#the happiness we deserve

[dynamic-power]

The Happiness We Deserve

I've just uploaded the first 2 chapters of a multi chapter gallavich fic that I'm lowkey excited about. Here's chapter 1!

Read it on ao3 here

Mickey Milkovich does nine years for attempted murder. While he's locked up, Ian Gallagher gets himself out of Chicago.

It's been almost 15 years since they've seen each other when Ian decides it's time to come home and visit.

Mickey is in a relationship. He's got a boyfriend, he has the Alibi, and the Gallaghers who still live in Chicago are his family. He's happy. Really, he is.

Right?

Rated: E

CW: excessive use of the word fuck, no sex just fade to black (but it will eventually earn that E rating)

Mickey ended up doing nine years for the attempted murder of Sammi Gallagher.

When he got out, he managed to wait for a whole week before he found himself pacing on the porch of the Gallagher family home. It was Lip who answered the door when he finally got the balls to knock on it.

“Mickey.” Lip only looked mildly surprised to see him standing on his doorstep. Holding a hand out, he pushed Mickey back gently, just enough to step out of the house and close the door behind him. He regarded Mickey for a moment. “You look good.”

Mickey had only just turned 21 the last time he’d seen Lip. He’d changed quite a bit since then; packed on a bit of muscle and covered almost all visible skin below his chin with stick-and-poke tattoos.

Lip had changed, too. He didn’t seem as restless as he used to be; that had been replaced with the ease of a man who had accepted his lot in life. It was a good look on him, Mickey decided. “You do, too.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Mickey knew they were both aware of why he was there, but it was clear that Lip was waiting for Mickey to say it out loud.

“Is he here?” he finally asked.

“No,” Lip replied simply.

“When-” Mickey started, pausing when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, swallowed, tried again. “Where-”

“He left, Mick.” The words felt like a knife in Mickey’s stomach. “He got out of Chicago, 6 or 7 years ago. He hasn’t been back since.”

“Oh,” Mickey managed to say around his pounding heart and sinking stomach. “Right.”

Part of Mickey wasn’t surprised. He’d known that Ian wasn’t really going to wait for him. That part of him was proud, even, that he’d gotten out of the south side.

But another part of him, the part that had allowed his heart to crack a little more with each month that had gone by without a visit from Ian, shattered entirely.

He stood there, feeling a strange mix of desperation and finality, for nearly a whole minute before Lip finally asked, “Do you wanna come in for dinner?” He opened the front door again and Mickey heard the sound of voices coming from within over the rush of blood in his ears. “The rest of the family is here. You can come meet all of our significant others and the hellspawn that we’ve produced.”

“Uh, sure,” Mickey said, shoving his hands in his pockets and forcing a smile on his face. “I think I’d like that.”

-----

5 years later

Liam was the first Gallagher to walk into the Alibi that afternoon, and Mickey wasn’t really surprised. Carl had a great mind for plenty of things, but punctuality was not one of them.

“Where’s my brother?” Liam asked as he sat himself on one of the bar stools.

“Dunno,” Mickey grumbled. “I’m not his fuckin’ keeper.” He reached over the bar and put a hand on Liam’s head, shaking him fondly. “Want a drink?”

“Sure.”

Mickey flipped over a glass and pulled the tap. “What d’you need Carl for?”

“Lip wants a head count for dinner Monday night,” Liam said as Micey slid the beer across the bartop. He took a few large gulps and sighed, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

“Why?”

Liam shrugged. “Said he had some big news. Dunno what, though.”

“Huh.” Mickey wondered what news Lip could possibly have that required them all to be present for dinner. It must have been important; even his engagement and the conception of his last child hadn’t warrented quite this much buzz.

“You gonna be there?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Bringing Jay?”

“Nah,” Mickey said as the front door opened and Carl came barreling in wearing a sheepish grin. “He’s gonna be in California on business. Hey,” he snapped, turning to address his business partner, “the fuck you been?”

“Sorry, I-”

“You gonna be at dinner Monday?” Liam interrupted.

“Oh. Uh, yeah.”

“You have any idea what news Lip has for us?” Mickey asked as Carl passed him behind the bar.

“News? No.” Carl pulled out two shot glasses and filled them both with bottom shelf whiskey. He passed one over to Mickey. Mickey accepted it, tossing back their traditional Friday afternoon pre-open shot and clicking the empty glass twice on the bartop. Carl followed suit. “Is that why he’s been buggin’ me about it?” Carl asked through the burn of the whiskey. He passed behind Mickey again and opened the till.

“Guess so,” Mickey said. He pointed to Liam as the teen finished off the last few swallows of his beer. “Another?”

“Nah,” Liam said, slapping his hands on the bar and standing. “I’ve got plans tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, hot shot?” Mickey sneered.

“Yeah,” Liam answered with a shit-eating grin. “Meetin’ a girl at a party.”

“Shit.” Mickey waved him towards the door. “Don’t let us keep you.”

“Need a rubber?” Carl asked without looking up from the money he was counting out. “Last thing you need, college boy, is to knock some poor girl-”

“I’m fine, jackass,” Liam snapped back. “I’ll see you losers Monday.”

“Be safe, kid,” Mickey called after him as he disappeared through the front door again. “Hey, count that shit out again,” he snapped at Carl. “I don’t trust it when you try to fuckin’ count and talk at the same time.”

-----

It was nearly three in the morning before Mickey finally made it back to his apartment. He sighed heavily as he shut his front door behind him, tossing his keys in the bowl and kicking his shoes off without caring where they ended up. As he turned towards his kitchen, he nearly jumped out of his skin as someone came out of his bedroom.

“Jesus,” he breathed, clutching one hand to his chest as his boyfriend, Jay Flores, grinned goofily at him from the hallway. “Fuckin’ scared the shit outta me.” He crossed the living room quickly, stepping into Jay’s open arms. He pressed his face into Jay’s bare shoulder and pulled him closer by the hips. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I wanted to wake up next to you one last time this week, querido, ” Jay said into his hair, voice thick with sleep.

“Fuckin’ gay.”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“What time is your flight?” Mickey asked, pulling back just enough to peer up at Jay.

“Too fuckin’ early. Eight, I think. Taxi is gonna be here at five thirty.”

“There’s lots we can do before then.”

“I should really sleep a little bit more-”

“Sleep on the fuckin’ plane.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jay agreed easily. He leaned down and pressed his filthy grin to Mickey’s in a poor attempt at a kiss. They were both smiling too wide to really make it good, but neither of them really cared as they pushed each other back into the bedroom.

------

Part 2

[mostwantedpotato404]

Something cozy and comforting for Halloween, they're almost ready. Are you? :3

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The musical episode.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[whatohitsonfirewelp]

You know what? I don’t WANT an awkward double date. I don’t WANT buck coming out and people having the ‘I know’ reaction or the ‘is it Eddie’ reaction.

You know what I do want?

I want Buck panicking over what to wear for the date. I want Buck flopping on his bed like very teenager after their first kiss all giggly and happy and touching his lips because he kissed a boy

I want Buck smiling every time he says Tommy’s name because maybe it isn’t forever and maybe he’s not even looking for forever anymore but he’s so happy and he’s so light and being with Tommy feels good

I want Tommy to keep calling him Evan, because before Buck was Buck he was Evan and Evan deserves to be happy to be treated so softly and lovingly and Evan deserves to be free.

I want Buck to be happy. To be happy and free and queer in the way we all deserve.

[ohitslen]

Kiss gun!

Based on this tweet!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

come rest your bones next to me ; satoru gojo, suguru geto

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[shima-draws]

Hey. Hey you know what would be cool and fun. First post of 2024. 1000 notes. We can do it. Yeah? Yeah??

Take a picture of my dog as an incentive

[thimbleb3rries]

Extraordinarily silly

[clouvu]

Offering lil doodles of them bc my eyes have been opened

[fantastic-nonsense]

Every time I see Ncuti Gatwa on my screen he just looks like the most effortlessly smooth motherfucker on the face of the planet

[drrav3nb]

MARCUS & LUCA | THE BEAR SEASON TWO

[dynamic-power]

The Happiness We Deserve

Chapter 6

Read it here on ao3

Rated E

Words: 2.3k (10.5k total)

CW: mention of past abuse

Ian comes by for drinks

Start from the beginning here

“Hi, Mickey.” 

Mickey stepped aside and waved Ian into his apartment. “Hey.”

Ian held up a six pack of Old Style with a grin. “Like old times, yeah?”

Mickey laughed and took the beers, shutting his front door and moving past Ian to head towards his kitchen. “Old times?” Mickey asked as he opened his fridge and added the six bottles to the other half dozen already filling his top shelf. He pulled out two of the older ones and kicked the fridge shut. “This is every Wednesday night for me.”

Ian hummed. “Doug’s got me drinking fancy shit,” he said as Mickey popped the caps off both bottles in quick succession. He took one, taking a long pull. 

“Sorry, I should have asked-” Mickey realized belatedly. 

Ian waved him off, understanding immediately what Mickey was talking about. “It’s fine. All things in moderation, and all that shit. I’ve been on my current shit for years now. I’m still a lightweight, but alcohol doesn’t screw with anything anymore.”

“Right,” Mickey said, taking a sip of his own beer. “Well come on, I wanna hear about the shit you get up to in New York.”

They settled on either end of Mickey’s couch. Mickey laughed as Ian toed off his shoes and folded his tall frame so he could sit sideways, back to the armrest and feet shoved between the couch cushions. Mickey propped his feet on his coffee table and marveled at the surreal feeling of it all. Being around Ian made sense to him, and being here in his own home made sense, too, but something about the two things coming together, having a friend from his youth in the space he’d made his as an adult, was a little odd. 

“Right. Well. How much have you already been told?” Ian asked, shifting in his seat and settling his bright gaze on Mickey. 

“Nothing. I showed up on your brother’s doorstep a few years ago and he said you’d gone. Then, you showed up again. Haven’t heard anything other than that.”

“Right,” Ian said, sighing and scratching at his jaw. “Well. You went to prison. And I was…” he trailed off for a moment. Mickey recognized that Ian was nervous as he dug his toes into the couch and squirmed and looked away from Mickey again. 

“You don’t have to tell me any shit you don’t wanna,” Mickey said. “Life’s been rough, and I get that. I just wanna know how you’ve been, man.”

Ian smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I know. I know, I just- I feel like I owe you an explanation. Or some shit like that.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know.” Ian paused again and took a few more sips of his beer before leaning over to set his bottle on the coffee table. “But I want to tell you. I wasn’t in a good place. You know that. I was sick. I got real low, Mick, but eventually the meds started to pick me up again. At least enough that I felt like I could reach out the way I needed to. In the middle of all of that, I ended up saving someone in an accident and made friends with some firefighters, and was encouraged to become an EMT. To be perfectly honest, there isn’t much I remember about the time between you getting locked up and me winding up in EMT training. My brain still has a lot of that on lock down.” He chuckles but there isn’t much humor in the sound. 

“Yeah, makes sense,” Mickey says, because it does. There’s plenty his own brain still hasn’t been able to completely unpack from his own past. “What led you to New York?”

“Well, I started working as an EMT here in Chicago. Did it for, fuck, two years, I think?” Ian rubs at his jaw again. “Loved it. Still do, ya know? Wouldn’t be doing it otherwise. At first, I thought the whole bipolar diagnosis was going to get in the way, but my boss, she, uh, vouched for me. Ensured that I could keep my job. I owe her everything, really. 

“Anyway, couple years driving around Chicago, and I was desperate for something new. So I just- I left. I packed my shit in a couple bags and took what little savings I had and took off. Hopped on a plane to California.”

“California?”

“Not the good parts, not like Mandy,” Ian said with a grin. “The ticket I could reasonably afford landed me in Sacramento. Middle of California. Too far north for good beaches, too far south for real mountain views.” Ian reaches for his beer again, taking another few swallows. “I kinda miss it, actually. I ended up in this shitty little studio apartment on the north side of the city. North doesn’t mean nice out there. It was like living southside all over again. I got a job as an EMT, thanks again to my boss in Chicago, and was encouraged by my team out there to train as a paramedic.

“I stayed there for six years. Moved around a little. By the end, I was renting this nice little house in the suburbs. It wasn’t perfect, exactly. Even when my meds are as balanced as they can be, I still have highs and lows. I think I experienced my worst high while I was there. Apparently, I have a thing for stealing vehicles. Ended up manic, stole an ambulance. I was halfway to Fresno before I gave myself up. I’m actually kinda surprised you guys didn’t hear about that all the way over here; it was a pretty big deal in Cali. Paramedic loses his shit, goes nuts, all that crap. Ended up doing time in another facility. They wanted to keep me for 72 hours, but I ended up staying nearly two weeks. Mostly ‘cause the mania was settled, I slipped in the other direction. Went real low again. When I was released, I was sacked from my job. Not a surprise, really, but a real blow anyway. Two weeks later, I was packing my shit again. 

“See, I’ve got this friend, Crystal. I met her in group therapy not long after I got to Cali, and she and I became friends pretty quickly. She’s like me. So she gets it. She’s been my support for the last… fuck, ten years? She was there for me when I got out. But she’d been planning on moving. I’d thought about going with her, but me losing my job was the real nail in the coffin. Or, not really a coffin, actually, ‘cause going with her was a great idea. We left three weeks after I got out. Landed in a shared apartment in Brooklyn. That’s where I still live. Crystal has gotten married since then, so she lives with her husband in Jersey, but I’m still in New York.”

Mickey listened and sipped his beer as Ian talked, taking in every detail that he could. When Ian finished, he settled back again, reaching out with one of his feet to poke at Mickey’s thigh. 

“What about you?”

“Did time,” Mickey grunted, still trying to imagine Ian and his pale ass living anywhere in California. “Got out. Ended up in contact with your family again.”

“Seems like more than just ‘in contact’,” Ian said with a grin. “My nieces and nephews have no clue who I am and call you Uncle Mick.”

“S’what happens when you fuck off,” Mickey said, hoping to come across teasing rather than accusing. He was successful, if Ian’s chuckle meant anything. “Yeah, okay, so maybe your family and I are pretty close. I showed up on Lip’s doorstep and he took me in.”

“Like a stray cat.”

“You gonna interrupt me every other word, or can I tell you my story?”

Ian continued to smile around the mouth of his bottle. 

“Right. Landed on his porch.” He doesn’t mention why he’d been there in the first place, but then he doesn’t think he really needs to. “He invited me in. And then invited me back. About six months later, V and Kev mentioned wantin’ t’sell the bar and move. Carl was between jobs, and I was working security, so we did some talkin’. We ended up buying it from them for way less than it was worth. The rest is fuckin’ history, I guess.”

“I’m glad,” Ian said when Mickey paused for more than a few seconds, “that you went to the house. I know Lip is, too. You two seem close.”

“We are,” Mickey said. “Carl and I are, too, of course, but. I dunno. Lip’s a good friend.”

“So what about Jay, then?”

“What about Jay?”

Ian picked at the corner of the label on his bottle. “How’d you meet him? Are you happy with him? Are you-” Ian paused, twisting the bottle around in his hands. “Sorry, unless that’s too- I don’t know. I don’t know what’s normal in this situation, I guess.”

“When have we ever been normal?”

“We were for a little while. Hidden, maybe, but we were a proper couple for a while.”

Mickey watched as Ian’s cheeks turned red. Neither of them said anything for a few moments; Mickey was staring hard at Ian and Ian was watching anything but Mickey. 

“Want another beer?”

“Please,” Ian rushed out. “Sorry.”

“You gotta stop saying that, man,” Mickey said as he stood and plucked the empty bottle from Ian’s fidgeting hands. “This is weird, we can agree on that. And occasionally, one of us is gonna say something that’s fuckin’ awkward. You can’t apologize every time it happens or we aren’t gonna get anywhere.” 

He wandered into the kitchen, putting the two bottles by the sink. He leaned against the countertop for a moment, taking in a few deep breaths. This was proving to be just about as strange as he thought it was going to be. He was really glad they were hashing this out now and not around their boyfriends. There was only so much discomfort he could take. 

Two fresh beers in hand, he went back to the front room where Ian was still sitting on the couch, face flushed a light pink as he picked at the corner of a cushion. He glanced up when Mickey came back in, muttering a quick thanks when Mickey sat again and passed him the cold beer. 

“So,” Mickey said, tipping his head back against the couch, “Jay. Yeah, he’s, uh, he’s a good guy. Like I said, the guy wandered into the Alibi about six months ago. He’d been drownin’ in the rain while waiting for an Uber. One of our regulars invited him in. Sat at my bar, we got to talking, and, yeah.”

“He seems nice.”

“And normal as fuck.” Mickey doesn’t even realize he’s said it out loud until Ian laughs, long and loud. “Fuck. I just mean-” Mickey said, trying to not sound like the world’s worst boyfriend, “I mean that, compared to other partners I’ve had, he’s pretty normal. Like, he’s got a job in finance. He lives in a house on the northside.”

“Spend a lot of time there?”

“Nah. He mostly comes here. I dunno, it’s weird up there. The life he lived as a kid was really- I dunno.”

“There’s a lot you seem to not know,” Ian pointed out. 

“It’s a different world, y’know? It’s great, don’t get me wrong, but not for me. I don’t fit up there.”

Ian hummed. “Yeah, I do know. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

Mickey snorted and shook his head. “No, he just keeps his trap shut.” Mickey knew Jay wasn’t always comfortable in his world. Of course he knew; it was hard to ignore the way Jay tiptoed around the Gallagher home, or constantly looked to Mickey for reassurance when they were out on the southside. He was trying, though, so Mickey couldn’t really fault him. 

“Doug doesn’t,” Ian grumbled. He stared down at his lap and picked at the fresh label in his hands. “He’s been pretty vocal about what he thinks of this part of Chicago.”

“Not his favorite place?”

Ian laughed. “Not at all. I warned him. We live a very different life in New York than I ever did here. But he still insisted. He’s here for another shoot, and I figured… But now I’m wondering if it wasn’t a good idea.” Ian rubbed his hand against his face nervously. “He’s a good guy. Really, he is. I know it hasn’t really seemed like it, but when it’s just him and me, he’s different. Sweet.”

Mickey had heard that before. Teenaged Mandy was the first person to come to mind; claiming that a guy was good, was different around her, a few days before she would mysteriously gain a new bruise. He always felt like he could call her boyfriends out, though; she was his sister, had been so young, and it was his place to protect her, even from the scum that she brought around. 

But he wasn’t sure if that was his place with Ian, not anymore. Besides, he didn’t know nearly as much about his relationship with Doug. He’d seen them interact once. 

So instead, he admitted, “I’m glad you made the trip.”

“Yeah?” Ian asked, perking up. 

“Yeah.”

A comfortable silence fell over them for a few blissful minutes before Ian cleared his throat. Once again, he was looking around the room and not at Mickey. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, “for the way we left things. I know-”

“We don’t have to have that conversation.”

“I know, but-”

“Fucks sake, Gallagher. Alright. But I am way too sober for this. Do you still smoke weed?”

Ian offered him a small smile. “Gotta bong?”

[thy-cocoa-doth-grow-cold]

I wish there was a show like Good Omens or Our Flag Means Death but about LESBIANS. I WANT MORE HAPPY FLUFFY MIDDLE AGED LESBIANS IN MEDIA. I WANT A SILLY WHIMSICAL COMEDY ABOUT TWO WOMEN FALLING IN LOVE WHERE THEY’RE THE MAIN FOCUS AND NOT JUST ON THE SIDE LIKE MOST LESBIANS ARE. ALL THE GOOD SILLY WLW SHOWS ARE CARTOONS AND WHILE THEY’RE NICE, I LIKE SEEING REAL PEOPLE! HAND OVER A LESBIAN COMEDY WHERE NOBODY DIES AND DON’T CANCEL IT AFTER ONE SEASON. LITERALLY NOTHING EQUIVALENT TO OURGOODSHADOWS EXISTS FOR WLW AND I’VE HAD IT.

[reasonsforhope]

Hey adults: Why do you like being an adult? What do you like about your life?

A couple weeks ago I told the kids at my work that "Being an adult is pretty nice, actually," and they looked shocked, laughed incredulously, and told me I was the first person they'd ever heard say that

So clearly we adults need to talk about this way more often

The past few years have been hard for a lot of people, me included. Covid sucked. I lost three relatives and three pets in one year. Right after lockdown ended, I got badly injured, and ended up housebound for six months and (much more) disabled for two years, and that sucked too.

And you know what? Literally all of that was easier and better than being a teenager.

I like being an adult. I like my life. Even when it's hard, it's mine, and I am building to the best of my ability the a life that I want to live.

I talked about a lot of why being an adult is something worth looking forward to in my last post, so right now I'll simply say this:

I love actually knowing who I am now. I love that I learned and am learning what I want and need. I love that I have independence and autonomy and don't get treated like a kid. I love the fact that I'm the one who gets to decide want I want to do and what I need. I also love that I'm learning to sew. I love that I've had pet rats, and next will have a pet cat. I love that I got top surgery. I love the way I've decorated my room. I love traveling to visit and crash and even just hang out and do work with my friends, when I can. I love that I started reading good news every day, and that I actually have hope for the future, and that I started this blog and have been able to help give so many other people hope, too.

So, here's a call to action for my fellow adults: comment or reply or tag what you like about being an adult. What you love about your life.

Let's give some kids some reasons for hope.

[gunstellations]

In the world I love

_

In a different world

[lizkreates]

~Warmth~