt suffocated by the fumes— but for now the light evening breeze was quickly drying the paint, circulating the almost-too-small room.

Across the room Ian flopped onto the mattress, a ridiculous streak of gray paint smeared across his forehead. Mickey smirked, and crawled into bed next to him, sitting so his legs were pressed against Ian’s upper torso.

“I can’t wait to get a fucking bedframe,” Ian breathed out—his face buried in the pillow, his eyelids drooping. “And a new mattress. Not this shitty one with stains all over it.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked, reaching a hand over to card through Ian’s hair.

“Mm.” Ian hummed happily in reply as he kept his eyes closed, probably starting to drift off to sleep.

While was probably a horrible idea— at the very least, Ian should change out of his paint-streaked clothes and wash his fucking face. There were flecks of paint all over his face and in his hair, mingling and dried in his copper curls, from when he and Mickey had gotten into a moderate paint-splattering war like a couple of teenage boys when they were trying to paint the living room walls later in the day. He prodded Ian in his side, who was now laying curled beside him with a dreamy fucking smile on his face.

“Hey. Mumbles. Get the fuck up. You’re gonna fall asleep with that toxic shit all over your face.”

Ian yawned, his nose crinkling. “Don’t care,” he said into the pillow.

“C’mon, Ian.”

And all at once Ian’s eyes were open, and he was crawling his way on top of Mickey, boxing him in with his arms on both sides of Mickey’s head. Mickey felt a gust of air whoosh out of his lungs in surprise—and in an instant he was reminded of when they used to live at the Milkovich house, in his shitty bedroom with far too many bad memories for Ian’s presence to completely tip the scale and outweigh them with the good ones, when Ian would be laying sleepy beside him and they’d get into little wrestling matches and tussles like this, with grips of hair and breathed out “C’mere, army!”s. There was the same energy buzzing between them in this moment—but god, they were so fucking different than they’d been then. They were fuller, more solid; Ian was measured in a way that still made Mickey’s toes curl when he looked at him and compared him to the scrawny and glassy-eyed teenager that he’d been, to the hollow frame he’d been on the worst days when Mickey placed a hand on a too-cold ribcage curled under thin blankets and run a hand through his hair and whispered “please,” trying to will the light back into Ian’s eyes.

But that light was there all the goddamn time now— and it was there right now as Ian dipped down and kissed at Mickey’s neck, Mickey breathing out as a no-longer-sleepy Ian made his way downward.

He guessed Ian could probably just shower all the dried paint out of his hair tomorrow morning.

Tuesday was a blur of getting ready for Ian’s idea to host fucking 80s night, and getting ready for Franny to stay— Mickey had thought the extent of Ian’s plan for this party thing was going to just be playing some tunes and charging a little extra for beers, but apparently Ian wanted to go all out. He’d had Debbie make some sort of poster with a colorful font and stapled them all over random bulletin boards and telephone poles on the Southside, and posted a bunch of shit on her Instagram (which had a weirdly large following because of her whole “hot handywoman” thing, which was still a complete fucking mystery to Mickey). Mickey wasn’t sure that Ian’s plan of throwing a party at their random Southside bar on a Friday night was going to fix all of their financial problems— but hey, if they needed cash then they needed cash. And while Mickey’s preferred way of procuring cash was heading down to the local corner store with a gun stowed at his waistband, for once in his life he was trying to do this shit right. So maybe his goody-two-shoes husband was making him soft (he definitely, definitely fucking was)— but when his jackass ginger giant of a husband looked at him with fucking puppy dog eyes and asked him to go along with this plan, instead of Mickey’s not-quite-joking suggestions that they just rob the bodega two doors over instead to fix all of the Alibi’s money problems, there really wasn’t much that Mickey could do about it.

He and Ian were wiping the bar, Mickey mentally running through the list of shit they had to order to prep for Friday’s crowd, when their phone screens both illuminated with text messages on the bartop.

Debbie (2:34 PM): everyone make sure to post the 80s night flyer on ur socials!!!!

Lip (2:34 PM): What the fuck are socials

Debbie (2:35 PM): 🙄

Debbie (2:35 PM): u aren’t an old man, phillip. instagram, twitter, even facebook for dinosaurs like u🦖

Liam (2:35 PM): 👍👍 Already posted.

Liam (2:36 PM): But I don’t know how useful advertising to a bunch of 11 year olds will be…

Carl (2:36 PM): me and a bunch of the boys r gonna roll through- get ready to rage motherfuckers!!!

Ian (2:37 PM): ❤️❤️

Ian (2:37 PM): Thanks for all your help Debs

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Sappy motherfucker.”

He decided to reply to the groupchat in the way that he knew best:

Mickey (2:37 PM): 🖕

Mickey remembered the first day that he’d been initiated into the Gallagher family group chat, nearly a week after returning from their “honeymoon” in the dingy motel that smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke— he and Ian had been back at the Gallagher house for about a week, sleeping in most long lazy mornings and getting up to… various activities. It was one of those lazy mornings in bed when Ian had gotten decidedly distracted from said activities by the series of notifications that were lighting up Mickey’s phone on the nightstand from the groupchat Gallagher Fam:

Debbie (11:34 AM): the jonas brothers are playing upstairs. everybody take cover

Lip (11:34 AM): Thank god I don’t live there anymore

Debbie (11:35 AM): also welcome to the group chat mickey xoxo

Liam (11:35 AM): Noise-cancelling headphones are on. An excellent investment

Carl (11:35 AM): i’m just seeking shelter & keeping it real in the basement 😎

Mickey had never been part of a fucking family group chat before—he’d barely been involved in any group chats, since the extent of his smartphone use before prison was nonexistent, and he’d relied on burner phones to do all of Terry’s shady bidding after he got out of jail up until the wedding. He’d used some of their wedding cash to get himself an iPhone—even though he barely fucking knew how to use it half the time, except for shitty multiplayer games he and Ian liked to mess around with— but he’d barely had an excuse to text anyone except Sandy about various wedding logistics, and obviously Ian.

But now he was crashing with Ian’s family, and he and Ian were fucking married, and he was a part of this shit for real— it was group chat official. Which strangely felt all the more real, even though Mickey already had a fucking ring on his finger. And he’d never tell a fucking soul, not even Ian, but it made something warm pool in his stomach— to have siblings to fucking banter with about who ate the last of the potato chips, or who could pick Franny up from school, or whining about whoever was making too much noise, in the same ways he and Mandy and his brother used to get on each other’s fucking nerves.

Ian smiled down at his phone at Mickey’s reply to Debbie’s nudge about the posters. “Excellent contribution. Thanks for showing Debs how grateful you are.”

Mickey brought his emoji to life and flipped Ian off. “You’re welcome.”

Ian bit at his thumbnail, looking down at his phone. “Debbie says she can get us a karaoke machine for Friday. That might be kind of fun, right?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Whatever you think, man. It’s your idea.”

Ian started tapping away at his phone, and Mickey turned back to tidying the bar, the rows and columns of those fucking black binders from the Alibi’s storeroom still lingering in the murky corners of his mind. He didn’t want to blow too much money on this shit— he had no idea how much a karaoke machine costed, but it probably wasn’t cheap. Why the fuck couldn’t they just steal one? Mickey gritted his teeth. He could crunch numbers any day, could make enough bank to stay afloat— but something about this, about running a fully legit business, was making him start to feel like he was being pulled underwater.

Mickey stayed tense the rest of the day, feeling like a bundle of fucking nerves without really knowing why— there was just so much going on, between moving and painting and Ian’s nervous excitement at planning this event bullshit. They’d both stumbled through the slow day at the bar, and now were collapsed in bed for the evening; Mickey was scrolling through various furniture store websites, weighing their options, while Ian was curled next to him, talking about something in a low voice that Mickey wasn’t really paying attention to.

“Sorry, what?”

Ian breathed out and smirked. “Nevermind. You weren’t listening.”

Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry, man. Just distracted.”

“Why’re you distracted?”

“Just thinking about all this shit. Furniture shopping, unpacking, whatever.”

Ian smiled. “Yeah? We can probably just pick stuff out when we go in person, we don’t have to overthink it.”

Mickey blew out a breath. “Yeah. Guess so.” He stretched his arms over his head— when the fuck did his shoulders get so tight?

“You ready for bed?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the light.”

Mickey stood to pull the string for the bare lightbulb hanging directly above them, then thudded onto his stomach on the mattress. Immediately he heard Ian rustling under the sheets, moving closer to him, and eventually lifting on his arms to hover over Mickey’s back.

“The fuck’re you doing?”

“Relax, Mick. Just take a deep breath. Lemme take care of you.”

Mickey blew a breath out of his mouth into the pillow. “Not in the mood right now, Ian. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Not like that— just lemme make your shoulders hurt less, at least.”

Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath on the back of his neck as Ian settled, sitting back on Mickey’s upper thighs and leaning over him. He ran his hands along Mickey’s upper shoulders, delicately rubbing his thumbs up and down near his spine and trying to work at the permanent knots there.

“R’you giving me a fucking massage?” Mickey mumbled the words into the pillow, letting his eyelids droop. It did feel pretty fucking good, if he was being honest—the tension was draining from where he’d been holding it in his shoulders all week long, absorbing the impact of all the changes swirling around them and trying to keep them both afloat.

“Mm.” Ian hummed in reply, working his hands down to Mickey’s lower back and digging his thumbs in right where there were bundles of dull pain. Mickey almost flinched—not because it hurt, really, but because Ian’s fingertips gliding across his skin felt so fucking good.

He remembered the first 17 years of his life, the years when he’d been touch-starved without even realizing it, when the only touches his nerve-endings knew were high-impact beat downs and fists connecting with his jawbone. Milkoviches didn’t fucking hug, aside from a casual slap on the shoulder or side-hug when one of them was released from juvie—and even after he and Ian got together it took fucking forever to know what being held, what being gently touched, felt like. Those first few times when Ian had dragged his fingers over Mickey’s hipbones when they were fucking made Mickey nearly shudder, his nerve endings sparking like goddamn fireworks; and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was like his body was going on alert, like there was an invader breaching and he was always used to bracing for impact; but despite himself, all Mickey wanted was more— all he wanted was to press his cheek to Gallagher’s fucking jawbone and just keep it there and breathe in the scent of him, absorbing the warmth of his skin.

He still wasn’t totally used to this shit, the luxury of a warm body next to his after those years in a narrow prison cot, and on the run— but as he drifted off to sleep, his shoulders now unclenched and Ian’s warm, sturdy limbs circled around him, he thanked god, if god even did fucking exist anyways, that living in the shitty apartment over the Alibi was where he ended up in his life right now, with Ian by his side.

The next evening, just as the sun was setting pink outside the windows and Mickey was finishing up organizing everything behind the bar, Debbie towed Franny into the main room of the Alibi, wearing some sort of pink frilly shirt and carrying a kid-sized backpack with her pajamas and toothbrush inside.

“Thanks for watching Franny tonight, you guys are the best!” Debbie had barely set foot in the door before she was out it again and letting it swing shut behind her. Seconds later, Mickey could hear the distinct roaring of a too-expensive car engine coming from the street outside the bar.

Ian peered out the front window to inspected Heidi’s ride. “Jesus. It’s some sort of Ferrari convertible.” He scooped up Franny’s backpack from the floor, slinging the comically small bag onto his broad shoulders as he crouched to give Franny a hug. “Hey Fran, it’s so good to see you!”

“I missed you, Uncle Ian!” Franny enthusiastically squeezed Ian back.

Ian pressed a peck to the top of her head. “Missed you too. We’ve gotta have a talk with your mommy when she gets back about child road safety. That Ferrari was noticeably lacking a car seat.”

“Uncle Mickey!!!” Franny nearly squealed as she spotted Mickey behind the bar, running up and trying to jump up onto a stool so she could reach him. Ian laughed and lifted Franny so she was perched on a stool, her legs dangling as she reached forward. Mickey reached out an arm to fist-bump Franny, the best he could do with the bartop between them.

“Hey there, Little Red. Missed ya.”

Franny immediately looked Mickey up and down, like she was assessing if he’d changed at all since she last saw him. Her brows furrowed—then finally she spoke.

“Uncle Mickey, I have a question.”

Mickey reached across the bar to ruffle her hair. “What’s up, kid?”

She paused. “Can I rip the sleeves off my shirt too, like you?”

Mickey chuckled in surprise. He was wearing one of his flannel tank-tops with the arms ripped off—a white trash summer look in every way. “Let’s see what we can do. I think Uncle Ian’s got some old shirts packed upstairs that we can mess around with.”

Luckily, the bar was totally empty for the evening, aside from their three or four regulars— so Ian and Franny got to go upstairs and play dress-up while Mickey dealt with shit at the bar for an hour or so, deciding they’d close early so they could pay attention to Franny.

“Hey, Mick! We’ve got a surprise for you.” Ian’s voice wafted down from the back stairway that led up to the apartment.

“What’s up?”

“One sec. Stay downstairs.” Mickey could hear two sets of pattering footsteps coming down the staircase—and Franny dashed into the room, wearing a very baggy white tank top that reached her knees and an oversized flannel with the sleeves ripped off, an exact replica of Mickey’s outfit.

“Look, Uncle Mickey! I have an outfit like you! Now we can play liquor store robbery.” She looked at him seriously—then her face contorted, her brows furrowed and her lip sticking out in a face that Ian had taken to calling the “Milkovich scowl,” a trait that Franny had adopted in her many hours of playing “robbers” in the backyard with Mickey with her fake guns he’d gotten her for her birthday.

“Gimme all of your money!”

Mickey chuckled, and threw his hands up in surrender. “You got me, Wonder Woman.”

Ian walked towards the bar, lifting Franny up so she was perched on the countertop. “You like Franny’s new look? She was pretty insistent about wearing the tank top too.”

But Franny was still peering over at Mickey, like something had caught her eye.

“Uncle Mickey, can I have drawings on my fingers too? Like you? All the real robbers on TV have those.”

This time it was Ian who was laughing. “Oh my god. Debbie’s gonna kill us. If Franny gets knuckle tattoos by the time she’s seventeen, I’m blaming you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Ain’t nothing wrong with family tradition. Fuck you.”

Ian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Wait, I have an idea. Franny, wait here.” Ian rushed upstairs, and came back down holding the black Sharpie that had Mickey had been using to circle pictures in the Ikea catalogue.

“Here, hold out your hand Fran.”

Franny held out her hand for Ian to hold—and he started to draw blocky letters between each of her knuckles. When he finished, he held Franny’s hand up for Mickey to see the doodled serifs, smiling sheepishly.

“L T T L R E D ♡”

Mickey grinned. “Now you’re a real robber, Rockstar.” Franny looked at her hands and smiled contentedly, running her thumb over the letters.

“L. T. T. L. I know all these letters. They’re different from Uncle Mickey’s. Mommy said his say ‘fuck.’”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, you get your own special letters Franny. They say ‘little red.’”

Franny beamed. “That’s what Uncle Mickey calls me!”

“You got it, kiddo.”

The rest of the afternoon involved many rounds of playing “liquor store robbery,” and Ian lifting up Franny to “help” behind the bar by pulling the lever of the beer tap— and by the early evening, when even fucking Kermit and Tommy had gone, Ian had the idea to make a fort out of the leftover empty inventory boxes, and Franny had repeatedly busted through the tower of boxes and shouted “Put your hands in the air!” as she pretended to blow up fictional liquor store walls.

Now it was late and they were all upstairs—Franny had crashed after dinnertime, after bouncing on the bed with a sugar high from the Poptarts Mickey had snuck her after dinner (to supplement some bullshit pasta thing that Ian had forced Mickey to feed her, even though he never remembered wanting to eat that shit when he was five— he practically lived on Honey Buns and pork rinds from the nearby gas station).

They still didn’t have furniture, and at one point they’d perched on the mattress so Mickey could show Franny videos of monster trucks on his phone— and now Franny was totally passed out against Mickey’s chest, breathing those raspy, loud breaths kids make when they’re deeply asleep.

Ian came in the room from the semi-divided wall of the kitchen, wiping his hands after finishing rinsing the dishes (two plates, and a bowl that Franny ate from because they’d only swiped two of everything from the Gallagher house last week); and Mickey saw Ian’s lips curve upward in a knowing smile as he noticed Franny curled in the bedsheets, half-leaning on Mickey’s chest. Franny and Mickey were smack in the middle of the mattress, taking up most of the room; but Ian crouched to sit on the edge of the mattress beside Mickey, hooking his chin on Mickey’s shoulder casually as he peered over at Franny, still wearing her oversized flannel and smudged knuckle tattoos.

“Guess our babysitting duties are over.” He breathed out, trying not to unsettle Franny’s steady breathing. “Hope we didn’t corrupt her too much.”

Mickey scoffed. “Debbie’s dating someone who’s more of a fuck-up than we’ll ever be. Don’t think the ball’s really in our court on that one.”

“Fair.”

Franny scrunched her nose in her sleep, sighing out heavily before nestling deeper into the bedsheets.

“I kinda missed her, man.”

Mickey was surprised by the words as he heard them coming out of his mouth— they were true, but he hadn’t even voiced them to himself until now. As shitty as he’d always been with kids, he had to admit that goofing around with Franny was pretty fucking fun.

Ian smiled from where his mouth was pressed against Mickey’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a silence, the room filled with the soft sound of Franny’s steady breathing. And then:

“Maybe… we’ll have a kid of our own sometime.”

Immediately, Mickey felt his gut lurch. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about this shit—they definitely had, in the abstract moments before the wedding; before everything blew up in their face and the pandemic took hold and any thought of kids was pushed way, way to the sidelines. And it wasn’t like Mickey was avoiding the topic— but he wasn’t exactly bringing it up, either, and neither was Ian.

Mickey thought back to that moment before the wedding, back to the hushed “you want kids?” Ian had placed between them— and how in that moment Mickey had known how much Ian wanted kids, how much Ian constantly cared for other people, how his voice got all soft and mushy around the edges in the vicinity of a baby. He knew how much Ian wanted this— but even broaching the topic made Mickey’s muscles start to clench.

Mickey tried to keep his cool—even though he felt the tides starting to roll inside of him, threatening to pull him under.

“I’d be a shitty dad, man.”

Ian’s head pulled away from where it had been nestled against the crook of Mickey’s neck—and Mickey turned his head to meet Ian’s piercing gaze.

“No you wouldn’t.” Ian’s voice was soft, surprised.

Mickey swallowed. “What if I like. Beat it. Or—” he cut himself off, knowing his voice was starting to waver.

Ian’s voice was firm when he replied. “You won’t. You’re great with Franny.” Ian paused.” “You were great with Yev.”

And there it was—the other fucking elephant in the room, beside all of Mickey’s other daddy issues; the fact that Mickey already was a father, was forced to be a father against his own will, giving him some sort of complex that he didn’t even have the energy to dig into about the potential of scooping up some kid to raise with Ian…. when there was already one out there with his gene pool that he didn’t want, that he couldn’t want, whose existence was forced onto him at gunpoint and who he didn’t have the strength to take care of.

Mickey felt Ian’s hand, feather light, tracing down his side— pulling him out of the current of his internal monologue. Ian’s hand hooked around his hip; a touch to root him, giving Mickey solid ground to hold on to.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You’re gonna be a great dad.”

Mickey swallowed down the lump in his throat—and with it he tried to swallow down whatever bullshit was holding him back from letting himself have this. He thought about Ian—despite all his own reservations, he knew Ian must be having the same type of feelings about all of this shit; Ian was the one who had stolen Yev, who had worked so hard to get himself to the person he was today—a stable place where he was allowed to dream about being a parent, allowed to dream about shit like this.

“I hate this.”

Mickey didn’t really know what he was referring to in particular as he said the words—he hated all of this, he hated the churning emotions inside him. He felt so fucking uncomfortable—but that was always the first thing he felt, wasn’t it, when there was something deeper inside? It was the first thing he’d felt when he started to fall for Ian, when he started to realize he much preferred scrawny redheads to the busty figures with long hair; the pushing and heaving of no no no from somewhere in his ribcage, because he knew how much letting himself have this was going to hurt, how much shit he was going to have to wade through.

But he’d fucking done it—and look where he was now: Ian curled against his back, their fucking niece sound asleep beside him.

“Hey.” Ian’s voice was soft, nearly tickling Mickey’s ears. “There’s no rush for any of this shit. I’m just talking about… big picture. Eventually. When we’ve got all our shit settled.”

There it was again—that word, the one Ian had been saying all the time lately, the one that had been radiating out of his pores. Settled.

Mickey clearing his throat, trying to dispel the huskiness he knew would be there when he spoke. “Yeah. Maybe someday.”

He looked down at his hands. He knew that saying that wasn’t enough— Ian had to know how much he meant it.

“I— I wanna give you that shit. Someday.”

Mickey knew that was still an inadequate expression of everything he was feeling, of how much he wished he could just race carefreely into making fucking forts and playing dress-up with a kid of their own; but he also knew that for tonight, Ian understood. He knew in the way Ian pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, and said into the silence of the room:

“You’re so fucking good at taking care of people, Mick.”

Mickey let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. They were going to do this—someday.

“You know… now that we’ve got our own place.” Ian’s voice trailed off.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Well— we could be good millennials and start with a dog. Y’know, as a practice run. Get your fucking Milkovich pit bulls or whatever.”

Mickey instantly felt whatever remaining tense energy that had been clinging to him dissipate. He felt a grin creep onto his face. “Hell yeah. I’m in.”

Ian pecked his shoulder. “Cool. We can check out shelters sometime next week.”

Mickey shook his head, still smiling in relief. “A pit bull, I can handle. We’re gonna treat her like a fucking princess. Who needs kids anyways?”

Ian smiled back. “The first step in starting our own Southside family.”

Mickey’s insides instantly got warm and gushy at the words— and again, it was that mix of no no no and you don’t deserve this alongside something deeper, something more solid. He tried to do what Ian always told him to do, in the moments that he felt like this: he forced a breath in, forced himself to expand his ribcage. He forced himself to think:

You deserve this.

The next day had been uneventful, other than Franny’s tearful goodbye— and now it was the early afternoon on Friday, far too early for any sort of rush. Once again only Tommy and fucking Kermit were seated at the bar, but today he and Ian were barely paying attention to them, despite Tommy’s halfhearted attempts to drag Mickey into some sort of bullshit banter (as much as Tommy said he preferred silence at the bar, everyone knew that was a lie. Why the fuck else would be have been coming here every day for the last eleven years?).

Today, Ian had dragged a chalkboard out from the clutter of the dingy back closet of the Alibi, a sandwich board meant to be placed on the curb to promote the bar that looked like it had hardly been used. Ian continued to shuffle through the various boxes in the back room, making a shit ton of noise, until he finally found whatever else he’d been looking for.

“Aha!”

He held up a bent cardboard box of multicolor sidewalk chalk— half empty, and half broken, but it would get the job done.

He strode over to the bar, laying the chalkboard on it— then turned to Mickey, folding his arms in front of him.

“Alright, bartender extraordinaire. What drinks should we make for 80s night?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, puffing out a breath. “I don’t fucking know. Most of the guys who come in on Fridays just drink beer. We don’t gotta overcomplicate shit.”

Ian pressed his lips together, contemplative and looking down at the blank canvas of the chalkboard. “I’m not saying we should force out the regulars, because that’s definitely not what we’re going for with the event— but it’d be nice to have a couple of new things, in case the new people in the neighborhood do some by. Nothing too fancy or frilly or whatever.”

Ian dug in the cardboard box, plucking out a piece of chalk.

“And we should make our own signature drinks anyways, since we’re taking over the place. Make our mark on the Alibi.” He grinned. “Got any fun drink name ideas?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, and felt the corners of his lips turn upwards in an amused smile against his will, thawing. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ian continued smiling. “How about… the Milkovich Mojito.”

Mickey puffed out a breath of air, shoving Ian in the chest and furrowing his brows. “No fucking way.”

Ian just waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, we own the place. It’ll just be a mojito with a shit ton of rum, only enough for someone with Milkovich-level tolerance. People will think it’s funny.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows lift upwards a bit, and he could see from the expression on Ian’s face that he’d lost this one. “Fine.”

Ian smirked, penciling in “Milkovich Mojito” on the chalkboard and drawing a little design around it. Mickey forgot how good Ian was at this— at the little details like this, at making shit look nice.

Ian rose from where he was hunched over the chalkboard when his masterpiece was completed, hands on his hips. “Alright. What else?”

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know. How about ‘just fucking beer’?”

Ian laughed, and a warm feeling pooled in Mickey’s stomach despite himself. “Yeah. We should spell that out on the menu, so people know that’s our standard.” He leaned to write “JUST FUCKING BEER” on the chalkboard, drawing a little cartoon beer stein with foam on the top next to it. Mickey reached out, smudging a bit of the chalk of the drawing to annoy Ian, just because he could.

Ian swatted his arm away. “Hey! No touching the masterpiece.” He drew over the part Mickey smudged as best he could, biting his lip in concentration. Fuckin’ dork.

Ian stood tall again, admiring the finished product. “There. One more?”

Mickey shrugged again, feeling utterly out of ideas. He could balance a budget, sure, but he was useless with all the creative shit like this.

Ian bit his lip again, thinking. “What’re even mixed drinks people like? Sex on the beach?”

Mickey smirked. “There ain’t a lot of beaches in Chicago, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s more like ‘sex behind a dumpster.’ Or ‘sex on your twin bed at your family’s house.’”

Mickey grinned, catching Ian’s drift. “Sex in the dugouts.”

Ian laughed, then made a little gesture with his hands like inspiration had struck. “Mick, I think we have our final drink name.” He turned to write it on the chalkboard.

“What the fuck are we gonna put in it? Just a fuckin’ lukewarm beer?”

Ian smirked, looking off dreamily. “Ah, memories.”

Mickey prodded him in the sternum. “You’re a fucking sap.” He shoved Ian over. “Here, let me write this one.” He took the chalk from Ian’s hand. “No peeking.”

He scratched on the chalkboard for a moment, then stood back to reveal his work. “Ta-da.”

In scratchy handwriting, not unlike the “STAY THE FUCK OUT” sign that used to be taped to his door, read “SEX IN THE DUGOUTS”—and next to it was two drawings, of a cartoon dick and two stick figures fucking doggy-style.

Ian grinned wide. “It’s perfect. Definitely captures the vibe of the new owners.”

Mickey just smiled back.

It was 6 p.m. now, and the bar was just about ready—Ian had compulsively swept the floor during the lull in the afternoon, even though it would be dirtied and scuffed within seconds of the usual Friday blue-collar crowd streaming in through the doors, and Mickey was perched on a stool at the end of the bar, laboring over his playlist. He usually didn’t overthink this shit— he’d included all the classics, from Bon Jovi to Queen to fucking Cyndi Lauper, but there was something so public about he and Ian running this thing now, and about throwing a loud event to proclaim it, that make Mickey’s stomach start to do somersaults for some reason as the first huddled crowd of Southsiders shuffled their way in through the door.

The bar did look good— Ian had got some sort of lighting gels to put over the lamps in the Alibi, and the room’s lighting was tinted a suave blue color, making the small space feel a little hipper, a little cooler, while still retaining its comforting dingy feel. It almost reminded Mickey of the soft, colorful lighting in that random Westside bar they’d gotten engaged in, with the shitty overpriced beer and the sparkly fucking lights when they’d watched that god-awful harp band with Barry or whatever the fuck his name was— but the lighting here looked cooler, more deliberate, and cast a calculated glow across the room that added to the vibe. The bass was thrumming low through the speakers Ian had rented from somewhere— right now it was just playing some mellow Joy Division song as people continued streaming into the bar.

Ian had crept upstairs at some point, probably to change out of whatever sweaty t-shirt he’d been wearing all day; and Mickey saw a flash of red hair emerging from the stairway now, turning the corner to stride into the dark room.

“Hey! Oh my god, it’s great to see you guys!”

Immediately Ian was swept away by some group of people in their mid-twenties near the swinging door that led to the back of the bar, who were chattering away about how they’d seen the poster on Debbie’s Instagram or some shit. Mickey assumed they were some people Ian had known when he’d been locked up, one of the unfamiliar faces from their wedding that got involved with Ian’s “Gay Jesus” bullshit—and as much as Mickey knew Ian’s relationship with those figures from a very different time in his life was complicated to say the least, it was nice to see Ian leaning comfortably against the bar, chatting away with someone that wasn’t him or Lip— chatting with friends. Looking settled.

Mickey smirked, knowing his gaze was lingering for too long when Ian locked eyes with him from across the bar, tilting his head towards the stairway. Giving Mickey a chance to go upstairs, to freshen up, to take a deep breath if he wanted to.

Fuck it. Mickey strode across the bar, heading upstairs to the quiet sanctuary of the studio and its fresh-painted walls. He shuffled through the various shirts and baggy jeans that were now in their designated-clothes-pile in the corner of the room, at least until they got a dresser and hangers and all that shit. He decided to peel off his sweaty tank top and change into a blue Hawaiian-print shirt, the one he’d swiped from the laundry room at the yuppie fucking Westside apartment complex before he’d burned that bridge, to amp himself up and fit the vibe downstairs. The shirt was only a little bit creased from being shoved in a pile in the corner of the room, which felt like a bonus— and Mickey smoothed a hand through his hair and fixed the collar of the shirt as he caught his own eye in the cracked bathroom mirror. There weren’t lots of times Mickey really gave a shit about what he wore—he and Ian pretty much lived in tank tops and boxers at home, and tank tops and denim at the bar especially on hot fucking days like these ones— but he had to admit that it did feel pretty nice to put on a shirt with a collar, a shirt with bright colors and patterns on it that, fuck it, he knew made his eyes pop—just because he wanted to have fun, just because he could.

He ruffled his hair one last time, then clomped back down the back staircase towards the light chatter swirling in the room below. Immediately he noticed the line at the bar starting to grow, and walked with intention over to behind the bar to start taking orders from a mixed sea of regulars and younger, new faces.

“Looking pretty festive there, Mick.”

Mickey held up a middle finger to where Tommy was seated on his usual stool. “Fuck you. I look hot and you know it.”

“You definitely do.” Ian slid behind him, speaking low into Mickey’s ear and his hands gliding to bracket Mickey’s waist for a moment as he shuffled by to pass a beer to a customer, then walked to the end of the bar and start to take more orders without a glance back. Mickey felt his neck flush red, just for a second— Ian was always just saying shit like that, about how good Mickey was, whenever he looked nice. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

After a few hours the party was fully humming, and both he and Ian could barely glance up from the bar because of how many people were streaming through and placing their orders. Courtesy of Debbie, a karaoke machine was up and running in the corner of the room, the speakers blasting a series of poppy instrumentals across the small space—and as much as Mickey hated to admit it, he had to say that this event bullshit was actually a pretty fucking good idea. There were a handful of new faces in the crowd, a bunch of fucking millennials with man-buns and Ray-Bans and brimmed hats; but most of the crowd was the typical neighborhood crew, blue-collar workers with beer guts who were dropping slightly more money than their usual tab on an extra beer, and walking sloshed to the corner of the room to serenade their buddies with “Livin’ on a Prayer” (which made Ian stare across the bar at Mickey with a knowing smile between pouring drink orders).

At some point in the evening Debbie rolled in with a group of people from some gay bar she’d been pregaming her evening at, and Carl came by with some of his cop buddies; and all in all, the place had all the makings of a good fucking party. Which meant they were making good cash—beyond the wads of bills left on the bartop as tips, all the millennial jokers filtering through the space were surprisingly biting on the overpriced cocktails Ian had concocted, and they were racking up a good profit as the night went on.

Maybe they could fucking run this place after all.

Right now, a very sloshed Debbie was singing on the karaoke machine in the corner, belting out the final verse of “I Will Always Love You” and practically eye-fucking her new Grand Theft Auto girlfriend— an image that Mickey was trying not to pay attention to at all costs as he scanned the room, trying to mentally calculate just how well they’d done for the night. There’d been a good crowd streaming in for hours— and now the numbers were finally dwindling, and at last he and Ian could finally slow their pace for a bit, instead of being pulled in a million goddamn directions to wipe up beer spills or clear tables or refill the ice cubes in the freezer.

“Heeeyyyyy everyone! Listen up!” Debbie’s muffled voice took over the fade of the final chords of the song, her mouth a little too close to the microphone and making it screech as she spoke out to the crowd in the bar. “I just wanna say a shoutout to Ian and Mickey for taking over the Alibi! And for being the heroes that kept this place alive!” She teetered slightly. “Southside forever!”

Mickey scowled, and locked eyes with an amused Ian across the bar. “Control your fucking sister, man.”

Ian shrugged. “Eh. She’s the one that helped plan half this shit. Let Debs have some fun.”

Debbie pointed a finger over to where Ian and Mickey were standing behind the bar. “Everyone give them a round of applause! C’mon, they deserve it! C’mon!”

There were a couple of chuckles from the crowd, at Debbie’s deeply inebriated state as she tried to put the microphone back in its stand and drag herself away from the small TV showing song lyrics— but then, one by one, people at the bar started to clap— regulars, random newcomers, and even Tommy gave a little whoop as the cheers grew louder and louder and started to erupt.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, but Ian straightened his spine and smiled as he addressed the crowd. “Couldn’t have done it without all of you guys!” He wiped his hands with a towel, and went back to wiping down the bar as the applause settled.

Just then, Debbie turned and fumbled to grab the microphone once more. “Wait! Ian, Mickey! Come up here and sing a song.”

If Mickey thought he was scowling the first time Debbie had stumbled her way into the mic, now he was on a whole different level. He flashed a glance to Ian, and saw the sappy grin starting to grow on his face, like it always did when Ian had some dumbass idea. Jesus Christ.

Mickey needed to pump the brakes on this one fast. “No fucking way, Gallagher.”

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, reaching a placating hand onto his elbow. “C’mon, Mick. It’ll be fun.” Ian raised his eyebrows— and his stupid fucking eyes were shining again, doing that fucking thing where Mickey could feel in his bones that Ian was so ridiculously happy that they got to do sappy, mundane shit like this together…

Mickey blew out a breath. “I gotta do a shot or some shit before we do this.”

Ian’s grin grew ten sizes as he dropped the towel hanging from his shoulder onto the bar and swiftly turned to pour Mickey a shot of Jameson. Mickey’s frown deepened as he lifted his head back to pour the liquid fire down the back of his throat, bracing himself for battle; of course his stupid fucking American-Idol-wannabe husband couldn’t resist a call to do goddamn karaoke. Mickey blamed himself—he should’ve known Ian anywhere in the 1-mile radius of a karaoke machine would inevitably be a recipe for disaster.

Ian strode past the length of the bar and toward the corner of the Alibi where the illuminated screen of the karaoke machine was sitting there waiting— Mickey trudged behind him, shooting a glance at where Tommy and Kermit were seated on their regular stools.

“You two are in charge of the bar for 2 fucking minutes. Don’t fuck this up.” Kermit raised his hands in surrender, and Tommy just raised an eyebrow.

Ian was already punching at the little arrows on the machine. “What song d’you wanna do?”

“I could give less than a fuck, man. This is your fucking idea.”

Ian just flashed him a grin as he scrolled through the preselected song options. “Here, let’s do this one.”

He handed Mickey a microphone, and reached over to grab the second mic from Debbie’s hand (who was now successfully being corralled back to a booth by Heidi).

Instantly, the techno intro rhythms to the song began—and Ian started bobbing his head, causing the onlookers at the bar to laugh and one person to whistle. Mickey just shoved his upper arm.

“I fucking hate you so much.”

Ian just raised his eyebrows, and in a very off-key voice, started to sing:

“You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar

When I met you

I picked you out, I shook up and turned you around

Turned you into someone new”

Mickey felt his heart thudding in his chest—and fuck that. He owned the fucking bar, he could fucking sing with his goddamn husband if he wanted to. Fuck whatever everyone else was thinking.

So when the first verse ended, and quickly streamed into the second, Mickey clutched the microphone and half-spoke, half-sang the illuminated words on the screen:

“Now five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet

Success has been so easy for you

But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now

And I can put you back down too”

Ian’s grin was splitting across his face— and once again Mickey had to reach out and prod him in the chest.

“Stop looking so fucking sappy!”

Ian just held the microphone in both of his hands, and playfully started to sing the chorus:

“Don't

Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it

When I hear that you won't see me”

He looked over at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Mick!”

Fuck it.

Mickey swallowed down whatever lingering… feelings were happening about all of this shit, and let the people watching them melt away, fading into the hazy blue lighting— because fuck all those assholes, anyways. He and Ian had been through way too much shit in the main room of the Alibi for Mickey to be afraid of doing fucking karaoke right now; he’d literally come out to his dad in these four walls. He’d had his face bashed in the moment he decided right here, rooted in this same spot on the scuffed hardwood floors, that he would do fucking anything to always be by Ian Gallagher’s side. So he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second— and pretended it was just him and Ian, singing fucking Lady Gaga in their bathroom as they brushed their teeth (which, yes, they had been prone to do since Chromatica came out, fucking sue him)— and let himself actually sing, deep from his gut in the same goofy, lighthearted way that Ian was doing along with him:

“Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!

Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!”

Ian’s face was slightly flushed, still grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining as he bobbed his head along with the music— and as they both finished singing the chorus, everyone in the bar started to lose their shit. Everyone was clapping and whistling; even some of the old regulars Mickey had pegged as homophobes a long time ago were cracking smiles through their scraggly beards and clapping their hands together.

When the song finally ended, Ian took a dramatic bow— then he took Mickey’s hand, clasping it and raising it over their heads. The applause and cheers erupted from the crowd, and someone yelled out:

“Let’s hear it for the new owners!”

After that, for the rest of the night Mickey loosened the fuck up— and maybe it was the couple of shots in his system, or maybe it was the fact that there weren’t that many people in the bar now at all except for a thin crowd of familiar faces— but he was feeling happy and warm as he milled through the crowd picking up empty glasses. At some point Debbie switched up the playlist to more dance-y stuff, causing her and Heidi to start spinning in the middle of the room, and a couple others to push the bar tables to the side and follow suit.

And now, people were dancing—and some random middle-aged neighborhood lady grabbed Mickey by the wrist, a smile on her face, to come dance with them—and usually Mickey would scowl and say “Fuck no” to dancing with some random fucking stranger in a situation like this, but he was feeling the blood rushing through his veins, feeling fucking settled—so for just this once, he decided to dance like a fucking goof in his Hawaiian shirt with the random lady for a while, til he locked eyes with where Ian was standing across the bar.

And maybe they were supposed to be paying attention, because they were still the ones running the fucking bar— but all Mickey wanted to do in that moment was walk across the room and press himself closer, closer, and reach his hand up to the side of Ian’s neck, and drag him to lean down to just the right height to press their lips together, to feel the warmth between them.

So that’s what he did, in the midst of the whirring of their neighbors and strangers in the Alibi around them.

We don’t have to run anymore.

#finally finished!!!#not rly proofread lol #yes it is almost 10k oops #i am actually rly proud of completing this chap i hope u enjoy #i love u all so so much i cannot get over how many amazing hcs i feel lucky to have included in this!#gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #lip gallagher #liam gallagher #ian and mickey #ian x mickey #ixm

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crowtrinkets · 3 years

Text

Eyes, Lips, Face

Word Count: 2,322

When you get thrown into a different world, you kinda forget to mention that the wig and contacts you're wearing are not your natural color, or that you're cosplaying their knightly order because this is actually a video game and shouldn't be real. But at least you get to share makeup with your new-found buddies.

I tried to keep this fic as reader/gender-neutral as possible. Ty to @alexaplaysgames for giving me pointers! Ya'll should check out their fics ;)

---

I let out a stretch as Anisa walks back into her office, carrying more than enough blankets for my one person. I spy Felix swatting Sage’s hands away from ruffling his hair as they walk out the door to find sleeping accommodations. What a wild day. I never really wore a costume that required more physical activity other than walking around a convention for a few hours. I never intended to get into a bar fight while wearing a wig, contacts, and a decked-out costume I spent months on. Then again I never intended to be transported into the world of my favorite video game...

“Here are some blankets to keep you warm,” Anisa plants the blankets on the couch that would be my bed for tonight. I sigh with exhaustion at the thought of falling asleep, I heard Felix and Sage still echoing in the halls as they left. I thanked Anisa for the hundredth time that day and she left me alone to sleep. Alone yes. I yawn, taking in the room. At least there's a fire going, I wouldn’t be able to see without it. And thank god my backpack made the trip with me I wouldn’t know what to do if I didn't have somewhere to put my cosplay supplies. I reach into my bag and pull out a contact lens case. I thought it would be cool if my eyes had a more alluring color for this costume, hoping the color of the embroidery on my costume would be brought out because of them. Carefully removing my contacts I placed them into their case and tossed them back into my bag. I then reached up and unpinned the seemingly endless amount of hairpins I placed in this wig so it would stay put. It stayed in place in the Saucy Gull so I must’ve done something right. I remove my wig and wince a little when I realize it’s just going to become tangled in my backpack. Oh well, what can you do? After removing my wig caps and giving my scalp a much-needed massage from being confined all day, I go to remove parts of my costume. Thankfully the base of my costume is comfortable and inconspicuous enough to not draw attention to the fact that I'm an outsider. I keep my costumed cloak out, in case I get cold. I do wish I had better shoes however, $20 Amazon boots probably won't last out here.

After removing said shoes I plop down into the couch and pull some makeup wipes from my backpack. I never go without these, and I am especially glad to have them after the day I had. I remove my makeup, allowing the cool damp cloth to soothe my tired face. I’ve been running around all day, going through portals, being told I have a magical relic inside me, being flirted with by a cat boy. What I wouldn’t give for a year-long nap, or maybe just some coffee. After cleaning my face and putting my items away I take one look in my compact mirror, yup just my plain old self. Tossing the mirror away I get comfortable and lull into a dreamless sleep.

—-

I can feel the bitter cold outside the warmth of my many blankets, stirring a little I snuggle into them, nuzzling my face in the fabric to warm my cold nose. I’m half awake but can’t be bothered to open my eyes. Five more minutes. But then I hear... whispering?

“Oh my god, they moved,” Anisa’s voice.

“Relax Annie; if something happens, I can banish it,” Felix, sounds slightly shaken while trying to put on a brave front. Wait did he say banish. I decide that I’m now too awake to fall back asleep. I sit up, eyes blurry from sleep, and look at the two indistinct figures who I am assuming are Felix and Anisa.

“Good morn-” Suddenly I hear the sound of Anisa’s sword come unsheathed, and, I think, it’s pointing at me, for the second time. I blink trying to will my eyes to adjust, then rubbing them to reveal that Anisa is definitely pointing her sword at me, with Felix behind her, arms up in defense.

“A-Anisa, what are you doing?” It's too early for this, my voice is scraggly from sleep.

“What are you some kind of Changeling? Poor job imitating in my opinion, MC doesn't even look like that!” Felix states approaching me, a flurry of green flames forming in his palms. Oh shit.

“What? It's me!” I raise my hands in defense. I clear my throat trying to sound convincing. I’ve barely been here for 24 hours and I have been in more life-threatening situations than my entire life combined.

“Then how do you explain your changed appearance?” Anisa says accusingly. Changed appearance? Oh!

“I was wearing cosplay! You don't think I actually looked like that do you?” I lower my arms slightly, laughing awkwardly. I know Sage has weird eyes and hair but why would someone from Earth look like an anime character? Both faces before me twist in confusion.

“Cosplay?” They question in unison. I nod reaching for my backpack slowly. Anisa flicks her sword and I pull away.

“I-if you look in my bag there's a wig and contacts, and other stuff. I was wearing a costume and I thought it would be more fun if I didn’t look like myself,” I point to my backpack. Anisa nods at Felix who approaches my backpack, kneeling down to open it. He pulls out my surprisingly untangled wig, and yelps dropping it in my lap. I lift to wig onto my head poorly fitting it.

“See?” I then remove the wig and place it in my lap. Anisa's eyes go wide, she sheaths her sword and approaches me.

“Oh MC! I am terribly sorry!” She shoots Felix a look who flinches. “Felix had me convinced woodland creates replaced you with a clone,” she turns her attention back to me and Felix blushes with embarrassment.

“Clone?” I question. Felix stands.

“N-no matter, we both apologize for waking you with such an unsettling greeting,” I nod in response. I unwrap myself from my blankets and run a hand through my hair trying to look a little more presentable. Letting out a sigh, as I put the wig back in my bag.

"I-it's alright, I guess I should have said something earlier," I shrug innocently. Anisa looks down at my bag and then back at me.

"Do many people on Earth change their appearance like this?" Anisa looks at me, eager for information.

"Um not usually, well I guess it depends. I just did it for my costume, I thought it would look more interesting," I shrug.

"You said you were wearing a costume? Then why dress as a Starsworn knight?" Anisa questions. I am about to answer her but I hesitate. How am I supposed to explain that on Earth none of this is real? That this is a video game?

"Uhhhhm," is all I can muster to say but my train of thought is interrupted.

"Gods Anisa! Why did you insist on us being here so dammed early in the mor-“ they stop in the doorway. “Who is that?" It's Sage. He burst into the room without even so much as a knock.

"It's MC, apparently they were wearing a wig and other cosmetic adornments to alter their appearance," Felix chimes in. I suddenly feel insecure about how plain I look. At least Felix looks somewhat normal, well from the neck up. I just wave awkwardly in response.

"But I could've sworn their eyes were a different color, and why do they look so tired did they not get enough sleep?" Sage walks over leaning over the back of the couch. I cringe at his comments.

"No, I was wearing a costume, so naturally I wanted to look less... Natural," I attempt to explain. Who knew cosplay was such a foreign concept here.

"Why were you wearing a costume?" Sage squints at me. Oh god this question again, but just like last time, I am interrupted.

“Ouch! Hells,” I look over to see Felix with his finger in his mouth. He takes it out to speak. “Why do you have needles in your bag?”

“Oh! Sewing needles,” I reach into the bag and pull out a container of needles and the spare thread. “I uh, I packed these in case a bit of my costume came undone, sorry Felix,” a thought then occurs to me. “Why were you rummaging through my bag?” Felix suddenly flushes and avoids the eyes of everyone in the room.

"I um, was merely curious about your items," I decide to brush it off as I put my "items" back, I would probably want to examine inter-dimensional foreign objects as well.

“Snooping through MC's bag aye Felix? What were you tryna find?” Sage’s eyebrows waggle.

“Nothing! Nothing in particular I just… saw something that looked interesting,” Felix looks like he's pouting now, to save his dignity I ignore it. I reach into my bag and pull out the even smaller bag full of makeup. I don’t have much with me, just the ones I used for my cosplay in case I needed a touch-up.

“Was it this?” I hold up the clear plastic sachet. Felix nods in response. “This is just some makeup,” I open the bag and pull out a compact blush and hand it to Felix, then I pull out two eyeshadow palettes and hand them to Anisa and Sage, who has now joined me on the couch. Felix and Anisa sit on the floor and observe the items I handed to them. Felix opens the compact and eyes it curious, he runs a finger along the powder and rubs it between his fingers inspecting it. Anisa knocks on the closed eyeshadow palette.

“What is this material? And why have they spelled “elf” so terribly wrong?” She almost looks insulted. I hold back my laugh.

“It’s plastic, lots of stuff on Earth is made from it. It's cheaper than metal and sturdier than cardboard or wood,” I decide to not bring up how problematic plastic can be, no need to bring up the fact that the Earth is slowly dying.

“Sage that looks terrible,” Felix remarks. I look over to Sage who has rubbed bright blue eyeshadow all over his eyelids. Oh, that is SO not his color. I reach into the bag and pull out a brush.

“May I?” I ask, Sage looks at me suspiciously and nods. “Close your eyes,” I run the brush over his eyelids and blend the color out a little more, it’s difficult with all of his squintings but I manage to finish. Pulling back, I hand Sage a mirror.

“Oh… I look terrible in blue!” Sage laughs. But he continues to admire himself in the mirror. Anisa laughs as she watches Sage tilt his face in the mirror staring at himself. From the corner of my eye I catch Felix looking at me, I turn to him and he has an almost, hopeful look in his eyes.

“Do you want me to do your makeup?” I ask, as innocently as possible. Felix flushes and looks away.

“I-if you insist,” he mumbles out. I chuckle and slide off the couch to sit in front of Felix, I grab a large brush and the compact from his hand.

“Do you mind if I?” I hold my other hand close to Felix’s face, his eyes go wide as he nods slowly. I grab his chin gently and apply blush to his face. It's hard to tell just how much I am putting on considering Felix’s face is about as hot as a fried egg on asphalt, but I make do with what I got. I finally finish and pull back.

“Oh, Felix you look adorable!” Anisa chimes in with a laugh.

“You look like a baby,” Sage teases. Felix snatches the mirror from him, grumbling, and inspects his face, his eyebrows are furrowed.

“I think I look like I've had too many drinks, why is it on my nose?” He looks up at me, I half-shrug.

“That’s what's popular on Earth,” I try not to tease too hard, but Felix really does look much younger with his cheeks pink and rosy. Anisa taps my arm, I guess she wants a turn. I give her a nod and allow her to pick a color she likes. She chooses a nice purple and I apply it on her lids as well. She sits perfectly stoic and still allowing me to apply it gently. Once I finish with her I hand her the mirror and she smiles brightly.

“Oh thank you, MC! I say you did a very fine job,” she gives me a nod and goes back to admiring her eyes.

For a good few hours we end up swatching a lot of the makeup, Sage proceeds to put on the absolute worst colors for his complexion, yellows, oranges, and greens which I didn’t even know I had. Felix keeps his blush on for longer than I thought he would. Anisa asks to do my makeup and she does a surprisingly good job at blending. Eventually, everyone has to go back to business and I hand out makeup wipes to each of them. Anisa is a little amazed at how they work. Sage decides to keep his disgustingly green shade on much to our dismay. Felix cleans off his face carefully but his real blush remains for a while. Everyone eventually leaves me to actually get myself ready for the day. It’s when I'm folding my blankets up that I realize.

I just did the makeup for characters in my favorite video game franchise, this really feels like a fever dream. I laugh to myself, I will remember this day fondly.

#fictif last legacy #fictif #fictif fic #fictif anisa #fictif felix #fictif sage #crow writes

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pixelatte · 3 years

Text

"Paint Peeling"

Summary: Zhou Zishu drinking and dining with his found family in the Si Ji Pavilion.

A/N: Haven't written in a while! Excuse the sloppiness (and the shit summary) because this is the product of 3 a.m. brain rot. Also, idk how to format text in the mobile app.

The scent of sandalwood permeates the air as the curtains sway with the whispers of the late afternoon breeze. Zhou Zishu is reclining on a chair, immersed in meditation, when the door opens.

The sight that greets him is a familiar one; he knows that silhouette haloed by soft sunlight too well. Even if his vision has become a blur of colors, he can tell that its Wen Kexing. Nobody can swagger around with that much confidence but him.

Zhou Zishu squints a little, hoping to catch the details of Wen Kexing's refined features: the subtle lift of his lips as he smiles, the slight creases in the corners of his eyes as his pupils shine in happiness. But it is futile effort. Zhou Zishu cannot see, not to the extent that he wants to at least. He does not sigh but the urge to do so is there.

There is an abundance of affection in the other man's greeting. "A-Xu," Wen Kexing says, and immediately Zhou Zishu is glad that he can hear the voice that he loves so much.

Zhou Zishu shakes his head and huffs, crossing his arms. "What is it this time?"

There is a clink of ceramic. Another jar of wine.

"Let's drink," Wen Kexing suggests.

Wen Kexing's preferences are as exquisite as the man himself. Zhou Zishu does not confess that he cannot taste the alcohol anymore. That its quality is wasted on him, but Wen Kexing's enthusiasm compels him to swallow his disappointment.

Zhou Zishu glances at the window towards the smudges of orange and deep red. "Isn't it too early?" He cocks an eyebrow, curious.

"Coming from you?" Wen Kexing asks and then adds, "Never. It's never too early for you."

Zhou Zishu shrugs, his outer robe parting and falling off his left shoulder, but does not disagree. It is true, after all. He finds comfort in his routines, and sharing a drink with Wen Kexing is one of them. Besides, Wen Kexing has occupied the vacant seat adjacent to his. It is too late to refuse.

They are elbow-to-elbow and the heat radiating from Wen Kexing is soothing. He is blindsided by the desire to close the miniscule distance between them, but he does not. Instead, he settles for observing Wen Kexing as he pours for both of them.

As always, Wen Kexing serves him first.

Zhou Zishu raises his cup in a toast and Wen Kexing returns the gesture. The alcohol is gone in one gulp. There is a stinging sensation in Zhou Zishu's throat, but nothing registers on his tongue.

Wen Kexing comments, "it's good."

Usually, Zhou Zishu has an input on Wen Kexing's offering, but tonight, he stays silent.

Because of his reticent nature, Wen Kexing does not catch onto his facade. Then again, Wen Kexing is no fool. A martial artist of Wen Kexing's calibre must have noticed his symptoms. Aside from bleeding from his orifices, his recent dizzy spells have become so obvious that even Zhang Chengling - that ignorant, little idiot - has been throwing him worried glances.

If that is the case, then Wen Kexing may be as good of a pretender as Zhou Zishu is.

Wen Kexing takes his pause as a cue to continue. Between his sips, he rattles on and on about literature, dredging up obscure poetic references about star-crossed lovers. Of course, Zhou Zishu lets Wen Kexing drag him into the discussion, although he is less interested in the language of romance that Wen Kexing is fond of.

Neither of them is a lightweight, so Wen Kexing talks while Zhou Zishu listens, patiently and attentively. There are snatches of information that Wen Kexing discloses once in a while, and it is up to Zhou Zishu to collect them - random pieces of the puzzle that is Wen Kexing. Zhou Zishu does not have the complete picture yet, but he is willing to wait for Wen Kexing to open up his shuttered heart.

It is a dangerous gamble, Zhou Zishu thinks, but he has two years left to be with Wen Kexing, who claims himself to be other half of his soul. A pity because soulmates are rare in this world, and for them to meet under these circumstances is pure torture. However, it is also a blessing.

Zhou Zishu has spent his days slaughtering innocents in the name of an ambitious master, witnessing his sect crumble under the fruitless struggle for power, and drowning in the crushing weight of his guilt.

There is no atonement for him even in death, so he has decided to embed the nails onto his body as penance. He will not bow to the gods for absolution; he is not worthy. The effects of the punishment are his burdens to bear.

And yet, hope has blossomed in the form of Wen Kexing, Zhang Chengling, and that mysterious immortal, Ye Baiyi. Perhaps there is a chance for him to turn over a new leaf. He understands that there is no miracle cure all for his ailment, but they rely on him so much that their desperation is bleeding into him.

He wonders, how much is he willing to compromise and surrender so he can keep this family of his? Certainly, they are an unconventional trio, but they slot together seamlessly - as if their roads have been predestined to converge. The trials that they have endured must have been the price to pay for the slice of heaven that they have here in the Si Ji Pavilion. It comforts him that the ghost of his home has become their sanctuary.

Zhou Zishu does not realize that he has zoned out. The moment he emerges from his reverie, Wen Kexing is staring at him, in that straightforward manner of his. It is not without heat because Wen Kexing is passionate to the core, but there is a thread of dread there, barely breaking through the veneer of flirtatiousness.

Thankfully, there are footsteps on the patio to distract both of them.

"Shifu, shishu," Zhang Chengling salutes, "It's time for dinner." He does not enter without their permission, lingering outside and carrying a tray of food.

The brat's balance has improved, Zhou Zishu notes with satisfaction.

In between his martial arts training, Zhang Chengling has also learned how to cook under Wen Kexing's efficient tutelage. Zhou Zishu is a menace in the kitchen, piling chilis into the dishes that he whips up(1), much to Wen Kexing's and Zhang Chengling's mutual mortification. He has been banned from offending their delicate palettes and wasting ingredients ever since.

"Come in, come in," Wen Kexing orders, his sleeves fluttering as he ushers their disciple in.

'Their disciple,' Zhou Zishu repeats to himself, and he has to stop himself from inhaling too sharply. It is a sentiment that surprises him, even months after he has officially inducted Zhang Chengling as his first disciple. It is too surreal.

Zhang Chengling is setting their bowls and chopsticks, and arranging their meal on the table. In the beginning, he has floundered around with his errands, earning a reprimand from Wen Kexing here and there. Being a young master from a prestigious sect, learning these practical skills has not be a necessity for him. He is a reflection of Zhou Zishu's younger self, pampered and sheltered, the opposite of Wen Kexing's ruined childhood.

The bitterness of the opportunities lost between him and Wen Kexing is too potent, and his mask cracks for a second.

"A-Xu, what's wrong?" Wen Kexing inquires, and immediately Zhou Zishu hates how transparent he has become.

"Shifu?" Zhang Chengling echoes the concern in Wen Kexing's voice.

Zhou Zishu is frowning at them, but the sentiment behind it is one of tenderness. "I'll be fine," is what he settles for.

These days, he has been alternating between his physical and emotional pains, only to be soothed by their presence. He does not tell them that the nails are dulling his senses, but he does not hide the signs of his internal injuries anymore. He allows them to fuss over him until their nervous energy is spent. Strangely, it is a cathartic and therapeutic exercise for all of them.

Both Wen Kexing and Zhang Chengling accept his admission, albeit with great reluctance. Neither of them pressure him for answers, and he is grateful for their consideration. None of them will betray the semblance of trust that they have established, regardless of the secrets that remain hidden.

When Zhang Chengling passes Zhou Zishu his portion, he is assailed by the scent of spices. Ah, what a filial child Zhang Chengling has become.

Meanwhile, Wen Kexing is tutting in distaste. He demands, "Why is the master being spoiled by the disciple?"

The thought of Wen Kexing's irritation over seasonings - seasonings, ha! - almost startles a laugh out of Zhou Zishu, but the wet rattle of blood in his chest prevents him from doing so. Instead, he grabs onto Wen Kexing's arm and squeezes it to pacify him. Wen Kexing wilts instantaneously, melting into the touch.

Zhou Zishu is not a tactile person, but he is aware of Wen Kexing's craving for constant contact. If it is the hand holding, the hair combing, the hugging that comforts Wen Kexing and chases the phantoms of his past away, then Zhou Zishu will indulge him.

Likewise, Zhang Chengling is so attuned to the fluctuations in their moods that he either leaves them to their own devices or wiggles himself into the embrace. The teen has become as shameless and ridiculous as Wen Kexing.

They fill the empty spaces of the Si Ji Pavilion with their activities, eclipsing the shadows of Zhou Zishu's discipline brothers and sisters. The nails are a curse - a permanent reminder of their sacrifice - but if Wen Kexing and Zhang Chengling can rouse him from his nightmares, then that is enough.

In his life that is as fragile as glass, Zhou Zishu is content.

(1) Inspired by Zhang Zhehan's cooking. I saw a clip where he put so much chili and pepper that he ended up choking and coughing on the fumes. ZZH, the spicy child!

#word of honor #wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #zhang chengling #fanfic

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livinginfictions · 3 years

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Tag/Ask Game

This is a sort of Check-in Tag game thing? I was tagged by @vikingstrash, so thank you dear!

1. Why did you choose your url?

I used to have a different tumblr, and then my sister saw me on it and literally took the mouse and made me follow her own tumblr, and it made me So Immensely uncomfortable, I immediately went and made a whole new blog, and messaged all my mutuals privately to tell them I was moving so my sister wouldn't find out. As I struggled to come up with something more creative than 'time-lady," I remembered one of my mom's favorite sayings, "Reality sucks, live in fiction" and since livinginfiction was taken, my friend (who was helping with the crisis) and I added an 's.' Voila. Seven years later, it's the only username i have online. XD

2. Any side blog?

Three, actually. We've got @merthurismycrack where I reblog Merthur shit, @samspsychicpowers for some SPN stuff, and the side blog that's basically my main blog at this point: @asterekmess which is where all my Teen Wolf and Sterek stuff goes.

3. How long have you been on tumblr?

Uhhh, I've been on this blog since August of 2014, but my old blog was started in....March 2013. I've been around a fucking while.

4. Do you have a queue tag?

HA. Fuck no. Do I look that organized? Y'all get three hours of spam reblogs, and then I disappear into the aether. How it should be. XD

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

This is essentially the same as I said for question one. Sister found the old blog, and I needed a new one. I tend to make my side blogs for more pointed material, so that my main blog can have like...the amalgamation of general stuff i like, and then I can keep the fandomy content more concentrated into the side blogs.

6. Why did you choose your icon/pfp?

Originally, I did not have this icon. I had this pic I found online with these Beautiful bronze wings against a black background. But then, around the time I decided I wanted to sort of...simplify things and make my username for my online stuff all the same, with all the same pfp's so that I was easily recognized, etc, I realized that....that picture was not mine. I didn't design it or anything. And i couldn't find its source to ask for permission to use it. And it started making me feel shitty for using it in the first place. So I spent like an hour and a half trying to make my Own Wing pic to use, and failed miserably. As a last ditch effort, i went through my 'artistic' photos on my phone and found this one. I adore sky pics, and cloud pics, etc, so it was super my thing, and I just slapped it on there. Still not sick of it. XD I also went to my side blogs and changed out the pfp's for photos that I'd taken, except the sterek blog, because that one is literally just a black triskelion on a white background, and it's a pretty non-specific thing. I would have used a picture of my Own Tattoo, but it's very hard to get a picture of my back that doesn't have weird lighting, and I'm just too lazy.

7. Why did you choose your header?

All my headers are also photos that I've taken or art pieces that I've made. In the case of this blog, it's a picture I made with a 'galaxy maker' online thingy. I love green. I love blue. Ta dah. In general i just try to find something that gives me the right vibes or has the right color palette to match what it's for. (orange and blue for sterek, trees for merlin, and wings for spn)

8. What’s your post with the most notes?

On this blog? I.....just spent two hours digging through all my posts tagged 'personal' bc i wanted the post that I MADE with the most notes...and i have no idea. I mostly respond to other posts, rather than making my own. The highest note count i can find is a post i made abt having friends that aren't in your fandom, which means you can use inspirational quotes to help them through tough times without them realizing ur quoting doctor who or something. 22 notes. *fingerguns* I'm famous, i know.

9. How many mutuals do you have ?

Is...is that a thing i can check?? or do you expect me to hand count??

10. How many followers do you have right now?

Uhghhghghgh, this blog has 439 at the moment, and i'm pretty sure not a lot of those are porn bots, bc i usually screen new followers for it. a lot of them have come over from my sterek blog though.

11. How many people do you follow?

hehe....uh...36.....one of which is my husband....

12. Have you ever made a shitpost?

I don't even know what the requirements for something being a 'shitpost' are....but i think no?

EDIT: I Take it Back, I just found a post I made with "Hot Take: PIneapples are an honorary citrus fruit" and I believe that counts? So YES.

13. How often do you use tumblr?

Uh, nearly every day, multiple times a day. Sometimes i forget it exists for a couple days, though. It's my only social media. I dont use twitter or facebook or instagram. I Have Accounts, but I literally dont open those apps more than once a month.

14. Did you have a fight /argument with another blog ? Who won?

My sterek blog gets in fights more often than it should. XD I'm feisty. And I dunno who wins, i think no one. it's tumblr. there's no real winning or losing.

15. How do feel about “ you need to reblog this” post?

Oh 90% of the time I'll fucking ignore it on principle. I come to tumblr to enjoy myself and escape. I refuse to guilt the shit out of myself and my followers for not reblogging something deemed Essential. I don't care how deep the topic is or how heavy. Sometimes that's WHY I'm not reblogging it, because I don't want that shit on my blog. The other 10% of the time, I'll go to most recent reblog that Doesn't have the guilty shit on it, and then reblog that.

16. Do you like tag games?

It sounds narcissistic, but I like being tagged in them and doing them. I just Really Really Really hate tagging anyone else.

17. Do you like ask games?

Yup, I think they're fun, though I really don't think anyone wants to know this much about me.

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?

Uhhh...I have no clue. I think...I think I might be the tumblr famous mutual, or at least my sterek blog is....

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual?

Yup. My husband.

20. Tagged?

Uh, no one. makes me anxious. XD If someone wants to do it, go ahead and claim i tagged you, i promise no one'll call ur bluff.

#personal #tag game #go for it

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abyssmail · 3 years

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Caerul Design Notes,

because I’ve actually put a lot of thought into creating Caerul’s aesthetic and I’m lowkey really proud of it. I won’t get into her actual character concept/personality/backstory/etc. since this got super long, but this is how/why I made the choices I did with regards to her name and visual design!

▶ Caerul’s color scheme started off way bluer (hence the name “Caerul,” from caeruleus/a/um - “blue”/“cerulean”/“azure”/“of the sky/sea” in Latin) and less saturated, but when I gave her a (dead) twin with a red theme, I wanted them to look more alike and made both of their hair purple (although I haven’t actually done more than sketch Roseus before... he’s got purple hair and red eyes). Purple’s my favorite color, and unnatural hair colors don’t seem to be uncommon in Orth, so why not, right? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ The red elements in Caerul’s design are meant to represent her honoring Roseus!

All of the base colors I use when drawing Caerul! They all end up looking a bit darker once they’re shaded though.

▶ As well as shamelessly using one of my favorite Latin words (I’m a Classics major, okay ;;>~>), I also tried to pick a name that sounded similar to the ones that already exist in-universe. This was actually fairly tricky, since as far as I can tell the names in Made in Abyss have a WIDE variety of influences. Some of them seem passably Japanese-sounding (Riko, Jiruo, Kiyui, Nanachi) disclaimer I bring dishonor to my ancestors and know 0 Japanese so this is just about vibez, others seem Western-ish (Reg, Nat, Lyza, Prushka). Some are fairly whimsical (Shiggy, Maruruk, Mitty) while others are more mysterious and fantastic (Any of the White Whistles besides maybe Lyza). The only common thread I could really settle on was a general fantasy feeling to all of the names. I tried to capture that nebulous vibe with Caerul’s name, although with something so vague and subjective it’s pretty much impossible to say if I was entirely successful. I named her siblings afterward with other Latin color words and ended up with a RGB theme lol.

▸ By the way, “Caerul” is pronounced “KAI-rool.” It rhymes with “Hyrule.” The ae diphthong makes an “eye” sound in Latin #TheMoreYouKnow

▸ “Caducalae” is a portmanteau of “caducae alae,” literally “falling/doomed/futile wings” in Latin (again), playing off how pointless it is to be able to fly when the Curse of the Abyss is a thing. Originally, they weren’t supposed to work at all outside of the Abyss, but I decided that was boring for crossovers/other verses so I scrapped it. I’m not too happy with the name since it doesn’t fit the naming scheme of the canon relics (there is no precedent at all for gratuitous Latin in Made in Abyss, which is a good thing because it’s overused in fantasy, but Latin was the only thing I was good at in high school sooooo... ^^;), but I didn’t like any of my other ideas that much, either. “Wings of Futility” feels more canon, but it’s also kinda depressing :/

▶ I’ve mentioned before that Caerul’s build is based off of mine for art reference purposes (it’s convenient to just look in the mirror while making the pose I want =w=)b), but another reason she’s so short is that I didn’t have to make the caducalae quite as big since she’s smaller, so she can actually go indoors if she’s careful.

▶ Long hair isn’t super practical with mechanical wings with lots of bits for it to get caught in, but Caerul idolizes Lyza, so I left her hair as long as I could reasonably get away with.

▶ I heavily referenced the canon Made in Abyss character designs for Caerul’s clothing so she would fit into the world, but made some alterations to make everything more personal to her and accommodate for her wings. In general, I lightened everything up, since she takes a bunch of short, quick trips rather than lengthy expeditions. Her gloves, for instance, are loosely inspired by the ones we see many delvers wearing in the manga/anime, but are less heavy-duty and are convertible mittens/fingerless gloves for better dexterity with handling letters and such.

The best close up of the gloves I could find was actually a screenshot of the aftermath Reg & Riko’s orb piercer encounter, but I didn’t want to have to tag this for gore, so you get Lyza ^^; There’s a filter over Caerul here so you can see the glove better which is why she looks kinda washed out :/

▶ Her coat is heavily influenced by Jiruo’s, since he’s the only Moon Whistle we’ve seen in canon.

yeah, uhhhh, sorry to yoink your style my dude ^^;

▸ Caerul’s has a different color palette, a simpler lapel border, an extra set of outer pockets, and three separate panels in the back that button around her wings so she can put it on! I haven’t drawn it, but her shirt works similarly.

This is my favorite detail about her design tbh... it’s just really satisfying what a logical solution it is for some reason??? the original doodle is off rotting somewhere in my Modern European History notes, but I tried to recreate it just as sloppily here =w=)b

▶ Caerul’s corset isn’t just a painful fashion choice - it’s actually meant to be a(n admittedly heavily stylized) brace for her back against the weight of her wings.

▶ Since Caerul can’t wear a backpack with the wings, I had to get creative with storage options for her. In addition to an undetermined number of pockets on the inside of her coat, I gave her these two pouches on her thighs to carry more stuff.

I wonder how buff your quads could get carrying a significant amount of weight there...

▸ Messenger bags don’t seem super practical for delving, so I didn’t design a specific one for her to carry all the time, but Caerul does use them on occasion. Even with that, though, she still has far less carrying capacity than the average delver, which is a problem she has to deal with when carrying out her duties!

▶ The wings/caducalae were by far the most difficult part of designing Caerul, and it took several redesigns over 2+ years before I was finally happy with them. Their first design was deliberately far simpler in the interest of having to draw them a zillion times, but they ended up clunky and unwieldy looking:

chonky o~O

▸ The final design is MUCH more of a pain to draw (in fact, a lot of the time I cheat and just copy and paste them from drawings I’ve already done), but I think it looks much sleeker and more “functional”.

I also got better at making my diagrams look slightly more authentic ;0

▸ I knew I wanted jetpack-style thrusters to be a component of the wings to somewhat justify the shit I wanted Caerul to be able to pull with them (especially to eliminate the need for accounting for the damage landing suddenly could do to her ankles), but incorporating them proved to be one of the biggest problems of the design. At one point, they were going to have a whole separate attachment point on her back, but I finally just made them an offshoot of the first “joint,” as you can see in the final design.

A really messy intermediate caducalae sketch. The weird double pentagon shape was meant to be the part of the relic actually fused to Caerul’s back, but I scrapped that too when I scrapped the separate limbs for the thrusters.

▸ Speaking of the joints, they’re all balls so they can rotate all over and I don’t have to fuss too much about how they move. Likewise, the frame is metal, but I treat it like it’s kind of flexible, so Caerul can “flex” the wings open and closed. These wings are hard enough to draw period okay I’m giving myself every excuse to be inconsistent af on purpose.

▸ The caducalae have some “bonus” features that I’ve sketched out, but that Caerul hasn’t unlocked yet, and won’t for a while.

owo what’s this?

▸ For the wings, I think my biggest inspirations were some of the mechier Cardfight!! Vanguard dragon units (although I don’t remember which cards specifically) and the energy wings on the ninth-generation knightmares in Code Geass R2.

I’ve made a lot of OCs, and since I don’t like to use faceclaims, I’ve done a fair amount of character designing. I don’t think I’ve ever spent as much time or had as much fun with any of them as I have with Caerul, though! OCs aren’t always super well accepted in fandom roleplay, but the Made in Abyss community has been super welcoming and I’ve had a blast. Thanks for listening to me gush about Caerul if you got this far, and thank you to everyone who’s interacted with her!

The original sketch of Caerul from back in 2017. How far we’ve come :’D

#miscellaneous info #mun art #appearance #ooc #((no one cares lol))#((but I had fun putting all my thoughts down in writing ^^;))#((also! the full version of the new caerul art from the promo!))

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lavellens · 4 years

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about my oc:

Tagged by @rebelvakarian, thank u rebel ilysm!!!♥♥♥♥

I decided to do this about one of my Inquisitors, Vesryn! (cause i love him so much like??? my son.)

I’ll be tagging: @liveinthehills @themalkavians @trvelyans @lavellane @elfgremlin @drthamen @trash-effect and whoever else wants to (& pls tag me cause i would love to read about your bbs uwu)

(I decided to gif this one clip that ive had sitting in a folder for like...months lol)

GENERAL

Name: Vesryn Pavus

Alias(es): Era’Harel, Inquisitor, Trouble (Varric)

Gender: Male

Age: 29 at the start of Inquisition, 30 by the end. 32 in Trespasser. (Born 9:12 Dragon)

Place of birth: The Free Marches

Spoken languages: Common tongue, Orlesian, knows small Elvish phrases, learning Tevene.

Sexual orientation: Gay

All Occupations: Hunter in Clan Lavellan until he fled at 18. Notorious assassin based in Orlais pre-Inquisition, and Inquisitor up until disbanding. Currently a figure in the Lucerni to aid in redeeming Tevinter.

APPEARANCE

Eye color: Pale green

Hair color: White

Height: 5′10″

Scars: knife wound (cheek), various small scars from years of combat.

Burns: Small burn on his upper back from when a mage caught him unaware at his flank.

Overweight: No

Underweight: No

FAVORITE

Color: He’s naturally drawn to dark colors, since he spent so much of his life lurking and slipping through the shadows as an assassin. for literally eight years of his life yall. He especially likes the color of the sky on a clear night, completely midnight black. He’s spent many evenings out on his balcony to find some comfort looking at the stars. It made him feel grounded amidst so much chaos.

Hair color: Much like his favorite colors, he’s inclined toward darker shades, like black or dark brown. (shocker that he noticed Dorian, huh)

Eye color: He doesn’t have a specific preference, but bright, striking eyes do stand out to him, as they would to anyone else.

Music genre: He enjoys ballroom music and the sound of harps. He warmed up a lot toward tavern songs after becoming Inquisitor, though. His memories of Herald’s Rest and Maryden’s voice are always a source of comfort... and nostalgia.

Movie genre: N/A

TV show: N/A

Food: Vesryn loves sweet foods! If there are desserts in Skyhold’s kitchens, you’d better believe he’s going to eat more than he probably should and take a stash up to his quarters for later. If there are a few icing smudges or crumbs on official documents, well... His time in Orlais gave him a much more distinguished palette than what he had with the Dalish, and he’s now a bit of a picky eater because of it. He’ll eat anything if the situation calls for it though, like if he’s venturing away from Skyhold for extended periods. But if anyone knows Vesryn well, they’ll remember to pack extra spices for their dinners at camp (unless you’re okay with hearing at least one snarky comment about blandness).

Butter soup, Fereldan-style stew, any well seasoned meat, cookies, small pastries, sponge cakes, etc

Drink: Naturally, he drinks a lot of water since that’s easiest to come by on the road. He also likes a nice cup of hot tea in the evenings to settle himself before trying to get some semblance of rest. Alcohol wise, he tends to stay away from ale and mead. He mainly drinks wine, preferably the sweeter variety, like Dandelion wine.

Book: He’s not much of a reader, but at the very least, he’ll browse through historical accounts or research certain subjects if he feels he needs to be further educated to better fill his role. He doesn’t want to be at the brunt of political decisions with no former knowledge to go off of. (but then he goes and does things like publicly assassinating Florianne, sigh)

HAVE THEY

Passed University: N/A

Had sex: Oh, yes.

Had sex in public: Yes

Gotten pregnant (themselves or a partner): Nope

Kissed a boy: Yes

Kissed a girl: Once

Gotten tattoos: No

Gotten piercings: No

Had a broken heart: Yes, though it wasn’t severe.

Been in love: Yes

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Yes, many, many times. His anxieties kept him awake at times, or brooding over past decisions that could have played out differently if he had just done this or that. He was also often called upon by his advisors to discuss important matters, and these discussions would often go late into the night. He also had to settle small disputes sometimes. Who says the Inquisitor needs sleep?

ARE THEY

A virgin: No

A cuddler: Not often

A kisser: Yes

Scared easily: nah, it takes a lot to actually make him squirm. One of the biggest things he was afraid of was allowing himself to fall in love, since he doesn’t trust easily.

Jealous easily: He would have you believe that he isn’t, but deep down, he is. This shocked him, because he had never felt attached enough to anyone to the point where jealousy would even begin to cross his mind. A son of a noble family in Orlais had hired the famous masked “Era’Harel” many times to take out his family’s rivals one by one, and Ves had felt comfortable around him. But the noble showed his true colors early enough that Ves never allowed himself to fully fall. (that whole story is too long for me to fit here)

With Dorian, though... Whenever he would see someone speaking to Dorian suggestively, he didn’t understand what that unpleasant twisting in his gut was, until he did. And man if that wasn’t an oh shit moment for him, whew.

Trustworthy: If he likes you. Just kidding. Sort of. He’s very manipulative, so if he needs to make someone believe that he’s trustworthy, he will. But he is genuinely very trustworthy toward his comrades. He only deceives crude, all around evil people nowadays as political maneuvers. (Turns out, there are a lot of those in Tevinter)

Dominant: Before becoming Inquisitor, I wouldn’t say he was docile or shy, but he generally kept to himself. If the need arose, he would definitely stand up for himself/fight if necessary, but he preferred to avoid attention. Becoming Inquisitor forced him to change in a lot of ways; it forced him out of his shell since he had to become a leader, for one. (and it also made him a lot kinder, yay friendship) He became a lot more of a dominant personality over the course of Inquisition, and being most in control is now where he’s most comfy.

Submissive: Nowadays, only in bed. ;p

In love: Yes

Single: No

RANDOM QUESTIONS

Have they harmed themselves: Not intentionally, no. He did seriously contemplate amputating his arm himself during Trespasser because the pain was so excruciating, though.

Thought of suicide: He’s had some lows, but never contemplated ending his life. (he’s got a very, very strong will to survive/push through)

Attempted suicide: No

Wanted to kill someone: Uh..yes. And Pre-Inquisition Vesryn would probably kill them.

Ridden a horse: Yes! He prefers riding harts, though.

Have/had a job: Hunter, Assassin, Inquisitor, figure in the Lucerni ive said this already i know lol

Have any fears: Falling in love, regret.

FAMILY

Sibling(s): None that he knows of.

Parents: Both died when he was very young, doesn’t really remember them. He was mainly “raised” by the Dalish, but he didn’t enjoy the lifestyle and generally stuck to himself before abandoning the Clan.

Children: None.

Pets: He’s never thought much about adopting/caring for his own animals, besides his mount. There was this one chunky cat that would often times raid Skyhold’s pantries, and she would follow Vesryn up to his quarters most of the time. He didn’t really think he cared about her until he realized that he was leaving his doors cracked so she could come and go as she pleased. He named her Chérie, which he’d affectionately been calling her for awhile. Needless to say, he took her to Tevinter.

#chérie means sweetheart/darling in french #and orlesian is just like french so im going out on a limb here lol #anyway THANK U AGAIN FOR TAGGING ME IN THIS REBEL <333 #it was so fun i love talking about my ocs :'-)#ch: vesryn

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nozomijoestar · 4 years

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Transcribed and formatted for readability the master thesis between me and @wlwclem on the nuances to NaraTrish together and as individuals being why we love it and respect it not being CompHet- we spent way too much Big Brain Energy on it to not share

tw: brief mention of F-Slur when giving an example on toxic masculinity being bullshit, sexuality is briefly discussed in a non sexualizing way and in no graphic detail

*insert IM TRISH KIN BUCCIARATI joke here*

epickinnienaranciaYesterday at 11:45 PM

JDDBSJDBD YES bc ofc she gotta be Reassuring but at the same time his Himboism Knows No Bounds One of the lines in EoH u can give her is “Go get me an Italian Vogue magazine too while you’re at it” and I’m like. Queen

nozomijoestarYesterday at 11:46 PM

JDHDHDF BDE Narancia whipped Narancia stands no chance

epickinnienaranciaYesterday at 11:46 PM

OH FOR REAL one of HIS victory lines is something about getting all the stuff for her lmao And this is like even if she isn’t in the battle, Always Thinking Of His Queen

nozomijoestarYesterday at 11:50 PM

Trish decides to test the limits of this and his ability to recognize them by asking for impossible or nonexistent items/feats and when he continues to try for her without question she realizes she has too much power and must restrain it fjdjjdjfjf Can't turn into Dad

epickinnienaranciaYesterday at 11:51 PM

JDBDBSJS The color palette changes while she has an inner monologue while she watches him try to make her happy

nozomijoestarYesterday at 11:53 PM

"Oh my god Bucciarati was right...he's too loyal for his own good I need to stop even if it's a little fun" Meanwhile Narancia: growing more and more frustrated with himself for perceived failure to someone he loves

epickinnienaranciaYesterday at 11:55 PM

She stops for the most part but does it every so often bc it’s cute

nozomijoestarYesterday at 11:56 PM

Lucky to have a freak like dat I feel like the only thing that can counter this self defeatism Narancia can get (bc his younger childhood...ofc he's fucked up and anxious and paranoid abt not being enough or abandoned) is Trish having to open her own repressed self up and love the shit out of himLike those reassuring lines she has in EoH and her moments in the anime/manga Bruno fucking does it as his father figure and Narancia admits it gives him strength

December 19, 2019

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:04 AM

Yes, he feels like he has to prove his worth and like he’s worth having around otherwise he’s useless, i def feel like he would not like talking about the stuff that happened in the past with everyone bc he would feel ashamed and stupid or st, he needs to be told You Are Enough and her to open up too so they can lean on each other

nozomijoestarToday at 12:12 AM

Honestly no jokes for a second I feel like this is also abt breaking toxic masculinity bc it's fucking Italy in the early 00s just out of the 90s...it was RIFE rifer than even now with that shit like in much of the world then too, the idea that a boy becoming a man and men in general need to strictly follow dumbass self harming rules

especially abt not opening up and only having real priorities for earning money, honoring family, and procreating as much as possible whether it's marriage making a family or "having sexual conquests" in promiscuity, anything outside of this bullshit image can't be tolerated and you might as well be a woman or "a fag" if you don't assert some fictional narrative of trying extremely hard to have power in everything bc that's all that matters is the ridiculous idea of Alpha Males applied to humans

Narancia being a 80s- 90s kid with the childhood he had did not give him much fighting chance at all in this context and time period esp just bc he happened to be born with a dick and thus saddled with these harmful expectations society made that could've only further repressed his recognition of not beating himself up and his own emotional needs on top of EVERYONE ever betraying him Where was he supposed to go? He can't go anywhere unless he meets Bruno

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:18 AM

yes i agree..... like, males being looked down upon for opening up, being societally forced to shoulder the burdens and “man up” and just deal with it and fix everything. And then already having a toxic support system with his “friend” betraying him and his dad Sucking Major Ass, all he’s been taught is deal with it but hasn’t been given the tools to know how, and if Bruno didn’t meet him he honestly would be so stuck, what person (esp in that time period) is going to go out of their way to help an uneducated young male?

nozomijoestarToday at 12:20 AM

Even if it tragically ends with his death in canon I feel like the time he spent with Bruno's bois, Giorno, and Trish was huge in making some of that crack little by littleBc he has moments where you see how sweet he actually is, his "real" personality if you will underneath all the unresolved anger when he's with ppl he sees love him and give him hope When Giorno said No One Is Going To Hurt You Anymore that just made me cry harder

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:23 AM

Yes! Like, ofc he gets angry, has unrepressed rage and reactions to things, he hasn’t had any type of emotional support in SO long and it’s not like it’s 100% fantastic in that regard with buccigang (which don’t get me wrong they are family but they are still in an aggressive gang and go off and give each other lots of shit)-YEAH AND THE FUCKIGN PLANT GROWING TOO IM

nozomijoestarToday at 12:25 AM

Trish is legit I think the one person aside from Giorno who would treat him without even the gang's aggressiveness Narancia is my fav in VA even if Bruno is the best written VA character bc he's me, this kind of shit in my life is why I developed PTSD undiagnosed since my childhood that only kept getting worse until only this year have I gotten any true help I know exactly how he feels

Esp when you think your whole life exists to serve others never yourself NaraGio shippers I see y'all argument even if I don't follow it tbh, Gio was again the only one besides Trish to consistently care for Nara in day to day and when he was in danger and esp during the Clash and Talking Heads fight Gio was the one dude present like No Narancia It's Ok Please Tell Me What's Wrong You're Clearly Stressed

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:31 AM

yeah although i haven’t experienced it i can still empathize and try to understand, i think there’s so many layers of protection and walls that most people never truly look past it to see the root cause or true self YES that fight was so frustrating bc they were all like Narancia stop being an idiot when something was clearly wrong and he was obviously in distress!!

nozomijoestarToday at 12:32 AM

Also Gio was the only one who first asserted that No, Narancia did the right thing in fighting Formaggio

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:33 AM

Yes and with that whole interaction the gang often uses Narancia as the scapegoat essentially and just give him shit for every little thing without trying to understand his POV

nozomijoestarToday at 12:33 AM

The Clash fight tbh I feel was an ass pull set up to give Narancia his big bad ass loyalty proving moment even if it's a great fight that beginning part is...only the Trish and Gio interactions rly make sense fjdjdjI wish him and Giorno hung out more or I guess more like talked more bc you can't rly hang out when you're getting assassinated every day hfgdg

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:36 AM

Yeah hdkdb, even with Fugo, even tho he found him and brought him to Bruno, he still calls him a dumbass, stabs him with a fork and shit, and then with Mista even tho I feel like they are Like Bros, he destroys Narancia’s radio for no fucking reason and also has a pattern of taking shit Narancia paid for without paying him backI def agree with that, I feel like Giorno interactions were lacking in that there really weren’t many one on one meaningful things so it’s hard for me to grasp his personal headspace and relationships a lot of the time

nozomijoestarToday at 12:37 AM

However to be a little more fair to the Bucci gang the manga version has Narancia trying a lot lot more to get their attention in logical ways that unfortunately Talking Heads completely ruins, he tried writing to let them know what was happening and TH warped the text into him saying vulgar things bragging abt his dick being a powerful Stand

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:38 AM

Yeah I was gonna add I wasn’t sure if the manga had other stuff, tbf

nozomijoestarToday at 12:38 AM

I think this is also Shounen Tropes of the 90s at play too the "child" character was often written as the comic relief dumbass Narancia suffers it so it does add a layer of Not Good to his relationships The trope still exists tbh Anime cut out him writing I assume bc it's too sexual It's already pushing it having him whip it out and piss in front of everyone jfhdhd

epickinnienaranciaToday at 12:41 AM

Yeah you right, it’s like the i want it to be that deep meme, like Araki obvi doesn’t have him only as comic relief but if he delved into his character more there would’ve been so much more that could’ve been done and shown YEAH DJDBDJDJF I WAS SURPRISED THT WAS ANIMATED

------------------------[ CUT INTERMISSION ]-----------------------------

nozomijoestarToday at 12:51 AM

Ok but to get back on track with where I was trying to go even opening this all up is how it's critical to NaraTrish in a mutually beneficial way

nozomijoestarToday at 1:01 AM

Nara is no incel he's a King obvs but he is also at heart a confused scared kid uncertain of anything in the world beyond what's closest in his grasp and without someone actively believing in and validating him he can't fully achieve awareness of healthy dynamics and even the problems within the ones he already has with his gang and Bruno- Trish doesn't have to babysit him and be the stereotypical The Woman Only Supports And Gives Up Her Body bc thats never her and couldn't be her and Narancia wouldn't make her that way bc even when he kinda touches on that (giving in a bit to the idea that men are the main protectors of women) when he gets too fixated on wanting what he thinks is for her wellbeing he does snap out and acknowledge he's wrong bc

Trish by her independent nature and tremendous Will proves those stereotypes are bullshit, not even factoring in their first meeting as already making a huge impression on his beliefs of what girls can do- Trish knowing how to challenge him by staying true to herself yet having the compassion to help someone suffering and with fewer chances from birth than she had would not only win him over but give him something even Bruno can't, self sustaining confidence, bc Trish isn't part of a chain of command, she's just a girl in love with a boy who wants him to be happy and that concept while foreign to him for so long once it kicks in he could actually learn to build himself For himself and For someone who wouldn't use him for some greater schemes or dirty work,

I love Bruno ok he's one of the best characters in anything ever but his flaw in his ability to help motivate ppl is tied to that fact that he's bringing them into a dangerous strict order of command to Serve not entirely in a place/way that lets them just be themselves and realize organic loving relationships with anyone and themselves SO

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:05 AM

they’re healing...... being shown love without a position of authority or any obligations is so powerful for his growth

nozomijoestarToday at 1:25 AM

That all being said, Everything Trish does he's paying attention to, she keeps him alive during the Grateful Dead fight not because she needs him to serve for a cause ( a cause might I add even Bruno the near saint he is was ready to let Nara go right then and there for bc death is in the job description) but because she doesn't know him well yet and shit he even swung a knife at her when they first met over who was in the bathroom, but he's a person suffering and in pain and to let him die even if it's Expected Of The Mission is garbage to her even if she respects Bruno down the line as a father compared to fucking evil Diavolo,

Trish constantly goes out her way to do these things for Nara bc Trish instinctively knows he's the most vulnerable mentally and her sense of compassion and justice (likely something Donatella made sure to instill in her before her death by cherishing Trish and spoiling her even as a single mother) will not stand to not help someone when she could've- and he reciprocates it even if in disbelief bc he can tell This Person Is Safety, This Person Is Like Me Yet Not, A Better Me I Want To Be, by the time he's about to die someone with his fragile mind was actually gaining conviction about taking control for himself on his own terms and he would risk even those chances to defend the person who actually helped him arrive there (along with Gio) in the first place,

I think by the end of his life he rly did love her or start to, it being romantic or not is up to individual interpretation to which you know I'm in the romance camp, point is he found someone who truly taught him strength without him fully realizing it and did so without belittling him, if anything instead treating him only with love and kindness and patience (not being a door mat for him, but like, not treating him like ass like everyone else has their moments of either), I think anything Trish asks of him, this is all why he's so willing to do it on top of feeling deep empathy, I've written in my character notes as well that like this goes even further to sex being one of the most intimate things there is, like I kno we jest and jape abt Teens Doing Dumb Shit bc we're clowns

but the sheer vulnerability you have to have esp in a first love situation to be willing to go through with that for the first time ever takes a lot of trust and courage, aspects I think Trish was able to give him and would solidify in asking something seen as so important for many people from him, the headstrong Trish wants to be vulnerable for him and the slowly confidence boosted Narancia wants to accept that faith and trust and love and exchange it with his own of the same for her, it's not horny teens 100% it's two hurt but hopeful kids on the verge of having to be adults wanting to find another piece of identity in how they are with someone else, obvs it will forever be offscreen bc pedos deserve to be skinned alive

I just feel that the components that would fuel them to do something teens try to do to feel more adult and bc hormones are a lot more based in growing maturity than pure lust, I think this is what I fully mean by Writing About Teens Exploring Love And Sexuality; Not Fetishizing And Reveling In Showing The Act Itself Especially For Disgusting Titillation, I think this and not explicitly writing the sex are the difference between child porn and creating realistic characters

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:36 AM

Yeah, it is going to sound like a dumb take but the topic of sex and sexuality itself is not inherently sexual, by which I meant it isn’t the focus — there’s SO much more to it and in this case especially it can be like the ultimate sign of love, trust, intimacy, compassion, trying to make your way as a teen through a harsh world, like I can go on. Nasties Dont Interact but the shying away from the mere mention of it in a non-sexualized context is unrealistic.

Yes The Grateful Dead fight i 1000% agree is so important in both his personal growth and the development of their relationship, I think it’s an important parallel that he is dumbfounded about her going to such lengths to keep him alive without the sense of duty/obligation versus Trish’s feelings and outbursts of confusion on why Bucciarati and his gang even cared about her, protecting her to the point of death being on the line.(edited)

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:44 AM

all these elements of complication and similarities between their characters is why ive gotten so passionate about both them and their relationship (whether romantic or platonic it’s really fucking strong and good), the story of two kids making it through adversity, learning to unshoulder their burdens and lean on others, the Found Family™️, and learning and growing together is just so much more fucking deep and complex than the mainstream bs that exists.

now im not any type of elitist hipster but esp in male and female relationships portrayed in what feels like basically fucking everything are just like CompHet Bullshit and they’re together bc They Are Just Supposed To Be (not to mention the toxic masculinity culture within that where the women barely have character arcs and are just seen as objects anyways) But what I’m trying to say is that in this the relationship is real and it feels earned in a way that just isn’t there in so much other media out there(edited)

nozomijoestarToday at 1:48 AM

Honestly if we tweak this just a lil more this is basically Guts and Casca One of the greatest and saddest romances ever written

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:48 AM

i still have berserk bookmarked just haven’t gotten around to reading yet

nozomijoestarToday at 1:48 AM

If VA was a Seinen it's p much Berserk In Italy Also big brain...galaxy brain...everything you said was a fact signed sealed and delivered(edited)

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:51 AM

Wow we’re actually in sync and using the brain cell to its fullest extent tonight

nozomijoestarToday at 1:51 AM

When I say she's his world and he's hers this is what I mean, not comphet hdhdhfhYEAH HFHDG

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:52 AM

(also my phone autocorrected “and” to “ANF” bc of twdg..... it also sometimes changes it to “AMD” bc I work in technology. My Phone Knows My Interests Are More Important To Me Than One Of The Main Parts Of Speech. Iconic)YESSSS they’re just SO GOOD there’s so much to articulate!

nozomijoestarToday at 1:55 AM

She was his Queen, and god help anyone who disrespected his Queen

epickinnienaranciaToday at 1:55 AM

JDBDHE SHIT THE FUCK IP DKDBEBDJFBBD

nozomijoestarToday at 1:56 AM

Buy my silence $8000 a month

#jojo's bizarre adventure #naratrish #narancia ghirga #trish una #we support them at everything they do ty

17 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

And Now, We Wait (Branjie) - SnowBun

A/N: This took two weeks, at least ten cups of coffee, a visit to my best friend I haven’t seen in three years that lives eight hours away, and a fantastic beta (thank you and bless your soul pink-grapefruit-cafe) to write. Sorry to keep everyone waiting for this one since I announced I was writing this WEEKS ago, but it took a lot of planning and visualizing. I hope I do your Branjie dreams justice. If you have anything to message me or want me to write stuff, message me on holymolypestoaioli!! Xoxo

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Break-ups aren’t supposed to be this amicable. Not that he would know. To be honest, he’s really just guessing at this point.

The words and the bright white smile plastered on Jose’s face makes him think it’s not so bad, but then he sees the pain in his eyes. It isn’t like a knife that he plunged straight into his chest. No, it’s more like a flesh-eating disease.

He isn’t sure which one of them starts crying, but he knows he’s the first one to start laughing. His soft chuckle blends with his cackle, a cacophony of sound that paints the taupe hotel walls with miserable irony.

The smile on Jose’s face fades away with the laughter, and he thinks he’s never seen anything more heartbreaking before in his life. It’s all that is good and beautiful in the world, and he’s tearing it apart with his bare hands.

He opens up his arms, and when the shorter man melts into him, he realizes how unfair life is. The tears soaking through his grey t-shirt don’t belong there. The pained, heaving breaths don’t belong there. The only thing that belongs are the arms wrapped around his waist, tight like a corset.

Don’t leave.

He means for the thought to pass, but it lingers in his brain a little too long, just enough to make him wonder if this is the right thing to do. It’s just enough to make him wonder if this is what freedom should feel like.

There’s a final sob and shake to the fragile body with its skin like papers slipped under hotel room doors. He pushes away the thought, stores it in a filing cabinet that he might look at one day.

Jose pulls away from him, and he searches for the disease that dulls the glimmer in the brown eyes he’d started to call home. He hides them well enough for him to let any thoughts of taking it all back fade away.

He places a kiss on his forehead. There are words there, just floating around in the air, but he doesn’t say them. He leaves them there for Jose to find in the morning.

He loves him, he’s sure. He wouldn’t leave him if he didn’t.

December is easy enough to get through.

The number of whispers that she’s on season 11 are proportional to the gigs that she’s offered, and the ache in her chest decreases exponentially. Reducing everything down to simple mathematics makes the time pass by faster.

She’s finishing up a gig in Texas when she meets a man whose skin turns purple under the lights of the bar. When she pushes him against a wall outside the club and smears her lipstick on his mouth, she remembers that his name is Charlie.

The hook-up in her hotel room is so fast that she doesn’t even take off her make-up. She crashes onto the bed, sated and spent, and turns over to watch Charlie throw his legs off the edge. He laces up his shoes and takes a bottle of water out of the fridge.

All of a sudden, she feels too naked. She covers her lower half with the sheets, but she knows that it has nothing to do with skin.

She looks out the wide windows overlooking the city and wonders what the city below sounds like. Does it sound like stumbling out of clubs in Chicago, drunk on kisses and tequila? Does it sound like blaring car horns in New York when the cab can’t get her to a gig fast enough to calm a petite queen’s nerves?

“Hey.”

Charlie’s voice breaks her out of her reverie. As she watches him scribble something on the notepad on the desk, she realizes that he’s really not her type. He’s too tall and clean cut. Not to mention his ass is flat.

She feels nothing when he kisses her goodbye.

The walk from the bed to the desk feels nothing short of mechanical. She takes a seat and looks in the mirror she’s left there. The lack of a wig and the sullied /;/makeup only vaguely remind her of Brooke Lynn. It seems about right because she isn’t sure if she feels like herself anymore.

One wipe after another erases any trace of Charlie from her lips. She watches herself scrub at them, but she doesn’t stop when it starts to sting.

She looks at the notepad and sees that he’s left his number behind. She rips off the piece of paper, balls it up, and throws it in the bin along with the string of numbers she’d encrypted in her head five months ago.

When all the makeup is gone, he goes to the bathroom and lets the shower run for a minute. He thinks he needs a cigarette. Or maybe two. Maybe a pack if he’s really being honest with himself.

He allows the scalding hot water to turn his skin red. The colour doesn’t make him think of flushed chests with cat tattoos after too many shots. He swears it doesn’t.

It’s the last Saturday of 2018 when she decides to call her.

“Hey!”

Her voice is bright, like LA sunshine streaming in through windows over pancakes for breakfast. She tastes the ghost of the sweetness of real maple syrup, none of that weird synthetic stuff, on her tongue when they fall into bed together.

“Hi.”

The word comes out as a shaky, tired sigh. She doesn’t realize how exhausted she is until she hears it. The past month has been nothing but work, and if she’s doing it to distract herself from how lonely she feels, she let it happen anyway.

“How you doing?”

I just smoked a pack of cigarettes because I wanted to breathe in air that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“I’m doing good. You?”

“I got a gig here in Sacramento tonight.”

It’s 2000 miles too far away. She wants to see her, to just look at her to remind herself that she’s real, that those four months of happiness weren’t just a dream that she conjured up to keep herself sane.

As if on cue, she hears someone remind Vanjie that she has half an hour to get ready. She chuckles when she hears her reply with the requisite, “Yeah, yeah, I got it, bitch.” She misses it more than she wants to admit.

“Keep me company while I get ready?”

“Sure.”

She stays quiet, thinks of how she probably looks doing her makeup. The way she scrunches up her nose when she puts on the translucent powder, the way she squints her eyes when doing all the little details, the way she smiles when she thinks the contour is just right.

In contrast to the now blurred lines of her overdrawn lips after a night of performing and making out with trade, she thinks she must look perfect.

“Sooooo,” She drags the word out like a cigarette. “People suspect you’re coming back?”

“Bitch, I don’t gotta say a damn thing, all them hoes already know.”

She shrugs, feels the latex stuck to her shoulders as it shifts against her skin. “Well, no one deserved to come back more than you.”

“Awww, thanks B. Now, don’t make me cry or Imma head over there and whoop your ass.”

The banter is nice, normal, routine. It isn’t the game of pretend she was expecting. It’s friendship, and it’s a good one. She realizes it isn’t so bad after all.

“Shit.” She hears something fall. “Sorry, dropped my palette.”

“Damn, is it okay?”

“Broke an eyeshadow.” There’s a groan and she holds back a bemused laugh. “No worries, you’re going to get me a new one with that Anastasia money anyway.”

“You don’t even know if I’m going to win.”

“Ha!” She says it so loudly that she’s scared that she’ll lose hearing in her right ear. “You kidding me? I know you gonna win.”

She raises a sculpted eyebrow; ignores that she can’t see it on the other end. “What about the Dreamgirls, then?”

“Bitch, those hoes ain’t gonna give me shit if they win.”

The banter goes on, and if either of them remembers that the last time they spoke was when they woke up from drug-induced comas after being addicted to each other, they don’t mention it.

“You’re the only pussy I’ve ever fucked.”

She almost spits out her drink on the vanity. When she’d invited him to come to one of her gigs in LA, she wasn’t expecting him to be so distracting; but she doesn’t complain. He’s welcome to annoy her anytime, if she’s honest.

She spins around, throws a glare at the tiny Puerto Rican man cackling like his jaw has unhinged. His whole body laughs with him, his legs and arms flailing.

The laughter dies down into small chuckles, and she turns back to the mirror. She doesn’t remember putting that much blush onto her cheeks earlier.

The noise coming from the bar outside creeps its way into the dressing room, their safe haven. She wants everyone to shut up, wants everyone to respect how comfortable she is as she sinks into the blend of laughter and silence.

She’s called him every single day over the past two weeks, almost at the exact same time. She wants to be his friend, wants to be everything that she can to him without the commitment she knows she can’t afford. If it’s anything more than a desire for companionship, she overlooks it.

When she hears him humming along to American Boy, she stops begging for the music outside to stop.

She stares at herself in the mirror, all perfect lines and blended edges. She isn’t the best at painting her face, but as she watches the way her cheekbones shine under the fluorescent lights, she convinces herself that she’s damn good at it at the very least.

The material of her literal catsuit feels like a second skin. She looks at him through the mirror, watches as he scrolls through his phone and unconsciously bites his lip, and ignores how much she wants him to peel the layers away.

“Hey,” She turns to him, two lipsticks in her hands. “What color should I do?”

He taps a finger against his chin, and her eyes drift to the lips he’s puckered like he’s sucking on a Sour Patch kid. She’s mesmerized by the way his eyebrows furrow, the way his eyes narrow, the way he can’t stop making him look anywhere but fuck, stop it.

“The red one.”

Of course, he picks the red one. It’s his colour, and she knows it. He owns it, owns the ruby running through her veins, owns the plush velvet her feet rest on in her favourite hotel room, owns the sangria that goes straight to her head on Sundays with friends.

“Thanks.”

She draws his name, his body, his soul onto her lips. She sketches the sharp, precise lines, observes the way they turn into pleas stuck in the back of her throat because she’s too scared to be anything other than free.

“Good?”

He shoots her a smile and a thumbs up, and she wonders why she was expecting more.

There are three different moments where he thinks about refusing Jose’s offer.

The first is in the dressing room, when she takes off her mask and watches in the mirror as the one underneath smiles. He asks her if she wants to keep drinking at his place, laughingly says that it’s drinks and nothing more.

The second is when they’re walking, and all he can feel is the heat of LA, even in January. He sees the orange light of a streetlamp highlight the twinkle of Jose’s eyes in the absence of stars in the sky. He can’t really say no to that.

The third is when they’re at his front door, and Jose’s trying to dig his keys out of his pocket. “Shit, fuck, bitch,” He says under his breath, and he thinks he looks quite cute when he’s all frustrated.

He steps into the living room, and it hits him that everything is the same. Everything from the picture of Jose and his mom on the coffee table to the crease in the couch that he falls into when he gets home from the airport is the same.

By 3 AM, he has his long legs folded up onto the couch and his head set on Jose’s lap. There’s a hand playing at his curls, the colour of sunlight at noon. They listen to the sound of cars and steady breaths. It’s cosy, like sitting in front of fireplaces during winters in Canada.

“Remember those cream puffs we got that one time?”

“Mhmm.”

“Shit, I miss ‘em.”

He chuckles. He can still feel the alcohol coursing through him, even if it’s been half an hour since they’d last taken a shot of tequila that someone gave Jose for his birthday.

“You scared of anything?”

“What?”

“Anything.”

He thinks about his fear of showing too much emotion, his fear of failure, his fear of hurting people that fill the void that sucks everything up. They flash through his mind like a scrapbook, reminding him of all the things he pretends to not be afraid of.

“Spiders.”

“What the fuck?” He wonders briefly if the neighbours ever wake up in the middle of the night to that voice. “I was not expecting that.”

He laughs, and one of his curls is twirled around a finger. It’s intimate, but not romantic. It’s what they both need in a world as cold and cruel as the one they’ve signed up for. Not enough feels better than nothing.

“I have a flight at 10.”

There’s a groan, and an arm is thrown over his body before he can even make an attempt to get up. “Just leave your long log body here, we don’t gotta move.”

He looks up, sees the head thrown onto the back of the couch, and knows that the decision really isn’t his to make.

When Promo week rolls around, she suddenly feels the weight of thousands of eyes on her. They’re so heavy that she thinks that they might not even allow her to board the plane to LA.

They go to shoots and interviews, some of which she doesn’t even try to feign interest in. Her ears burn at the sound of questions repeated by different people who will never get to know who she is by asking her what filming was like.

The only thing that makes it better is drinking in Nina’s room at the end of the day. She’s sprawled out on the bed, Vanjie sitting on the edge beside her. Somewhere, she can hear Silky’s banshee laughter at one of Nina’s spot-on impressions.

The world stops in the small hotel room, too picturesque to be disturbed by the shitstorm that the rest of the universe is experiencing. As she lets the exhaustion from the first day seep into her skin, she feels the alcohol go straight to her toes.

“I’m going to stop drinking.”

She looks up, sees the eyebrow Vanjie’s raised so high it might just hit her wig line. Her eyes ask the question she can’t quite verbalize in the midst of Silky’s yelling. She shrugs at her, doesn’t bother to answer when there’s no judgment to answer to.

“Hey, you two.”

Their eyes travel to Nina who’s already out of drag and sipping on a drink.

“Did you answer each other?”

“What?”

Brooke’s eyebrows furrow together in puzzlement at the question. She looks to Vanjie, face blank like it always is whenever she doesn’t know the answer, and tries her best not to laugh out loud.

“When they asked you who the trade of the season is.”

“They didn’t ask me that.”

She watches Vanjie fold up her hands in her lap as her eyes fall. Her heart stops in her chest, suddenly petrified that pursuing this line of questioning would be too awkward for them, for this beautiful little thing they’ve built.

“Honey, we all know that I’m the true trade of season 11.”

Silky’s hands are on her hips, and she stares all three of them down. Laughter washes over the room, and the mood becomes infinitely lighter again. Brooke sees her shoot a quick wink at Vanjie when she thinks no one else is looking.

It dawns on her how delicate and fragile this all is. The rapport is perfect, probably the best thing she’s ever had since Steve came into her life. She can’t let it be destroyed by the world beyond the four walls.

She takes a deep breath, feels all her worry deep in her lungs. It slowly consumes her, devours her. She wastes away on Nina’s bed as notes of laughter and shouting harmonize all around her.

A hand starts to pat and stroke her wig, and she resolves to request that no interviews be done with them together.

The first thing she does after the episode airs is do a livestream with her.

They’re both de-dragging, making jokes in front of an audience like the history that they have with each other doesn’t run deeper than a friendship built off of competition. It’s acting, and they’re terrible at it.

She can’t help it that their dynamic is a mix of flirting and caring, the way it always has been. They joke about their comments on each other being trade, ask if they’re doing good, ignore the elephant in the room.

Her heart beats a little too fast each time she spots a comment saying that they look cute together or that they should hook up. She wants to shout, yell, scream at the top of her lungs that they’ve already tried.

It’s only then that she realizes the gravity of the situation she’s gotten herself into, the danger of putting a love that she never expected to have on display for people starved for it. She wants it for herself, can’t even have it for herself.

When the live ends, she picks up a pack of cigarettes and steps out onto the balcony. She looks out over the streets of Seattle, watches the people walking below- wondering what they’re thinking about, making up stories in her head for each one that strikes out to her.

With the first drag, she imagines that the man in the suit is coming home from the office to a wife whose beauty he no longer sees. He doesn’t really look at her anymore, aside from when he guilts himself into not starting an affair.

With the fifth drag, she imagines the girl, no more than 18, go to clubs that she should and shouldn’t be at. She takes shots, lets the fire burn down her throat, and dances with a guy that whispers empty promises.

With the tenth drag, she imagines the child, surprisingly still awake past midnight, arrive at his mother’s house. He asks why his dad can’t be there, asks questions with answers that get stuck along the way, and he’s rocked to sleep as tears fall onto the pillowcase.

Her phone pings. She looks at the message and returns to pretending that her story doesn’t exist. When she blows out the smoke, she asks it to take the parts of her soul she doesn’t want any more with it.

J: i’ll call u 2morrow

The first time he sees the story, a word flashes in his mind like bright red neon lights in the dark of night.

Shit.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He isn’t supposed to feel so invested, so concerned and so utterly relieved that she’s posted a song, their song on her story. He wants to take a red-eye just to ask what it all means.

Instead, he settles for Facetiming her in the back of the club he’s at. He’s received about ten different texts from Courtney about how she ever so casually and drunkenly mentioned him at her show, but he tries not to think too hard about it.

Which, knowing him, takes up way too much energy that he doesn’t have.

When she picks up, he can’t stop himself from thinking that she looks gorgeous. She is dark colours and skull dresses and everything he forces himself to believe he doesn’t want.

“Hey, you okay?”

She shrugs her shoulders at him, eyes throwing the question right back. Everything around him starts to fade away. Under the bright lights of the club, all he can see is the dejection on her face.

“You want to talk?” He almost has to yell over the music, tries his best to be coherent.

“Look,” She starts, and he knows that this isn’t going to go the way he wants. “I just had a few drinks. You know how I get all set—semti—all up in my feelings and shit.:

He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head. This is not a subject to open up in a club, separated by cities and feelings that they haven’t come to understand quite yet. She tries her best to smile at him, and his heart clenches.

“You promise you’re doing okay?”

“Mary, I’m fine!” Her voice is joking again, no trace of the pain or hurt that he knows that they both still feel. “You don’t gotta worry about me.”

Someone goes in and out of Vanjie’s dressing room, and he’s suddenly conscious that he’s in public. He lowers his phone, tries his best to hide her from everyone else. Not that she’s his, anyway.

“Well, drink some water.” He says, and she laughs at him. “And uhm, can you send me that picture?”

She looks at him questioningly, and he feels like she’s right there, staring him down. Her eyes see straight through him, and he’s so terrified that he wants to hide behind the crowds forming all around him.

“Alright.”

Spending holidays with one of your best friends in the world is supposed to be normal. They’re times to be grateful, to express love. They’re supposed to be days straight out of Hallmark cards that he stuffs in a drawer because who the hell still buys cards?

He doesn’t consider that his best friend is an ex he’s still in love with.

They have brunch with Gia, go to a club with an old friend of theirs, and return to Jose’s apartment at half past eleven. He crashes onto the couch without a thought and doesn’t even think about how much it feels like a home away from home.

“So, you’ve never watched The Office?”

Jose shrugs, and hands him a bowl of chips. “Everyone’s been telling me it’s a show for white people.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not funny.”

He spends the rest of the night with Jose, trains his eyes to shift subtly between the TV and his face. He laughs whenever he does, and he tries to hide his lack of focus by crunching the lime-flavoured chips.

“I got something on my face?”

“Hmm?”

“You keep looking here, bitch.”

He’s supposed to feel even the slightest bit embarrassed that he’s gotten caught, but he can’t bring himself to care. He laughs lightly, and sits up - becomes aware of how he’s close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of the other man.

“Just making sure you’re here.”

“Nowhere else I wanna be, baby.”

He knows the last word is an accident, a relic from a long time ago, but it isn’t taken back. He turns his head, looks at him with no shame. Jose bites his lip as he stares at the screen, but he can tell that he isn’t really watching anymore.

“Brock?”

“Yeah?”

“You gonna keep me waiting forever or what?”

There’s a laugh, and he’s suddenly lost in Jose’s lips. They taste like lime and tequila, but there’s something else there, something unique and familiar that reminds him of what happiness should feel like.

Before long, they’ve pushed their way into the bedroom, and he’s on his knees. It isn’t the best idea. Shit, he knows it’s a terrible idea to fuck their unspoken problems away, but it feels good; good enough that they don’t stop.

When he falls onto the bed, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he tries to kill any thought of consequences. He chases them as they run around his brain, and throws them out. They bang on the door, try to remind him that they’re there, but he begins to drift.

Jose’s arm drapes over his waist, and he is home.

He wakes up the next morning and untangles himself as quickly as he can so they don’t have to talk about the things he doesn’t know how to say.

The night before the finale is all hushed whispers, an attempt at cutting away the nerves that have turned into vines that wrap around his neck. Jose holds him, goes no further, and tells him that he’s going to be amazing.

They film the reunion a few days letter, and she sees the pain in her eyes when they act like she didn’t need her arms around her when she’d accepted that she’d lost. It’s all a game of pretend, and neither of them are winning.

When she finally says that they’re no longer together, she tries to soften the blow by saying that she loves her; but in the fantasy that they’ve built for themselves, she doesn’t know if Vanjie will recognize that that one thing is true.

She starts to wipe tears away from the corners of her eyes, and she comes over for a hug. She’s addicted to the smell of her cologne and the feel of her skin against hers, and she does everything to hide it from Ru and the rest of the world.

They’re all ushered back into the dressing room when it’s all over, and all the tension from the stage disappears. All the girls return to kiking with each other like they’d done for months after filming as they start to de-drag.

So, why does she feel like guilt blocks her airways each time she looks at Vanjie?

She grabs her wrist, and pulls her aside; but when she looks down at her in the corner of the room packed with queens, she loses all her words. All she can see is disease ridden eyes and the ghost of a smile that she wants back.

“I love you.”

Vanjie winces, and she wants to burst into tears. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s no fucking fair. Freedom should taste sweet like candy on Halloween, but all it tastes like in her presence is blood she draws from her lip in worry.

“I love you too.”

The words are strained, but she knows she means it.

They hug, and all the queens whoop and aww. She wants them all to shut up because this moment is theirs. It’s pain and pleasure and it’s theirs.

A fire starts in Jose’s apartment. It burns bright and scorches his skin, but he can’t take his eyes off of it. It’s all chaos and splendour, and he almost forgets that it has the ability to kill him where he stands.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The question is asked for the nth time. He stopped counting after the fourth time, when he realizes that he doesn’t really know the answer. It’s too abstract, too complex for him to try and explain.

“I don’t know.”

“Then what are we doing?”

He gulps, all the words falling into the pit of his stomach. It’s almost ridiculous that he’s scared of someone so much smaller than him, but they’re holding each other’s hearts hostage. The consequences could destroy them.

“We’re just friends.”

Jose huffs, and he throws up his arms in defeat. He wants to hold those hands that fit perfectly in his, but he’s too busy using them to burn it all down. The worst part of it all is that he knows he can’t blame him.

“Friends don’t fuck, say ‘I love you,’ then pretend it didn’t happen.”

The words are spit at him like venom, but he doesn’t mind. He knows that he deserves it after the hell that he’s put him through. Maybe they’re both willing participants, but his reasons are so selfish that he expects the pain.

He asks himself if anything is supposed to hurt like this. Maybe this is what breakups are supposed to feel like. Maybe they’re supposed to feel like someone throwing his heart into a blazing flame.

“I can’t fucking do it.”

The way he says it makes him cry, and he wipes the tears away. He sees something in Jose’s eyes, something akin to pity, and he wants to scream that this is everything he was afraid of from the day he’d fallen in love.

Jose walks to the door, opens it for him. He doesn’t move, at least not for a minute. He doesn’t want to. This is a refuge, a retreat, a goddamn home, and if he leaves, he knows he might never come back.

He thinks about begging for a moment. He thinks about falling to his knees and pleading for the forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve. He thinks about asking for an infinite chance because God knows how many times he’s hurt him before.

“I need you to go.”

It’s stern, and he knows that he has no choice. He carries his feet, and each step feels like breaking promises that he wants to make. Freedom is so close that he can taste it, but it still tastes like metal.

“I’m sorry.”

The door shuts behind him when he says the words, and it’s all over.

When he sees his tweets the next day, he crawls into bed and wishes for arms to hold him tight.

She almost backs out of their show together, but Nina holds her hand. She convinces her that Vanjie deserves better than a disappearing act that rivals their magic show. Brooke nods her head and does her best to smile.

“I’ll be right here if you need me, okay?”

Nina’s all warmth and love, and she thinks that she might be the luckiest person in the world. She squeezes her hand before she leaves her in the crowd to go to the backroom of the club.

When she opens the door, she’s greeted by the smell of her cologne. It assaults her senses, and she’s suddenly dizzy. The world starts to spin, and the tiny queen who doesn’t even bother to look at her as she finishes her makeup is in the center it.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

She still doesn’t look up, and Brooke thinks she might just throw up. The quiet makes her uneasy, so she shuffles her feet as Vanjie applies her lipstick. She hopes that she doesn’t hear her heart thumping against her chest.

“If you’re gonna say something, you better say it.”

One deep breath. The words make their way from her heart to her head. They shoot upwards, and it takes her a moment to comprehend them. They’re too vulnerable, but that’s what Vanjie’s demanding from her.

Two deep breaths. The words make their way from her head to her mouth. She says them in a rush, like a waterfall that she’s always wanted to visit with her, but knows that they’ll probably never see.

“I’m sorry. I love you, and I fucked it all up. I told you I wanted to be free, but I can’t be free when I spend my every waking moment wishing I could take it all back.”

Three deep breaths. The words make their way from her mouth to Vanjie’s ears. She sets down the lipstick on the table and purses her lips together. The minute of uneasy silence feels like forever to Brooke, but she doesn’t dare keep speaking.

“I can’t do it, y’know?” She turns her head, and Brooke sees that the disease is killing her slowly. “I’m not ready for a relationship with you right now, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not.” It is. “Maybe one day. Right now, I just want us to be… us again.”

She walks over slowly, delicately breaches Vanjie’s bubble. Her heart races even faster, and she prays to every single god that Silky doesn’t burst into the room to ruin the moment that they’re having.

“Hi,” She holds out her hand and her hopes. “I’m Brooke Lynn Hytes.”

Vanjie regards her for a moment, assesses her as if they’d never met before. With a sigh, she shakes her hand.

“I’m Vanessa Isabella Vanjie Mateo.”

DragCon passes by in a flash. She hugs all her fans, takes pictures with other queens, and smiles proudly when she sees the queue for Vanjie’s booth grow infinitely longer.

They barely talk for the whole weekend, far too busy and tired to make any meaningful conversation. All they manage is a few photos for the fans, and texts reminding each other to drink water.

The season 11 tour starts, and they find themselves playing along with Asia’s light-hearted jokes. If it stings a little to have a love that she still feels be the butt of a joke, she tries her best to ignore it.

The morning of the second show, he catches wind from A’keria that Vanjie can barely get out of bed. Without thinking, he buys about eight different medicines and a Gatorade before rushing to his hotel room.

When he knocks on the door, he hears a groan come from the other end. “It’s me!” He calls out, and enters the room. The curtains are drawn, making the room dark enough that he can barely make out the person wrapped up in the blanket on the bed.

“What you doing here?” Jose’s voice is barely a croak, but he finds enough energy to sound pissed. “You’re gonna get sick, you idiot!”

“I’ll be fine.” He brushes off his concern and takes a seat on the bed. He places a hand on Jose’s forehead and grimaces at how hot it is. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, what do you think?”

He laughs lightly and pulls out some medicine. It takes a small argument for him to convince him to drink it, and he smiles when he notices him hold the Gatorade bottle with both hands like a child.

“This is what happens when you work too hard.”

“You do it too.”

Jose sticks his tongue out at him, and he wonders if the childlike behaviour is because of the fever. There’s a voice in his head telling him that this might not be the best idea after agreeing to just casually get to know each other, but he cares too much to listen.

“Now go to sleep.”

“No way, hoe. I gotta get ready.”

It requires little force for him to get Jose to lie back down. “Oh no, you are not going to do the show like this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He replies, but he’s already started to hike the covers all the way back up to his neck. Brock chuckles, and he thinks that maybe the warmth he feels is more than just from the fevered body next to him.

“Shut up.” He says lovingly. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Brock strokes his hair, and when he stays a minute or an hour longer than he’s supposed to, he doesn’t mind.

He gets sick a few days later, and he gets a call from miles away.

“Bitch, I told you so.”

June is a hazy mix of cities and bars. They return to their routine of texting every day, checking up on each other whenever they can. He hesitates to start each conversation, wonders if he’s pushing it too far. The smile he gets with each Facetime is worth the worry.

In July, he sees him again for the tour.

He stares at the floor as Jose gets ready, doesn’t look up to watch him cover up the flaws that he thinks make him so beautiful.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

Brock laughs under his breath and sees him walk over to the couch. He sits down beside him, and he can’t stop the love in his eyes from shining through, even if he knows he needs to be more subtle.

“Yeah? What was I thinking about then?”

“I ain’t no mind reader, Mary.”

He picks up Jose’s hand and locks their fingers together. It’s almost imperceptible, but he sees the smile on his face. It reminds him of roses and rain and the colour orange. This is freedom, he thinks to himself.

“Baby,” His voice is soft, a whisper lost in the wind. “I’m not ready yet, okay?”

When Jose doesn’t let go, he squeezes his hand. A promise, perhaps? He isn’t sure, but it’s something. Hope is better than having a gaping hole in his chest.

“It’s okay, I can wait.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #snowbun #please remember your tags!#canon compliant #dragcon

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