#also smooth mickey is also named smooth mickey because his head is smooth CHANGE MY MIND | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

y0itsbri · 3 years

Text

gallavich week 2021 - day 2 - fantasy au w/ inspo from this wonderful prompt list by @ianandmickeygallavich // @gallavichthings

You're Not Getting Cold Fins Now, Are Ya?

word count: 6.3k

(click on art for better quality)

Mickey truly enjoyed being a fisherman. He liked the solitude that came with the job -- no one on his ass trying to tell him what to do or that what he's doing was wrong when it definitely wasn't. He was always a resourceful little bastard, and his confidence at sea was not unwarranted. He knew how to do shit, and how to do shit right -- crewmates be damned. Nothing but him and the water, just the way he liked it.

He often sold his fish at the market in the small coastal town where he and his sister, Mandy, reside. Her charisma luring customers to their stand, promising the best of the best -- and it wasn't even a lie anymore. Lately, Mickey's produce was the freshest and somehow the most beautiful, catching somewhat exotic fish with vibrant colors that none of the other fishermen were able to attract. Mandy had once trapped him in the corner, demanding answers to questions like how on earth he alone could come up with all this? She thought he was secretly a pirate, raiding other ships, stealing their best, and dumping the rest -- you can't fucking afford to go to jail again, dumbass! Time after time, he reassured her that it was just dumb fucking luck until she caved and let him go, not withholding a dubious glare. Despite what he told her, and even told himself, he was a bit suspicious. He was not a lucky man.

With an ungraceful leap, he had heaved himself out of his boat, the water well deeper than his knees, but his overalls keeping him as dry as he could be. His beef jerky strip hanged out of his mouth as he marveled towards the tree line in front of him. If he didn't feel so damn calm, he might have been a bit frightened at his new surrounding -- but it felt right. He also felt like he was being watched. His eyes scanned past the trees and over to the rocky ledge where water was splashing high and mighty, creating a silvery mist. He saw a patch of orange-ish red shimmering against the water. It was surely too shallow for any fish or octopus that size to be this close to shore. He turned around to make sure he boat was firmly anchored this time before he ventured over to the rocks. But as soon as he turned around again, the orange thing had disappeared. Huh.

Mickey sat himself in the sand, reveling in the feeling of being on land again. As often as he flipped between land and sea, the difference never failed to startle him. He dragged his hands through the sand, feeling like some fancy exfoliator Mandy was always trying to get him to use. He was adamantly watching the colorful rocks bead through his fingertips. A larger stone caught in his palm. He held it up to the sun where it was peeking out from behind the clouds. At first glance, it looked like any other stone -- kind of a boring sea foam color, but in the sun, it sparkled like green embers. He rested the stone atop his knee and turned his attention to a bird squawking from the rocks. Noisy fucker. He furrowed his eyebrows wondering what could have happened for the bird to cause such a fuss. Stuck in his tangle of thoughts and oblivious to the world, a wave swept over him -- even above his overalls.

Mickey leapt up in surprise, "Motherfuck-!" In all his joust movements, he managed his lose the stone... and his dignity. He didn't have a spare change of clothes on his boat because it was supposed to be a short trip. He didn't plan on falling asleep and ending up on an island god-knows-where. So there he sat, pouting, in just his boxers and hat while he let the remainder of his clothes air dry with what little sun there was. He could've sworn he heard someone laughing at him -- giggling, even. He glared towards the squawking bird before determining it was his own paranoia. Mandy had him do all that therapy shit awhile back, so he knows how he can get sometimes and how it's a 'trauma response' or some bullshit that actually made a hell of a lot of sense now that he thought about it.

He pulled out an orange from the front pocket of his overalls, still half damp in the sand. He nibbled on it, tossing his peels as far into the tide as he could, watching it float... float... disappear. Whatever creature was down there must really fuckin' like oranges. It was quick, but exciting none-the-less. Mickey no longer felt sluggish like his impromptu nap that landed him on this island might have suggested. He felt alive.

The sun placement told him that it was time to head back if he had any chance of making it back to the coast before sundown. Fuck! His fish! He picked up his clothes and half-jogged half-stumbled back to his boat, expecting the fish he had caught earlier in the day to have gotten tainted by now. He shoved his legs into his mostly-dry overalls and waded out to his boat. To his surprise, the fish looked good -- almost better than when he caught them.

Now Mickey may not be the most observant, but even he knew something was a little suspicious (something a little fishy is going on here🤔). If he didn't know then, he definitely knew when he turned to see the green ember stone -- his stone -- resting on top of his ice box. The fuck? He picked up the stone, smoothing over it's edges with his thumb, leaving a sparkling trail where his fingers had just touched. So it wasn't just from the sunlight, interesting. He secured the rock inside the zipper pocket on his overalls, then double checking to make sure it was still there. Whatever force on his side might be into second chances, but he didn't want to test his new luck with third chances.

He really had to get going now. He gave the island a once over as he pulled out his map, subtly marking his new uncharted oasis. This was something else.

Since his initial discovery, Mickey had come back to the island several times, and all the more prepared. He kept spare clothes on him at all times now, in case the tide one again decided to have a personal vendetta against him and his overalls -- which of course it had. He also brought more beef jerky, tools, and a tent. He was determined to see more than just the coast the next time he returned.

He had told Mandy that he was going to stop at another port for the night so as not to wait up for him that evening, which wasn't unheard of. With the amount of overnight stays on his isolated island as of lately, however, Mandy thought he had a secret lover a few ports over, teasing and making kissy faces at him whenever she could. "Who is she, Mick? Oh, c'mon, I tell you about my hookups!" "Yeah, and I wish you fuckin' didn't." "Whatever, anyways, she's gotta have a name. Wait! Oh my god! He? Is it a guy? Mickey!" "Mandy, no." She could be annoying as hell when she wanted to, but she mostly knew when to stop.

As much as Mickey denied a secret lover, there was definitely a secret something, but he couldn't place his finger on exactly what it was. He knew there was like the red-ish, orange-ish glow that flickered beneath the surface of the water. And he knew there was feelings. Which sounded weird as hell -- even to himself. He should have just played along with Mandy's hookup in another port theory. Hell, he should find a hookup in another port. That would be a lot simpler than whatever this was. But he just couldn't get himself to stay away from this mystical island. His fish business was doing better than ever, so he had no real excuse to stay away.

He had managed to map out the geography and topography of the island after a few visits -- Mickey knew his shit. No one lived on this island. It looked like no one has ever lived on this island. It was a small, and it was beautiful, but he still couldn't find the source of whatever force drew him here -- at least when he was actively searching for it. He continued throwing his orange peels in the ocean to be devoured by his... friend? He tried to throw his apple cores in, but his creature was apparently not a fan. He didn't blame them, to be honest.

He began to talk to himself and even sing to himself more and more on the island. He thought he may have heard the laughter again, and even some off-key humming or whistles along to his tunes. Mickey didn't even care if it was the paranoia or if he was having some odd hallucination at this point. He just felt entirely too good.

Which is why he didn't see it coming. If he hadn't been so distracted by this siren-like callings, he would have noticed the storm coming. He was Mickey fucking Milkovich, damnit. He knew his shit! Which is why he knew that he could secure the boat as best as humanly possible, and it still wouldn't survive the storm surge unscathed. He hoped that whatever force looking out for him would look out for his boat. He said a quick prayer -- and he wasn't religious by any means -- as he double checked to make sure he had his 'lucky' stone, his backpack, and his map, then hiked inland where he knew there was a cave for shelter.

He had escaped the start of the downpour, but only barely. The dark clouds loomed overhead, chasing out any hopes of a light, easy rain. Mickey huddled against the inner wall of the cave, nibbling at one of his jerky strips, and cursing the lack of cell phone signal on this fucking island that doesn't even fucking exist according to any map he's ever fucking seen. To say he was having a bad day was an understatement. He couldn't do much but wait, and he quickly fell asleep to the pitter patter of the water dripping outside the cave.

He awoke to a sharp burning on his chest. The fuck?! His so-called 'lucky' stone was hot. And glowing. And so was most of the other rocks in the cave. Now this was definitely something. The stones obviously did not want him to stay still as they grew hotter and glowed brighter, but this time alternating and lighting up a path down a miniscule stream he hadn't noticed before. The storm had long stopped, and he hoped these bewitched stones would at least lead him to the shore so he can check on whatever remains of his boat.

Mickey followed the path to the shore, luckily, but more towards the rocks that he noticed on his first visit. He hardly saw the rocks now as he was drawn to a heap of familiar orange-ish red-ish laid up on shore. He fully expected it to disappear again so he refused to even blink, inching closer. It was alive -- for sure -- that was good, but it was battered from the storm. It looked scaley... but also had hair? It grunted and rolled over. Yup. That was a man. But also a fish.

Mickey thought his hallucination were playing entirely too many games on him now but he physically could not bring himself to turn away, as much as he swore he wanted to. He wanted out. He was insane. That was the only explanation, because obviously mermaids weren't real. He was sleeping, he had to be. He would wake up in his bed next door to Mandy's and all of this would go away. Hell, maybe the whole island was in his dreams. Maybe he was trapped in a very realistic coma. He looked around for something to wake him the fuck up when he heard the creature groan again.

Fuuuuuck, now Mickey was involved. The tide had pulled back far enough that left the creature stranded on the land. The stone grew hotter yet against his chest. "Alright, alright, I fuckin' got it, thank you," he grumbled. The creature turned it's startled head towards his. They locked eyes -- green embers. Of course.

"It's you, isn't it? All this time?" Mickey asked as the creature weakly tried to hide his face. Mickey didn't know why. It was a beautiful face, somehow covered in freckles that sparkled.

"Nah, man, it's cool, right? We've been having fun, eating oranges and shit?"

The creature unburied its head and quietly whistled one of Mickey's favorite songs, earning a chuckle out of Mickey as he awkwardly lifted the half-man half-fish in some semblance of a firefighter carry. Mickey expected the creature to be slick and cold, but he was soft and warm. Odd, but not unpleasant. They were almost to the water now.

"Yeah, Rain on Me by Ariana Grande and Lady Gaga. Fuckin' banger. Don't tell my fuckin' sister about this. She'd never let me live this down."

The red-headed creature tilted its head in confusion.

"Lady Gaga? Ya know, Mother Monster?"

He seemed to startle at the word 'monster' as he wiggled, escaping Mickey's grip into the water, disappearing into the dark sea. Frowning, in a last attempt at communication.

Mickey wasn't having it. Nah. The creature had been luring him for weeks. Hanging out with him for weeks. Even called out to him with some fuckin' moon stone type things. And now it wanted to disappear? He didn't fucking get it. He kept talking to himself as he paced along the shore.

"You're not getting cold fins now, are you?" Mickey teased, "Wait, fuck, is that offensive? Fuck, I'm sorry, please just come back."

He was acting fucking pathetic. He buried his face in his hands. Fuck. His brain was fucked. His life was fucked. His boat was fucked. His boat.

Mickey nearly tripped as he stumbled back to his boat. Or more like where he docked his boat. All that remained was his anchor. The rest had been mangled and scattered along the shore. He could probably get it fixed eventually since he had the little foresight to keep his tools safe in his backpack. But until then, he was stuck on an island, that apparently didn't exist, with a companion, who apparently didn't want to be perceived, and a dwindling supply of beef jerky. Great.

It had been a depressing night. Without Mandy's overenthusiastic presence or his new friend's feel-good aura, Mickey was especially pessimistic. He hardly got any sleep, his brain racking all the ways he could possibly fix his boat. Mickey Milkovich knew his shit, but he was beginning to feel a little doomed. He took out his 'unlucky' stone from it's secure pocket, fidgeting with it like he does when he's nervous. The thing was cold (one could say it was stone cold😎).

Feeling hopeless, he stormed back to the shore, tossing his last orange into the water, intent on yelling at the water until he died a peaceful death.

"C'mon, man," his voice came out sounding more like pleading than yelling, but what can you do? "I don't give a fuck if you're a man or a fish. I need you to help me fix my fucking boat! You got me into this mess, you get me out of it!"

He collapsed in the moonlight. He was absolutely not on the verge of crying. He was focusing on his breathing so intently that he barely heard his voice.

Holy fuck, though. He finally got why the legends always referred to mermaids as sirens. He would follow this voice anywhere. It was as disturbing as it was comforting.

Mickey was knocked out of his trance as his previously-tossed orange rolled to a stop at his feet.

"I said, I'm sorry." The siren's red hair poked out of the ocean several feet in front of him. Mickey continued to stare. How the fuck did this motherfucker's freckles glow brighter than the stars in the sky above them?

"I never meant to cause you harm. Swear. I even brought you the best fish I could find. My family lectured me about cannibalism or some shit, but I just wanted any excuse to see you again."

Mickey stared in awe. The creature's voice ringing through his ears prettier than any choir he had ever heard. He had got to get himself together. He was supposed to be mad. Right!

"What about my fuckin' boat? You realize I actually have to leave this place eventually, right, Red?" Maybe Mickey was being a bit harsh considering he was basically in the middle of some magical doomsday. But he was still ridiculously frustrated at his current situation.

"Hmm," the creature considered, "my name is Ian." Ian. Ian. Ian. The name chimed through his head. "And I was thinking about your boat. I tried to save it before it was too late, but I ended up too close to the shore, and the tide was ridiculous, and hence I got stranded and we got off to the wrong... fin." Ian gave Mickey a dumbass smirk, clearly proud of himself.

Okay, it did ease the tension, Mickey would give him that. Mickey was silent for a bit too long again.

"And what is your name?" Ian mused, "I've got to stop calling you That-One-Hot-Fisherman in my head."

Mickey nearly choked, and tried to cover it up by rubbing his hand against his lips, "Mikhailo." He had no idea why he was compelled to share his real name. He hadn't used that name in years -- only liking it from the sound of his mother's mouth. He corrected himself, "Well, it's Mickey. That's what I go by."

"Okay, well, Mickey Mikhailo, shall we get started on rebuilding your boat now or do you want to wait until morning?" Ian looked both devious and sincere. It was maddeningly confusing.

If Mickey swooned at the way a fucking fish said his name, that was nobody's business. But he couldn't deny he was exhausted. His stone was warm against his chest, comfortingly so, not hot like before. He managed to mumbled out a "in the morning" before falling into the peaceful sleep he had been so desperately craving.

Mickey awoke to sunshine in his face and a bird pecking at his thigh -- the pocket where his final jerky stick remained.

"Fuck off you fucking fuck!" He shooed haphazardly while rubbing fucking literal sand out of his eyes. God, what a nightmare.

"I see someone's not a morning person," teased an orange blob from the water. Mickey rubbed his eyes again. Right. Ian.

"Fuck off, fish genius over there."

"That's not any way to treat your only chance of getting off the island anytime soon," Ian pouted.

Fish genius had a point.

"Sorry," Mickey grumbled. He was never one for apologies, but man did he need to stay on this creature's good side. But, he was all good sides as far as Mickey was concerned. In the daylight, he could see how Ian's orange hair curled into little rings when it air dried. It looked real fuckin' soft. He couldn't remember if he had the chance to touch it yesterday on their fucking rescue mission. He needed to distract himself before he said something he regretted. He was not about to be flirting with a fish. He wasn't!

"Ya got any more oranges you can toss my way? Fuckin' starving."

Ian pointed at the one sandy orange a few feet from where Mickey had slept, "Just yours that you tried to hit me with, thank you very much."

"You like the peels, though." Mickey said as he tossed a piece into the ocean, floating several yards away from where Ian's head bobbed out of the water.

That took Ian aback, "Damn, I thought I was slicker than that."

"Not that slick, man."

"Hmm." Ian briefly considered before speeding over to the peel and devouring it quickly, "I can get you some sea food -- as your people say."

"Ain't that basically illegal for you, Red? Ain't you technically sea food?" Mickey musing, tossing another piece of his orange peel into the water.

Ian rolled his eyes. "I-an." He sounded it out slowly. "But I mean, circle of life and all that." He chased the orange peel, twisting it in his fingertips, awaiting Mickey's response.

"Nah, it's cool, don't worry about it, I-an. I don't really want any part in your whole fucked up moral dilemma situation. Got enough of those myself."

Mickey avoided Ian's attempt at eye contact, and Ian didn't push the conversation any further. He seemed tentative again. Mickey didn't want to lose him again.

"So... boat stuff?" Mickey huffed as he stood up, turning to his mangled beauty.

"Yeah," Ian did that dumbass smirk again that had Mickey fucking blushing, "Boat stuff."

Ian explained that he had spent most of the night gathering the parts that he could find in the water, and even some special mud and sea weed looking things that he promised would hold it together if Mickey's tools couldn't. Mickey took offense to the lack of faith Ian had in his skills, but he eventually agreed that it was at least somewhat warranted given their current predicament.

Mickey spent the morning gathering boat parts from land, and by midday, he felt hopeful. It was a 'finding treasure in the trash' kind of moment, but it was enough for now.

Ian and Mickey had fell into idle conversations as Mickey worked to restore his boat and Ian gazed onward, bobbing in the waves.

"So, you have a sister named Mandy?" Ian asked after a slice of silent had washed over them.

"What, are you a psychic, too?" Mickey laughed nervously under his breath.

Ian rolled his eyes like that was the stupidest thing he's ever heard. "No, smartass, I'm a good listener." He paused. "You talk about her a lot."

"Wasn't sure if you were real or if I was crazy." Was all Mickey managed to respond. Ian was really more of the conversation carrier and neither of them seemed to mind.

"Do you have any other family or friends?" Ian wondered, this time genuinely curious.

"Considering I'm talking to you right now, what do you think?"

Ian silently stared at Mickey until his watch became uncomfortable and Mickey felt the urge to continue.

"Mandy's the only one that sticks around. She actually cares about me -- fixes me dinner, drags me out to meet her friends, even makes sure I get enough sleep -- she's fuckin' crazy."

"It sounds like she loves you."

"Yeah. Dunno why."

"You're a good person, Mickey."

Mickey flashed Ian his knuckles reading 'FUCK U-UP' in faded black ink. "Yeah, I'm a real stand-up guy."

"No, I mean it." And Ian just looked so genuine that all Mickey could do was believe it for once in his goddamn life. All it took was for a fish to tell him. Yeah, that makes perfect sense.

"What's your social circle look like? Couple of dolphins, maybe a crab?"

"Maybe," Ian confessed. Shit, maybe this was some real life Little Mermaid. "But I also have five siblings."

"Y'all all got bright-ass fins? Or is that just you?" Mickey still couldn't believe this was his reality right now, but shit, might as well hear about all of Ariel's siblings.

"My little sister, Debbie, she's orange like me. My mom had a theory that our colors are reflective of like our auras or something. She was always hanging around this old-as-balls sea turtle spouting off whatever nonsense he remembered. Some of it makes sense, though. My oldest sister, Fiona, is purple. Then there's my brothers -- Lip is blue, Carl is green, and Liam is yellow."

"Mandy has black hair like me. But she has a nose piercing, and I ain't getting one of those anytime soon."

Ian smiled that Mickey was even trying to draw some sort of semblance between their drastically different worlds. But it felt so natural, Mickey couldn't help it.

Mickey felt his lucky stone grow warm, again. Ian wasn't in any trouble, though. He was literally right fuckin' here. And he was happy. Mickey was happy, too.

By nightfall, they had called it quits. Mickey had ended up using some of Ian's 'special' tools, earning a fair amount of teasing from Ian himself. Whatever. The red-head had been protecting him so far. He trusted him -- even if that thought was terrifying. The mud would dry in the moonlight, and Ian assured Mickey that he would be set by morning.

Mickey was fucking hungry after a long day's work. It was high tide and Ian had something different in mind.

"Now that we're talking," Ian started. "I've been wanting to show you this."

Mickey waited for further instructions.

"Follow the stones, I'll meet you there, promise."

Mickey trusted the fucker despite his innate inability to trust anyone else, so he followed the stones into the thick of the forest. He knew the island. He had mapped the thing. He didn't know what Ian could possibly want to show him that he hadn't already seen.

The path stopped glowing near the bottom of a cliff. He knew about the cliff. But what he didn't know was that the cliff was a waterfall.

"Woah."

"Pretty cool, huh? Only happens with lots of rain."

Ian had prepared them a fish dinner set on another rocky edge, like the one on the other side of the island.

"Ian. You're a fish. This ain't right."

"First of all, I'm a mammal. Second, it's fine. They tell me when they're ready to die so I have a clear conscious as far as I'm concerned."

"Dude. I knew this was fucked up, but that is fucked up."

"Dude," Ian mocked him, "We're in the middle of the fucking ocean. Do you have any better ideas, or are you just gonna be all pissy? Least you can do is eat with me."

Mickey's jerky supply was officially gone. Fish genius had another point.

Mickey wouldn't admit it to anyone, but Ian's dinner was even better than Mandy's were.

Morning came and Mickey found himself not wanting to leave. Of course, he knew he had to, so he would.

"So, Red, I guess this is goodbye?"

"Only for now. You'll be back." Ian winked. Mickey knew he would.

"This is stupid, but like, you can't go back with me? Like, we make a pretty good team."

Mickey was visibly uncomfortable at his moment of vulnerability, and Ian took pity on him with a gentle smile. "Unless I want to get hunted, I'm better off here. It's safer."

"Right, right." That made sense. Mickey didn't even want to think about the possibility of Ian getting hurt. There had been rumors about mermaids in the area, but he had always assumed them to be tall tales. He knew enough of the fishermen were heavy drinkers and supposed that played a factor in their truth-telling.

"My mother is on land now, but she wouldn't choose to help me. Learned that the hard way."

Mickey frowned. He knew what it was like to have a parent that would trade you for literally anything else. But he was more curious about another part of Ian's story.

"What do you mean your mom is on land? Like she was captured or something?"

"No, nothing like that. More like she's got two legs that she uses to chase whatever thrilling experience she can. Another one of her wacky theories was that her 'true love's kiss' gave her the ability to shapeshift between her land and water forms whenever she wanted."

"Huh."

"All my siblings think she's crazy. The idea was tempting enough for awhile, though. Fiona had gotten real close to this sailor named Steve. He promised her the world and she believed him. But their bond wasn't enough to shift. Fiona was sure he was her soulmate. He still comes around sometimes. And then there's Debbie, who almost got killed trying to woo some girl at the port. I think my mother is just a hopeless romantic. But hope can be dangerous sometimes."

Mickey listened on to this story that sounded more like a children's bedtime story -- all this princess nonsense about a true love's kiss made him think that maybe this red-head was Ariel. He suppressed a laugh when he saw the worried look in Ian's eyes.

"Well whatever it is, she sounds pretty lucky."

Ian smiled softly, sadly. "Yeah."

"Hey," Mickey said gently. "I'll see you around, okay?"

"Okay."

And with that, Mickey sailed his patchwork boat back to whatever wrath Mandy was about to unleash on him.

The door creaked as Mickey made his way into the apartment he shares with his sister. He was nearly tackled on sight.

"Mickey, what the fuck!" Mandy punched his shoulder before crushing him into another hug. "I was so worried about you, you little shit!" "Ow! Jesus, I'm alive. Would you calm your tits?!"

Mandy gave him one more punch for good measure, "Where the fuck have you been? Three days, Mikhailo Aleksandr, three days! Tell me you didn't get that bitch up at the other port pregnant. I'm not taking in anymore rug rats."

"Bad storm. Boat wreck. And ya know what," Mickey threw his hands into the air, "I wish I would have got someone pregnant. Instead, I was stranded at sea, so maybe be a little bit nicer to me?"

"Fuck." She slumped a bit, "How did you manage to get back? Did you call one of your pirate buddies?"

"Jesus Christ, Mandy. I'm not a pirate -- even though they are dope as fuck, by the way. I just so happen to have a few brain cells -- something you don't know anything about."

Mandy rolled her eyes, "Competent enough to sail straight into a storm, huh?

Mickey flipped her off, "Good to be home, sis."

Mandy smiled, "C'mon, I'll make you some real food. I'm sick just thinking about you surviving off fuckin' jerky for half a week."

-- Mickey picked up a couple shifts at Mandy's bar the next week and a half to make up for three days of lost produce and another week for the time it took to properly fix his boat. He trusted Ian's magic mud well enough, but he didn't want to push his luck.

He wore short sleeve button-ups when he was bartending. He didn't have the comfortable luxury of built in inner pockets like with his fishing overalls, so he sewed his own. He couldn't stand the idea of not having his lucky stone close to his heart.

One night while he was slinging drinks, he mind at sea, he felt the stone grow hot and hotter. Fuck! It nearly burned his skin. He took it out from its pocket tossing it back and forth between his hands. It was glowing again. He felt nauseous. This had to mean Ian was in danger, right? Like last time in the cave? He wasn't on the island. He didn't have some magic pathway leading him exactly where he needed to go. What if he didn't get there in time?

He must have looked as insane as he felt because he felt a cautious hand on his shoulder. "Mick, take a fifteen."

"Got it." Mickey headed out back. Mandy would assume he was just having a smoke. But he ran. He hoped to hell that he was on the right track. The stone glowed brighter so he took that as a good sign.

He was out of breath as he rounded the corner and ended up at the docks. The stone's glow died down and it grew cold. Something was very wrong. What the fuck?

"Ian!" He probably looked like a psychopath screaming at the sea. Maybe he wasn't far from it.

This was the dock his boat was usually parked at. He was on his way to his old spot. Maybe--

A flash of red caught his eye in the dark water. No fish that red was ever this close to shore. His stomach crumbled. Oh my God, Ian.

Mickey dropped to ground, trying to get a better look at what was wrong. Wrapped in fishing nets was Ian, his skin a sickly shade of blue that wasn't from the moonlight.

Mickey made quick work of the fishing net with his pocket knife, careful not to cut Ian's slightly cold body. Was he too late? He couldn't be too late. He was here now. Everything would be fine.

Tapping into the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Mickey heaved Ian's large body onto the dock planks. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing at least.

"Ian. Ian, look at me. You're safe now, okay?" Mickey turned around, making sure he was alone. Luckily, no one was out at the water this time of night. Mickey pulled Ian's head into his lap and brushed his fingers through Ian's hair. Fuckin' finally. It was soft. So soft. "Hey, Red, wanna hook me up with whatever conditioner you got under the sea?" He laughed at himself to keep from crying.

Ian murmured something, lips barely parting.

Mickey stopped his caresses, "What was that, Mumbles?"

"Said you're a dumbass." Ian repeated. It was quiet, but his sass rang through. He was alive alright.

"I know." Mickey smiled for real this time. He placed a gentle kiss on Ian's forehead near his hairline. Ian's eyes fluttered open as they held each others' gaze.

They were distracted when Mickey's stone glowed bright again. Probably brighter than it has ever been before. The color shifted from it's usual green ember to resemble more of an icy blue. The boys watched as it began to shake on the ground -- where Mickey had dropped it when he spotted Ian's body. The stone continued to vibrate violently until it burst. Green and blue specks of light joining the stars in the sky above them. Mickey was so entranced by the light that he didn't notice when something else began to shift.

Ian's shimmering red-orange tail was replaced by two, long, freckled legs. Ian's eyes grew wide as he hit Mickey's arm.

"The fuck you hitting me for -- holy shit."

"Maybe my mom wasn't crazy."

"Maybe not." Mickey traced Ian's new legs with his fingertips. "How do you feel? Pretty big change, champ."

"It feels right... which is weird." Ian concluded after a moment, wiggling his toes.

"You're weird, so it makes sense." Mickey nodded, like it was obvious.

Ian rolled his eyes, "Shut up."

Mickey cocked his head as his lips upturned into a smirk, "Make me."

Mickey had expected Ian to still be chilled from the water, but he wasn't. He was warm and soft. So there they stayed, tightly wrapped in each others' arms under the dancing green-blue stars and the sound of gentle waves knocking into boats.

It was safe to say that Mickey had entirely forgot about returning to his shift at the bar that night. They had decided to sneak Ian into Mickey's room before the fishermen got their early start on the day ay the docks. It was still dark when they slowly opened his apartment's front door, knocking into each other and trying not to laugh at their bizarre situation.

Mandy flicked on the larger kitchen light, ready to give her brother an ear-full for leaving her alone to serve the bar creeps all night when she noticed he wasn't alone. He was accompanied by a tall, gorgeous, red-headed man, who appeared to only have eyes for her brother, not even noticing her presence.

"I thought you said you didn't have any bitches?" Mandy said, hoping to burst them out of their little bubble.

Mickey mumbled a quiet fuck under his breath. And surprisingly, Ian was the first to speak up, "Uh, you must be Mandy? I'm Ian. I'm uh- just visiting town."

"Mhm, whatever you say. Mick, next time, at least tell me when you're ditching work for a booty call, yeah?" She said after an appreciative glance Ian's way, bumping Mickey's hip as she walked past them to her room down the hall.

"Oh, work. Yeah, my bad." Mickey had genuinely forgot. Something about soulmates kind of clouding his judgement.

"Pasta's on the stove -- goodnight, dumbass and company!" She called before slamming her door closed.

Ian erupted into a fistful of giggles, "So much for sneaking in, huh?"

"Whatever, do you want some pasta, or are you sticking straight to cannibalism and orange peels?" Mickey teased.

"I'll have whatever you're having, stud." Ian squeezed the back of Mickey's neck.

After their late night/ early morning pasta, they had curled up in Mickey's bed, facing each other in silence, their eyes saying all the words that they didn't need to say out loud. Until-

"Fuck!" Ian's abrupt comment startled Mickey, even causing a hitch in Mandy's snoring in the next room over. Softer, he continued, "Your lucky stone, Mick. It's gone." He looked sad. He wanted to fix it.

Mickey brought his hand up to Ian's cheek, brushing it softly. "I don't need it, man. I have you."

Ian covered Mickey's hand with his own, then brought their hands to his lips, kissing each of Mickey's tattooed knuckles gently, like they held the secrets of the universe. Mickey smiled.

"I am the luckiest man in the world." And he was.

#i’m not a writer but i wrote this #i'm really excited about this one tbh. it's my first like true au and !! mermaid !!#also title is from ariel lmao #shameless #gw2021 #ian gallagher #my posts #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #shameless au #gallavich au #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021day2

58 notes · View notes

writefasttalkevenfaster · 3 years

Text

Take My Hand (Part Six)

Summary: rafael returns and things only get more complicated as the Davis case begins

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 8,240

Song: There's an ache in you put there by the ache in me / But if it's all the same to you / It's the same to me (coney island by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, swearing, the angst is back, lot of soft parts, but a lot of difficult emotions to detangle, “sightless in a savage land” (22x04) is used as background (but i also f*cked with the timeline to make things easier for me), also the v*rus doesn’t exist b/c i don’t want to live in reality.

A/N: ok, things are happening, and i want to saw those of you who spot all the little parallels w/i the fic i love you. thank you to those who have stuck with the series and have reblogged and commented!! as always, thank you to @laneygthememequeen and @bucky-of-the-opera for being the best beta readers!!

You would be lying if you said you didn’t imagine this moment.

The moment you saw Rafael again. It was a thought that haunted the recesses of your mind — stuffed away with all memories of him — one that wriggled to the forefront when your thoughts had quelled in the silence and stillness. And you wondered what he would say. And what you would say.

And now you didn’t have to wonder.

"What are you—" the question deflates on your lips — stupid question — so you ask another, "when did you get back?"

"A few days ago," Rafael jerks his head to pull you aside, an easy smile on his lips, too easy. It wasn't easy when you both started dating. It wasn't easy when you left. It wasn't easy when he proposed. And it wasn't easy to say no. Nothing was easy when it came to this. But there he was, "my mother is moving down to Florida."

You raise your eyebrows, "Finally retiring? Did you have to pry the keys of her charter school out of her fingers?"

He gives a wry smile, "No, but helping her find a replacement and helping her pick out a place down there made it easier. That and promising to help her move."

"You're a good son," he was good — a good son, a good friend, a good prosecutor—

But he wasn’t good for you.

"Well I am a man of many talents," he crosses his arms, “with a few notable exceptions.”

And you know where this is going — to a place you don’t want it to.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but you cut him off, “Are you representing Davis?”

The words stuck in his throat, his mouth opening and closing, before he swallows them, “I am,”

“I didn’t know you did defense work,”

He tilts his head, “Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? I assume you’re here because Noble-Gordon wants the case?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Keeping tabs on me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the teasing is so routine — the banter clicks into place — picking up right where you both left off, smoothing over broken hearts and hurt feelings. Hiding behind quick witted barbs because it was easier than untangling ensnared feelings.

“Rafael—”

“I met with Jack,” he admits, holding his hands up, “I asked about you. Can you blame me for being curious?”

No. No, you couldn’t — not when you had asked Jack about him.

“I can try,” you want to bite the inside of your cheek when he smirks, “why do you want this case?”

“Off the record? Liv and Fin,” he slides his hands inside his pocket, “I suspect they didn’t know your firm would want the case for themselves, but,” he adds, “there’s a way this could work for both of us.”

“How?”

“How about a partnership?”

“A partnership?”

“Your firm gets their name on the case, and I need financial support,” and you furrow your brow, “but I have some terms.”

“Of course you would,” you sigh, “what are they?”

“One, I do the actual defense work in court, two, your firm’s involvement is limited to only a few employees — I don’t want your partners’ politics to be running the case — and three, you’re on the case with me,” and you raise your eyebrows, “before you say no—”

“Before I say no?” you repeat, “Rafael with everything that happened—”

“Before anything happened, we worked cases together, and even after everything happened, we did,” he shifts from foot to foot, “we know how the other works, we know our strengths and weaknesses, and I need someone I trust to work this case on — so I can walk into that courtroom for the first time since—” he sighs, biting his lip before speaking again, softer, “I want your help, and I know I have no right to ask for it, but I am. And that term is negotiable, but I’m pretty sure your firm will agree. You’re the best person to work this case.”

“But—”

“And before you ask,” he says, gaze soft, “this isn’t a ploy to win you back.”

You blink, “I know,”

Did you? You wished you could tell your heart because now it’s thumping against your ribcage, “I know I missed my chance, and I don’t want to cross any boundaries,” he reassures you, “this will be professional.”

“‘Professional,’” you repeat, the taste of the word disconcerting with just how unprofessional this felt, “Rafael—”

“Just think about it,” he tilts his head, “meet with Davis — trust me, he needs our help,” and then he pauses, “and you know that we’ll be facing—”

“I know Sonny is the A.D.A. on the case,” and he’s also my boyfriend. The words want to leave your tongue, but the sheer awkwardness is as disconcerting as working with Rafael — “Look—”

“Don’t give me an answer yet, just talk to your firm,” he checks his watch, “I have to go, but I’ll email you.”

“And where’d you get my email?” he shrugs.

“You can blame your firm for that one — firm’s website lists you,” and he begins to walk past you before pausing to look back, “it was nice to see you...counselor.”

How was it that he walked into your life as easily as you had left his? How was it that you wanted to hate him, but it was so easy to like him? How was it that everything was so easy — when it was him?

“It was nice to see you too,” and you spared one last glance at his retreating back, as the guard buzzed you in.

And that wouldn’t be the last time you’d see him.

Sonny was beginning to doubt any of this would ever get easier. Checking his watch, it was well past 3:00 PM and he hadn’t even eaten yet — typical. He spares a glance at the whiteboard — littered with schedules, case numbers, and statuses of cases.

But there was still so much to do.

He checks his phone — you had texted him, the messages bunched together, but his eyes fall back to the files stacked on the conference table. He begins placing them in a case box. It would have to wait.

“Carisi?” and he pauses at a voice — a voice he hadn’t heard in quite a while. He’s grizzled — different from the clean cut A.D.A. he once was, but he’s also lighter — again, different from the broken man who left his city with his reputation in shambles.

His words, not Sonny’s.

But now Sonny knows, knows that he wasn’t only broken because of the case, of having to leave his city, but because of you — the you that Barba had been with for years, the you whose heart he broke, the you who said no when he proposed.

And now you were dating Sonny.

Him, not Barba.

He stands in his doorway, “How’s the eighth floor treating you?”

But this was the same man that was his mentor, his friend — so he smiles.

“No differently than any other junior A.D.A.,” and Rafael gives a knowing smile, as Sonny continues to put away the files.

“They want you to cover their ass all the time? Never lose a case?” he knew it well — because he had lived it.

“Pretty much,” Barba crosses his arms, as Sonny grabs the box and brushes past him, “it’s good to see you, Barba. If you came to taunt me, I got all day.”

And it was good to see him — why wouldn’t it be? He would be lying if he didn’t wish before that Rafael was his boss instead — it would have been easier if nothing else. But not now.

“Huh, they gave you an office,” Barba remarks, glancing around his shoebox of an office, peering out his window to look at the paralegals at their desks, “nice view.”

Sonny places the box down, snorting, “I had to move the xerox machine and four filing cabinets just to get the desk in,” and then move them back. It wasn’t much — but it took him this long to get it — glorified closet or not, it was his.

“So you caught the Mickey Davis case?” He’s standing by the window, and Sonny sighs — the case had been all over the news, the media were having a field day, and so were his bosses upstairs. These were different times — and this was a dangerous case — vigilantism wasn’t something to be taken lightly. But it wasn’t something that was simple — not in this case.

“Oh, yeah,” Sonny sighs, leaning against his desk, “horror story.”

“What are you charging?”

Sonny almost scoffs, “The guy brought a gun to court, he followed the vic to transport, and shot him at point-blank range. What do you think?”

“I think the guy's got a Purple Heart, titanium leg, and PTS,” Sonny blinks — what was this?

“That doesn’t change what he did,” Sonny says slowly — Barba knew that — killing is still killing, no matter how justified it may seem.

He said it himself best — otherwise we might as well let the blood flow in the streets.

“He was betrayed by the V.A. and A.C.S., even the eighth floor has to know this is a dog,” Barba says, stepping forward, a ghost of a chuckle on his lips.

“Maybe,” Sonny admits, “but they still want him to do time.”

“That has to be negotiable,” and that’s when it clicks.

Sonny pauses, his mouth parted, as Barba meets his gaze, “Hold on,” he says slowly, “before we continue—”

“Mm-hmm,”

“Are you representing Mickey Davis?” And it’s Barba’s turn to pause, and he’s searching Sonny’s gaze — and he doesn’t know for what.

“I am,”

Sonny scoffs — that would have been nice to know from the start, “Okay,” Sonny gets to his feet, shutting his door and rounding the table to sit behind his desk — time to get down to business, “What kind of deal are you looking for?”

“No way you want to put this guy on trial,”

“Three and half years? No, but thank you,” Barba sits across from him, and Sonny knows he’s playing hard ball — he always played hard ball, but this time, they weren’t on the same team.

“Barba, we both know this wasn’t heat of the moment,”

“Maybe to you, not to Mr. Davis,”

Sonny raises an eyebrow, there was defending your client and then there was plain hubris,“There's security cam video. There's multiple eyewitnesses. Mickey broke the law—”

“A jury might see that as defending his daughter when no one else did,” Sonny narrows his eyes — jury nullification — did he get that strategy from Calhoun or Buchanan?

“Get the jury to ignore the law?” Sonny knew he wouldn’t make easy on him “That's a slippery slope, Rafael.”

He smiles, he’s almost proud, “You really have become a lawyer,”

Sonny wrinkles his brow, “What does that mean?”

“Mickey Davis is a human being. So are the jurors,” Rafael rises to his feet, as Sonny calls after him.

“You going for insanity?” He half-expects him not to answer — that would be the smart thing to do — but Rafael’s pride always trumped any strategy.

“I'm going for straight-up not guilty,” Rafael opens the door, turning, “and my co-counsel may be in touch as well.”

“Co-counsel?” Sonny leans back in his seat — he didn’t know Barba needed a second chair, “who’s that?”

And your name leaves his lips, “Excuse me?”

“Looks like you’ll be facing both of your mentors, Carisi,” and he knew that Rafael hadn’t seen the picture of you on his desk — “I’ll make sure to relay the offer as well. See you at arraignment.”

Sonny stares at the closed door, before his phone vibrates again, and he glances to see another text message from you: Hey, checking in on you. Can I drop by?

And Sonny knows, he knows you would never cheat. He knew this doesn’t change the year you had spent together, he knew it doesn’t change that you loved him, he knew it didn’t change anything, but — another text comes through: I miss you — it was complicated.

Not right now. Busy.

And he sighs, but it also didn’t change how he felt about you.

I miss you too.

The lights in the D.A.’s office had long ago dimmed — the barely lit fluorescents flickering as you passed the empty line of desks before finally reaching it. You knock at his office door, leaning against the doorframe, watching him work, his brow furrowed in thought, pen flicking as he scribbled notes.

“You forget about me?” Sonny barely looks up from his work, tight lipped, and your smile begins to slide off your lips, “Sonny?”

“Sorry, got caught up in work,” he leans back in his chair, just as you step forward, “what time is it?”

“Way past dinner,” you round his desk, leaning against it as you tilt your head, “you okay?”

You reach for him, but he moves away, crossing his arms, “Barba dropped by,” and his eyes fall on you — and you wonder if this was what it felt like to be interrogated — the pages of the book snapped shut, his cards resting against the table, and his face blank, “He wanted to discuss the Davis case—”

Your heart drops, “Sonny—”

“—and apparently you’re his co-counsel?” he shakes his head, sighing, his eyes falling to his desk, “When were you going to tell me that you met with Barba?”

You frown, “I wanted to tell you, I was going to tell you before I went to meet him — but I couldn’t reach you. You know my partners wanted to score some points—”

“Because of the Thompson case, I know—” but his brow is still furrowed, “but how did you end up calling point on the case?”

“I had to meet with Davis to discuss the details of the case,” you explain how your partners were too busy to go down and handle it nor did they trust any of the associates to do it, “we need this case — it’s a high profile case involving a vet? We had to jump on it, but when I got to Rikers, it turned out someone else got the jump on it first.”

He scoffs, “Barba,”

“He had already met with Davis, he offered to work in partnership with my firm, granted I handle the case and he gets to be in the courtroom,” and Sonny raises his eyebrows.

“He asked for you specifically to work the case with him?”

“Because he knows how I work,” your hand reaches for him slowly, “nothing more than that. Sonny, please don’t be mad — it was a coincidence.”

“I’m not mad,” he sighs, eyes finally meeting yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, “Would have been nice to know you two decided to work the case together,”

“I was going to tell you — I was just about to—”

“I know,” and he’s pulling you into his lap, “Just don’t let me find out you’re working with your ex from your ex,”

“I won’t,” you whisper, pressing your lips to him softly, “I promise. I didn’t mean for this—”

“I know,” he kisses you again, his arms wrapping around your middle, “what about us?”

Your lips purse, “What about us?”

“Our relationship — will we have to disclose?” it hadn’t been a problem since the cases you handled fell out of Sonny’s jurisdiction most times and when it didn’t, you delegated the work to someone else, “it seems like professional responsibility 101,”

“Well, I already told Mr. Davis, I got his written consent in writing when I met with him, just in case I end up handling the case,” you bite your lip, “as for the judge, it shouldn’t be a problem as long as we have the consent of my client.”

Your hand runs over his cheek, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, “Are you going to work the case?”

“I have to talk to my firm, see what everyone wants to do,” your fingers run over his face, “but if they do want me to handle the case, are you okay with that?”

“You know I can’t make that call for you,” his hand rests on the small of your back, “it’s yours to make, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want to make it without knowing you’re okay with me working with him—” you lean down to press a kiss to his temple, “are you okay with it?”

“I am,” he says softly, “are you?”

“The firm needs the case — and this could be my shot at making partner,” his lips press butterfly kisses to your neck, and you sigh, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Sleep on it?” he murmurs against his skin, “always how the best decisions are made.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” he replies.

And you chuckle, noses brushing, as you lean closer, “As long it’s from a reliable source,” and your lips meet again, he pulls away, but you give chase, until you’re pressing him into the seat, fingers sliding along his shoulders, your hand finding the back of his neck, swallowing his moan with ease.

“Doll,” his lips are kiss ruined, eyes fluttering, and you trail kisses along his jaw, “you’ll be the end of me,”

And the double meaning isn’t lost on you — “I would be happy to end with you,”

He smiles, and it’s enough. For now. You rest your forehead against his for a moment in the relative silence, only broken by the hum of the fluorescents and the quiet sound of your breathing.

Until his stomach growls.

And you blink, a grin breaking across your lips, “Hungry?”

“It depends,” and you slide off his lap, offering your hand to him, and he cocks his head, “did you cook?”

You huff at him, “You’ll be glad to know I ordered takeout right before I got here,” and he gets to his feet, taking your hand, “but just for that, I’m cooking for the next week.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” he wraps his arm around you, grabbing his bag, before flicking off the light.

And after you got back to the apartment, eating dinner, and slipping into bed, you lied awake, his quiet snores filling your ears, and you turned to look at him — barely illuminated in the moonlight that peeked through the parted shutters. His eyes shut, his breathing steady, his freshly washed hair falling against his forehead.

You turn away, reaching for your phone — finding the email from Rafael, disclosing the details of the case — a question ending the email: Are you in?

And you glance back at Sonny — only you didn’t know the answer.

He was okay with you taking the case, right? You scoot a little closer, nestling yourself beside him a moment, he said he was okay with it.

You shut your eyes. He was okay, and you would be okay.

Right?

“Wow, this is a nice upgrade from your office at the D.A.’s,” Rafael remarks at your office door, taking a moment to examine the room.

You barely look up from your work — a dozen cases, associates’ work to check, and several arraignments to do, “That’s because someone took the only nice office, and stuck me in a closet off of yours,”

“Bureaucracy at work,” he replies, shutting your door and taking stock, “how’s defense work treating you?”

“The same way it has been I left the D.A.’s office,” you spare a small smile, “wonderfully.”

“Found your calling?” you shrug.

“You could say that,” you sigh, placing your pen down, “what about you?”

“What about me?” he raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes. Always had to work for it when it came to Rafael Barba.

“What have you been up to?”

“Looking something I lost a few years ago,” and you furrow your brow, and he smiles, “don’t flatter yourself, counselor — I meant a calling,”

Your cheeks burn, “You came to talk arraignment? Thought you could handle that yourself, Mr. Innocence Project,”

“I wanted to talk deal,” Rafael crossed his arms, “there was one thing I didn’t disclose to you in that email and that’s my meeting with Carisi,” and you blink, only you knew about that already, “I met with him yesterday — he offered man 2.”

Sonny didn’t mention that, but then again it was better that he didn’t, “But you don’t want to take it?”

“I don’t,” he slides into a chair, pulling a legal pad out, leg folded over his knee, “I think we can do better — I think we can get not guilty.”

You raise your brow, “Do you want to—”

“I want to go for jury nullification,” he crosses his arms, shrugging, “we have a strong case for it.”

“And we have a man who literally shot another point blank on security footage, and who brought a gun with him to court,” you shake your head, “we have to at least consider it,”

“What’s there to consider? Mr. Davis doesn’t want to take the deal,” and you pause, and Rafael nearly wavers, adding, “I may have discussed it with him—”

“Before asking me about it?”

“You only told me this morning you were on board,” Rafael holds up his hands, “I had a duty to relay it to him,”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he didn’t want to deal — he wanted his day in court,” he tilts his head.

“Did he? Or did you?”

“What are you implying?”

“Did he come to this conclusion on his own or did you help him along?” and he pauses — all the answer you needed, “Rafael, this is our client, we have to be realistic—”

“He’s a vet with—”

“Awards and a prosthetic leg I know, but he also could go to jail for murder — and never see his daughter again,” and he opens his mouth to speak, “so I’m asking you, are you taking this to trial for him or for you?”

His lips are a thin line, “First of all, this is for him — I wouldn’t take this trial if I didn’t think there wasn’t a good chance of winning and if I knew this wasn’t what he wanted,” and he sits up, “and what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your firm probably wants this to go to trial — need the publicity of a trial for this to work — for you to get the break you need, isn’t it?” Rafael argues the same way he does in court — his words pointed and true, aimed for the chinks in someone’s armor, “sounds like we’re on the same page.”

You glare at him, “Don’t question my motives,”

“Then don’t question mine,” the words are terse, a period at the end of a paragraph that is still left hanging, until he chooses to start a new one, “Is this about the case? Or is this about us?”

You scoff, “So much for keeping it professional,”

Your name leaves his mouth soft, but firm, and your eyes meet his, “Is it going to be like this?” he asks, crossing his arms, “throughout the entire trial?”

“Like what?”

And he sighs, running a hand over his bristled chin, “I know I’ve made mistakes, I know, you know, but I can’t change what I’ve done,” his voice grows soft, “and I’m sorry, I wish I could — I wish I didn’t hurt you, but I did, and I take responsibility for that,” your gaze falls and he continues, “but if this is too hard, if you don’t want to do this, if you’re still angry, like you have every right to be—”

“I do,” the words leave your lips, “I do want to work with this case with you — it’s just—” you break off. You had meticulously tucked away any feelings for Rafael Barba away along with any reminder of him, including the man himself. It was easy, it was clearcut, but this wasn’t easy — because now your feelings were leaking, slipping from your careful control, and where there was a leak, there was a flood. And you were bound to get hurt.

“It’s hard,” he swallows, and you blink.

“It’s hard for you?” the words leave your lips harshly, and he flinches, “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he gives a rueful smile, “I deserved that, after everything I put you through,” he shrugs, pressing his lips together, “I did love you, I did, I was just afraid.”

“What were you so afraid of?”

And he shakes his head, “I saw so many relationships fall apart around me — my own, my parents, our cases—” he breaks off, “I didn’t want us to hate each other, I didn’t want to regret you,” a bitter chuckle leaves his lips, “but you ended up regretting me.”

You frown, “I don’t regret you,” and his brow furrows, “You’re surprised by that?”

“If I were you...I’d regret me,” and you sigh, hands wringing under your desk.

“Rafael, I loved you, even though it hurt, I can’t regret that. Do I wish things turned out differently? Maybe, but,” your voice softens, glancing at the picture of Sonny on your desk, and you gesture around you, shrugging, “it also got me to where I am.”

And you know you should tell him — you should tell him that you’ve moved on, you should tell him that you’re with Sonny, but the words are lodged in the back of your throat, and you can’t bring yourself to say them before he’s already speaking.

“Well,” he clears his throat, licking his lips, before smiling, “I’m glad, for that much at least,” and he sits back again, “So—”

“So?”

“Are we taking this to trial?” and you bite your lip — jury nullification was a risky move — for both the policy ramifications and the risk involved — but, that wasn’t your responsibility anymore, your duty and your only duty is to your client.

“Are you sure this is what Mr. Davis wants?” and Rafael nods.

“I would give you his exact words, but there are some obscenities,” and you snort, shaking your head.

“And you’re sure about putting him on the stand?”

“Not at all,” he scoffs, “he’s questionable at best, and a loose cannon at worst.”

You rub your temples, “That’s going to play well during cross,”

“We’ll prep him well — let’s just get through arraignment,” he sighs, flipping to a fresh page, “Carisi is going to ask for remand, how should we play it?”

“We ask for R.O.R. — he’s a father of a young girl who was just raped and impregnated, he’s a decorated veteran who needs physical therapy, and he’s not a flight risk.”

Rafael chuckles, “And when we don’t get it?”

“Honestly, I’ll take anything over remand,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “we should schedule a psych eval, start on gathering information on his tours, interview character witnesses and especially those who can testify to what he saw—” your words fall short when you see Rafael is smiling, “what?”

“Nothing,” he waves you off, pressing the tip of his pen to his lips, “Go on.”

And you blink, before going on — not noticing the way his smile returned when your eyes fell away.

Running late from the office — be there soon. Your text comes in just as Sonny’s food arrives at the table, and he’s about to order for you when a voice draws his attention away.

“Mr. Carisi,” Sonny’s head snaps up his phone to find Jack McCoy smiling at him, “am I interrupting?”

His mouth is dry, and he shakes his head, “No, not at all,” he gestures for him to join him, and Jack does, not bothering to look at a menu, “so I suppose this isn’t a social call?”

“I wanted to ask your progress on the Davis case,” he crosses his arms.

And he blinks, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to ask whether you had told his boss if a) you two were dating, and b) if he knew you were on this case, “Discovery is ongoing — I’ve handed my materials over per the new discovery rules within 15 days, and now I’m waiting on the defense to turn over their evidence.”

Jack shakes his head, “New York law catching up with the modern days — a damn fine day for defense attorneys — before we could sandbag the day before, not that I ever did that,” he gives a wry smile, before his eyes fall to Sonny’s phone, vibrating, “you need to get that?”

“No, sir,” Sonny waves it off, “What’s your interest in the Davis case?”

“Well, I am your boss, I’m interested in all your cases,” he replies, before smiling, “I did hear who the defense attorneys for the case are.”

And Sonny picks at his food, “Oh?”

“I am just curious how prepared you are to tackle a case against both of your old mentors,” Jack says, as Sonny chooses then to sip at his drink, “and your partner for that matter.”

He chokes, “Who—”

“It was obvious — at least to me,” Jack shrugs, “don’t pretend you haven’t heard the rumors about me,” he adds, furrowing his brow, “one piece of advice, son—”

“We are planning on disclosing to the judge—”

“Not that,” he says sharply, “you’ve been good together — the two of you. But it’s easy to let a case get between you,”

“Is this about Diana Hawthorne?”

And Jack raises an eyebrow, “Did—”

“Rumor mill isn’t just about me, sir,” he shrugs, “I heard it a while ago, that case was tough,”

“Made tougher by our relationship,” he sighs, “I think sometimes if we hadn’t been together, maybe things—” he cuts off, “my point is, you two have done a good job of keeping professional and personal from mixing so far, but when you both start bringing this case home—”

“We won’t,” Sonny says, and Jack raises an eyebrow, “we won’t.”

And Jack relaxes, before shoving his hands in his pockets, “How long have you two been—”

“Over a year now,” Jack smiles softly.

“Are you both happy?”

And is he happy? When he’s with you, he feels at peace for once — the world and its horrors slipping away, until he feels nothing but you in his arms. You challenge him to grow — even when he doesn’t want to. And he would do anything for you — he would give you the life you wanted, give the family you want, give you his best — if only he could give you the same peace you give him.

“We are,” Sonny smiles softly, hand slipping into his pocket, thumbing the ring box in his pocket, “in fact—”

“Hey,” you arrive, glancing between him and Jack, furrowing your brow — and he knows you hadn’t told Jack, “Jack, Sonny — what a—”

“Cat’s out of the bag, sweetheart,” Sonny slips his arm around your waist, and you tilt your head, before realization washes over you, relaxing into his touch, “care to join us?”

“You’ll be joining him,” Jack slips from the booth, “like I said, this wasn’t a social call,” he smiles between the two of you, “we should set up a lunch.”

“Will do,” you nod, “I’ll call you."

With a nod, he leaves, and you slip into the booth beside him, "Hi," you kiss him, "menu?"

"I would have ordered for you, but I got interrupted,” and you bump his shoulder.

You snort, “I wouldn’t have ordered if my boss was grilling me about my relationship,”

“You didn’t tell him?

“Should I have?” he’s frowning, and you’re shaking your head, “it’s not that I didn’t want to,” you bite your lip, “sorry, I’m not explaining this well,” you sigh, placing the menu down, “it’s just Jack had me and Rafael figured out from the second we…”

Sonny is shaking his head, sipping at his drink, “Yeah, well looks like not much has changed,”

“Well, he didn’t exactly approve of me and Rafael, which is why I was worried what he’d say to you,” you purse your lips, shifting in your seat, “did he say anything?”

Sonny pauses, “No I don’t think so,” and Sonny’s biting back a smile, remembering Jack’s words — he approved.

And now you’re bumping his shoulder, “Why so smug, counselor?”

“No reason,” and you’re stealing one of his fries, “I’m just glad I’m not on his bad side.”

“No one would want to be,” you say as the waiter comes order, taking your order, as well as the menu from your hand.

“Did you tell him?”

“Jack? I just told—”

“No, I mean,” he licks his lips, “did you tell Rafael that we were dating?”

And he was hoping he wouldn’t see your brow knit together like that, see your fingers wringing in your lap, “I didn’t,”

His mouth is dry, and he’s turning his body to face you, “Why?”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up — to just say, ‘by the way, I’m dating Sonny, just thought you should know,’” and doubt begins to creep in, “we were trying to keep things professional—”

“I understand,” and your lips are twisting and he knows you don’t believe him — hell, he doesn’t believe him.

“Do you want me to tell him?” and he doesn’t know what to say — he wants him to know, but why does he want him to know? You weren’t his property — he didn’t own you, he knew you wouldn’t do anything. He trusted you.

Didn’t he?

“I’ll tell him, Sonny,” and Sonny’s gaze snaps to you, “he’s picking up files from me at the office, and I’ll let him know—” Sonny opens his mouth, but you cut him off with his lips, “we have to disclose to the judge on Monday anyway before jury selection, it’s necessary.”

“I don’t want to make you—”

“I know,” you silence him with another kiss, soft, comforting, and his guilt settles, instead peace seeps in, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” his heart warms, as the waitress brings over your meal, and Sonny’s check, and he checks his watch, “and I gotta go. See you tonight?” and you shake your head.

“I got to work late tonight and I have arraignments early in the morning — but I get off early tomorrow and I’ll be waiting to make it up to you,” you kiss him again, before pressing chaste kisses along his jaw.

“Looking forward to that,” and he wants to ask — ask why you won’t consider moving in, why you brush it off, and the question burns on his lips, until the words are seared into his tongue — but he doesn’t, “call me?”

“I will,” and he kisses you one last time, before slipping from the booth.

And he wonders, fingers finding the velvet box in his pocket — if you won’t move in with him, will you even marry him?

Can you do me a favor? Rafael’s text comes in as soon as you’re leaving from court, and you’re sighing at your phone screen.

And another: Please?

He really must be desperate. What’s up?

Can you drop the files off somewhere for me? I can’t make it to your office today — something came up.

Is something wrong?

Only with my mother’s cable service — they were supposed to be by today to disconnect the service.

You snort, Then sue them.

Civil is not my area of expertise, and then he adds, but I may be willing to learn if they take any longer. Can you please drop the files off?

You raise an eyebrow — ‘please’ — he really must be desperate.

You bite your lip — you wanted to get home early, but you also needed to tell Rafael about you and Sonny. You glance at the time, sighing, before replying to him.

I’ll drop by with the files — text me the address now.

A tax ride later — you had arrived at a place you thought you would never be again. You couldn’t but stare at the door of Lucia’s place. You had been here five years ago — first and last time you had met his mother. And it was the first time you had realized you had to break up with Rafael.

It was over the moment you left here — even though neither of you wanted to admit it. His kisses could no longer patch your heart because it was no longer cracked — it was broken.

But it didn’t make it any easier to leave him.

You shake yourself from your thoughts, knocking on the door — but you had.

And so did he.

You hear his voice from within the apartment — a muffled coming — and some stumbling, until finally you hear the telltale sounds of the chain, bolt, and locks.

He opens the door, wiping his face with a towel — and he’s clean shaven. And you blink — he smiles at you, the very same smile he always gave you, “You shaved,”

“And you’re observant,” and he finds you staring at him, “Does it look bad?”

“No, no,” he steps aside, letting you inside the apartment, before shutting the door and locking it, “you look good.”

And his lips are curving in a grin now, “I look good?”

Your cheeks burn — always a dog with a bone, “Don’t push your luck, Barba,”

“Ouch,” he snorts, “you used to be much more accommodating to my self-esteem.”

“That was when I worked with you,” you cross your arms, taking a survey of the apartment — more boxes than apartment at this point, you could barely take a step before tripping, “men work better with their ego stroked,” You find your way to the kitchen table — his makeshift office from the looks of it — complete with two cups of coffee, “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“They often do,” he sips at the coffee, holding it by the rim with the tips of his fingers, “everyone is allowed to have their vices.”

“And here is your other one—” you pull the files from your bag, “I brought everything you asked for — you should be well prepped for jury selection.”

He nods, flipping through the materials, “You’ll be there right?”

“Of course,” you blink, “any reason you ask?”

“I may run a little late on Monday, but it shouldn’t be an issue—” Rafael waves it off, before setting it down, “can I make you a cup of coffee to thank you?”

You offer a small smile, “No, I probably should get home, but I’ll see you on Monday,” and you swallow your nerves, squeezing the handle of your bag, “but there is something I wanted to tell you—”

And that’s when you hear the lock clicking, “Rafi, how many times have I told you to just leave the door unlocked?” heels clicking against the hardwood, arms full of bags. Rafael slips from his chair, rounding the kitchen table.

“And how many times have I told you that’s not safe?” he replies, taking the bags from her arms, and then she spots you, blinking, “Mami, you remember—”

“Oh!” she walks over, pulling you into a tight hug, “it’s so wonderful to see you again, dear,”

“Lucia, it’s great to see you too,” you smile, awkwardness smoothed over the warmth of her smile, as her hands found yours, squeezing, “it’s been far too long.”

“I’ll say,” she shoots a glare at her son, before her eyes find yours and soften again, “I had warned him not to let you get away, and did he listen?”

Rafael is rubbing his temple, “Mami, please—”

“Oh,” she looks between the two of you, raising a brow, “if you’re here does that mean—”

“No,” he clears his throat, the tips of his ears red now, “I told you we’re on this case together. I needed some files dropped off—”

“You must join us for lunch,” and both you and Rafael open your mouths, “I insist, please. This will be the last time for a while I will be up north for a bit. Let me impose.”

And your eyes flicker between Rafael and his mother, before Rafael speaks, “We can’t impose on any plans—”

“I’ll stay,” and his eyes fall on you, as your phone feels heavier in your pocket with guilt — knowing you would be late, “it’s fine, how can I say no?”

Lucia squeezes your hand. And how could you say no to this?

After lunch, you’re helping Lucia clean up, when Rafael is in the bathroom, washing the dishes while she dried, “Are you looking forward to moving down to Florida?”

“I am, even though I’ll miss my work and my students,” she sighs, her shoulders much lighter, “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living the same — I want to have time for myself, I want to experience new things, not like my mother,” her voice grows smaller, the plates clinking in the dish rack, “I don’t know how much Rafael told you about her—”

“I knew that she had passed, while Rafael and I were together,” he had been a mess — he wasn’t sleeping, he was barely eating, you had to ply him to get him away from the office —- when he wasn’t working, he was drinking. He had blamed himself for his grandmother’s death for so long — and even now you wondered if he had ever stopped, “she was a wonderful woman.”

“I wish you could have met her,” she sniffs, “she would have loved you,” and you nod, silent, and you feel her eyeing you, “what happened with you and Rafi anyway?”

“It just didn’t work out,” you knew she wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“You two loved each other,” Lucia replies, “that just doesn’t go away.”

And you did — you had loved him, you would have married him, you would have started a family with him — but he didn’t want that. And you did.

“It doesn’t,” you wanted to brush it off, you wanted to tell her you were with someone else, you wanted to say something to make her stop pushing, but you couldn’t, “I did love your son, Lucia. I really did, but it wasn’t the right time for us.”

“You made him happy—happier than I’ve ever seen him, even now,” and you meet her gaze, “you can’t tell me you don’t feel something for him now? Can you?”

And you waver, no words coming to mind, “Lucia, I—”

But then the bathroom door is creaking open, and you jolt, continuing to wash dishes, tongue tied and cheeks burning in shame — why didn’t you mention Sonny? Why didn’t you just tell her you loved someone else? But another question nagged at you, as the object of the question appeared before you — and you turned at the sound of your name to find him smiling at you.

Why couldn’t you say that you didn’t have feelings for Rafael?

“Ma, we should probably let your hostage go now,” he tilts his head, hands in his pockets, “I’m sorry if we stepped on your plans—”

You clear your throat, “No, no, it’s fine—” And you move to grab your coat and bag, “but I really should get going.”

Lucia holds out her arms, wrapping you in a hug, “It was wonderful to see you dear,”

“You too,” you smiled, despite the interrogation that rivaled your son’s, “if I don’t see you again, please have a safe trip to Florida,”

“Thank you, and good luck on your case,” she presses a kiss to your cheek, as Rafael stands by, arms crossed.

“I’ll walk you out,” he nods at his mom, before slipping out of the apartment with you, as the door clicks behind you, and he walks you to the elevator, “I’m sorry my mom shanghaied you—”

“It’s fine,” you wave him off, as you press the call button, “I enjoy being shanghaied when it involves your mom’s cooking,”

“But still, I don’t want you to think that was my intention—”

“Rafael?” you cut him off, “it’s fine.”

And the elevator dings, the doors sliding open, “Are you sure?”

You smile at him, sighing, stepping in, “If it’s not, I’ll just sue you,” and he scoffs, “I’ll see you Monday, Raf.”

The nickname slips out before you can help it, and the doors close shut, as you step back, back of your head leaning against the wall.

What the fuck were you doing?

~~~

Rafael slips back inside, shutting the door behind him, “So what was that stunt you pulled to get—”

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” Lucia replies, wiping her hands off, and crossing her arms. His gaze softens, “you still have a chance, mijo.”

“Mami—”

She finds her way over to her son, “Do you miss—”

He sighs, “You know I do,” but he shakes his head, turning away from her, “but it’s over, I can’t cross that line again—”

“Can’t or won’t?” she places her hands on her hips, “you heard us — couldn’t deny having feelings for you still, and you — I’ve seen you since you’ve been working the case, you’re happier.”

And he doesn’t want to admit it — it hurt to see you again, after you had rejected him, but more because of the way he had treated you. You were a reminder of yet another way he had failed, but also a reminder that he wanted to be so much better. And he did, and he was.

He wasn’t the same person — he had grown, and so had you.

And maybe, for once the timing was right — your mouth wrapped around his nickname, the way it used to be, still ringing in his ears.

He turns to face his mother, “Now I’ll ask one more time, did you hear our conversation?”

And he smiles, “I heard everything.”

And he knew what he had to do.

“Where is your co-counsel?” Judge Harper asks sharply, and you stand twisting your fingers, “Counselor—”

“I apologize, Your Honor,” you are texting Rafael for the sixth time, asking him where he is, “Mr. Barba is not responding to my attempts to get into contact with him. He had told me he may be a little late—” not twenty minutes late, but— “if you could give us a few more minutes—”

“The People have no objection,” Sonny adds, sparing you a sympathetic look.

“Even so, this is wasting the jurors’ time,” Judge Harper sighs, “Can you proceed without him?”

Fuck — you still needed to disclose to Judge Harper.

Proceeding without disclosure would be a violation of your duties, and your eyes slide to Sonny who purses his lips, not to mention Sonny’s. Well no time like the present, “Yes, but I would like to enter chambers before then,”

Judge Harper blinks, but agrees, rising to enter her chambers, and just as you round the defense table, Rafael arrives through the double doors, harried and rushing, “I apologize, Your Honor, I—”

And he's glancing at all of you on your feet, halfway across the courtroom floor, and Judge Harper speaks first, "You're just in time to join us in chambers, counselor,”

Rafael’s eyes flicker between you and Sonny, a questioning brow raised, but he follows, and your heart sinks.

Fuck.

He needed to know — you just didn’t want him to find out this way. You had opportunities — you had your chance, and you had lost it.

Just like he lost his — with you.

The doors close behind you, as Judge Harper settles behind her desk for a moment, “Now, what is this about?”

The uncomfortable feeling of everyone’s gaze settles over you, and Rafael’s gaze feels sharper than the others.

But why did it feel sharper?

It had been years since you had been together, years since you had ever— and why would he care if you were dating Carisi? Why did it feel like his gaze was carving into your mind and he could see the truth written across your forehead? But you still didn’t know — you didn’t know why you cared.

Why did you care?

Your throat was tight, and you still couldn’t think of an answer to your own question.

“I wanted to disclose something — something that’s already been disclosed to my client with his consent in writing from the very start,” you swallow the lump in your throat, unable to meet Rafael’s eyes,

“We wanted to disclose,” Sonny cuts in, “We were waiting for the trial to start, since we didn’t find any need to disclose to the arraignment judge, since Mr. Barba and I handled that.”

“Disclose what?” And you still can’t bring yourself to look at Rafael.

You hand her the paperwork, glancing at Sonny, “I’m currently in a relationship with A.D.A. Carisi.”

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagines #sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagines #law and order svu #svu imagines #svu #law and order: svu

197 notes · View notes

unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

Note

Prompt: About the 87% scene. Could you write about Mickey lying about having a "boyfriend" when he was in Mexico. And telling Ian that afterall he didn't have his whole Heart because of that "boyfriend". Ian realizing that the way he said those things weren'te the best. Then the confrontation, they talk about it and are cute with one another

anon i am CRYING mickey would 1000% do this!!! why did the writers not make this happen

(actually i’m glad they didn’t, bc these boys don’t need any more drama)

here’s my take (since we all need a little gallavich before the next episode!), hope u enjoy<3

“I guess everyone I’ve been with gets a little piece of my heart”

Mickey froze where he was standing, by the toilet bowl and the dust-covered bathroom shelves, and felt his heart sink. The fuck is he talking about?

“Wait, everyone?”

“Yeah. Yup.” Ian froze for a moment, his toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Okay, maybe not everybody. You don’t feel the same way?”

Mickey could almost wince. Fucking Gallagher—didn’t Ian know he was the only guy Mickey had really been with, because Ian was the only one that mattered? Instantly, Mickey thought back to all of the sloppy and excruciatingly boring hookups he’d had with women—back before he came out and was constantly putting on a show, was burying who he really was deep beneath the ground.

Ian looked at him earnestly, toothbrush still half in his mouth, with those steady green eyes Mickey could always get lost in—the only thing keeping Mickey afloat during those darker days, when he felt like everything else was pulling him under. Ian was the only person who had ever made Mickey’s heart race or his palms sweaty, the only fucking person who made Mickey feel like he was here for a reason, no matter what bullshit life threw at him. Ian was the center of Mickey’s existence, and he always had been—how could that asshole not realize that no one else Mickey’d been with could ever compare to him?

“No, I don’t. Y’know what, fuck you” is what Micket wanted to say—he felt the words about to launch off the tip of his tongue. Instead, before he knew what he was doing, Mickey lied.

“Uhhhhh. I guess, man. Y’know, I had that thing down in Mexico with, uh, Julio.” Mickey looked down at his bare feet on the tiled bathroom floor, knowing that Ian would see right through him if he looked directly in his eyes.

Ian’s eyebrows raised in genuine confusion as he leaned over the sink. “Julio? Who the fuck is Julio?” Ian sputtered as he spit out a mouthful of foamy toothpaste.

“Were you not listening, smartass? He was my… my lover. I was in Mexico a long time before I snitched on the cartel and threw my life away for your ass.”

Ian stood up and placed his toothbrush in a cup on the shelf above the sink, turning to look at Mickey, who finally raised his gaze from the linoleum. Ian didn’t look hurt, which was what Mickey was aiming for— more than anything, Ian just looked thoroughly confused, and maybe a little bit amused.

“You’ve never mentioned anything about some dude named Julio, Mick. Where’d you meet him?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Gallagher.”

Mickey stormed out of the bathroom, and turned the corner into their bedroom. It was this fucking quarantine, that was the problem—the same way that they were down each other’s throats when they were cramped together in a tiny jail cell. They were so used to the lack of each other that being together always seemed to make a mess of things. Ian didn’t actually mean that he had been in love with other people— right?

People annoyed Mickey, mostly— sex was sex, just another bland part of his bland life of doing runs for his dad, living in his fucked-up household, getting drunk with his brothers. And then one day, Ian came bursting through his door. Mickey would never forget that first time that he and Ian were together— in his opinion, that day probably permanently altered his brain chemistry or some shit. The day that he was laying in bed, woken up by a pale-faced angel whose chest was just as smooth and beautifully pale and freckled as the skin on his face and hands. And Mickey was also covered with skin, that was apparently covered with super-powered nerve endings that hadn’t done a goddamn thing his whole life, but came alive like ice and fire and bee stings as soon as Ian touched him. Wherever Ian touched him.

Sex was just sex to Mickey, for so long—but sex with Ian was on an entirely different plane of existence.

And the thought of Ian being like that with someone else, especially during that time when Mickey was locked up and there was a wall of plexiglass between them, a wall Mickey had put there himself when all he was doing was trying to protect Ian from Sammi’s bullshit; well, it made Mickey’s stomach churn.

Ian followed Mickey out of the bathroom and leaned on the doorframe of their bedroom, like he knew Mickey needed some space. “You and this Julio guy, you were like, together?”

Mickey kept his gaze downward as he put on a wrinkled shirt. “Hell yeah, man. We lived in a shack by the beach, fucked all day long. You don’t know everything about me, Gallagher.”

“I guess not.” Ian mused, still looking like he half didn’t believe Mickey. “So, uh. This Julio guy. You’re saying he has a piece of your heart?”

“Oh yeah, a big ol’ chunk of it. You aren’t special, Gallagher. In fact, he might have a bigger piece than you do, with all the fucking bickering we’ve been doing lately,” Mickey spat out as he pulled on his shoes.

Ian rolled his eyes, but sensing Mickey’s tension, he kept talking. “Mick, you know I didn’t mean it. You have the majority of my heart. The vast majority.”

Mickey scoffed, feeling more pissed off than ever. “Oh, yeah? How much is that, exactly?”

“I don’t know… 87%?”

Mickey looked at Ian, charging up for a fight. “Fuck you. That’s not enough.”

“It is enough, Mick. I’ve been with so many people I can barely remember their names. You know what it was like at the club. That’s 87% for you, and 13% for every other meaningful connection I’ve ever had in the years we were apart—that seems pretty stacked to me.”

“Yeah, well, joke’s on you, motherfucker, because you don’t even have that much of my heart, anyways. In fact, maybe I’ll go back down to fucking Mexico and see if Julio’s still around.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Mick, calm down. You don’t mean that.”

“I do, asshole. Excuse me for thinking I had your whole heart, instead of pissing away 13% of it while I was locked behind bars and tattooing your fucking name onto my chest.” Mickey turned to where Ian was blocking the doorway. “You gonna let me through?”

Ian sighed, gently putting a hand up to Mickey’s chest to stop him from barreling past into the hallway. “Okay, listen, all that shit came out wrong. You know you’re the only one that matters.”

Mickey looked at Ian’s hand on his chest, then looked up and to meet Ian’s gaze. “Do I?” he said, in a softer voice than he realized.

Ian smirked, and let his arms glide up Mickey’s chest and around his shoulders, locking him in close. “Hey. Of course you are. You’re the only one I ever wanted to be with forever.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said earnestly, but he didn’t try to shake himself from Ian’s grasp.

Ian let his hands roam up to cradle the back of Mickey’s head in his hands, making sure he had Mickey’s undivided attention. “Listen. All those people, like Ned or Kash or whoever, they were all an important part of me becoming who I am, and nothing can change that. But they’re all a part of our love story, Mick. They’re all… minor characters, on the path of me getting to marry you.”

Now Mickey was the one rolling his eyes, his tough exterior finally starting to melt. “Yeah, okay softie.” His eyes flickered downward, in one last moment of vulnerability. “It’s just… it’s hard to forget all the stuff I missed out on, all the time we both coulda had. Time where you were with other people and not me.”

Ian pecked Mickey’s forehead, holding him in close. “Yeah, well, we have plenty of time now. Almost too much time. So much time that we’re ripping each other’s heads off.”

Mickey leaned back, and smirked. “Well, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what we can do with all that time on our hands, Mr. Milkovich.”

Ian leaned in closer, Mickey’s face millimeters from his. “Oh yeah?”

As Mickey leaned in to close the gap between their lips, he felt the nerve endings all over his body going fucking crazy again—maybe it had been a bumpy path for them both, and maybe he’d lost some of Ian along the way, but he couldn’t deny that this was worth the wait.

#ty for the prompt!<3 #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich

83 notes · View notes

stevesharrlngtons · 3 years

Note

Snow being shoved down the back of your coat + Roman or Mickey

@screechingexpertpruneneck & @girlinthecorner also requested this prompt for roman

Tremors from ice and anger still vibrated through you as you made your way through the lobby. The snow that had been unceremoniously pushed down the back of your coat had long melted and left your sweater and undershirt wet and sticky with condensation and sweat. The water that your clothing had soaked in had begun to freeze against your clammy skin and you were beyond the meaning of uncomfortable.

You were uncomfortable with a thick helping of rage draped over the top.

All thanks to Roman fucking Godfrey.

Your family, along with his, were in Aspen for the holiday break. Your mother and Marie Godfrey had met in college as doe eyed sorority girls, and remained close through the years as they both went on to marry high level executives. Heartbroken that their executives chose to run their companies on opposite coasts, your mothers had insisted on bi-annual joint vacations -- one in the winter and one in the summer.

Two years into the extravagant vacations, Olivia Godfrey nosed her way into the festivities. Your mother and Marie were less than pleased, but Norman had insisted it was the right thing to welcome her with open arms on the vacations. It would be good for Olivia and her two small children to have some socialization. And so, Olivia, Roman and Shelley were added to the bunch (though, not without any reservations from the two matriarchs).

The destinations varied, but they were always somewhere festive and approatite. Winter: Sweden. Summer: Hawaii. Winter: Iceland. Summer: Puerto Rico.

This year it had been decided that you all would pack up and head to Colorado for two weeks of icy December fun.

While some of your peers dreaded family vacations and time spent away from their friends, you never minded. Your father kept you happy with a credit card in hand and your mother was too busy with Marie to provoke you. You were free to shop with Letha or swap novels with Shelley, or venture out on your own in whatever new and exciting landscape you were in.

And then there was Roman.

There was always Roman.

Over the years, Roman had morphed from reluctant player in your and Letha’s fantasy realms, to cruel preteen ready to insight chaos if looked at wrong, to outrageously charming and good looking young man who knew every trick and how to use them. He hadn’t lost the glint of wonder from his childhood, or his deep seated anger from his adolescence, he had just gained a sauve charisma that was dangerous when he used it correctly (and he always did).

You and Roman had a flirtation, one that sometimes blossomed in chaste touches and charged glances; or through amorous conversation and zealous foreplay.

Each and every vacation things were the same; you and Roman resumed wherever you had last left off, just to press pause the second you boarded separate airplanes.

Sometimes you would yearn for more, when he’d send you the occasional tender text or call in search for phone sex on the off season from your vacations. But, you shooed away any lingering warmth that he quelled in your stomach as soon as you recognized it. Roman Godfrey was no good for you, no matter how delicious he tasted and how blissful it was to surrender with him.

You could only indulge so much in a good thing before the repercussions reared their ugly heads. And Roman most certainly had repercussions, and pitfalls, and isms that you hated. And with enough time spent with him, you would see them all in spades.

His immaturity. His possessiveness. His stubbornness. His short temper. His inability to apologize.

Somehow all of your least favorite traits that he possessed came out one morning before he, Letha and yourself were set to go skiing.

Bundled in thick layers of wool and cashmere, down-feathers and ski bags slung off your shoulders, you three headed out to the slopes. You had spent two semesters at a private school in Whistler when your father was sent to Canada for work, and because of this, the only one out of your little group with any ski experience. You were excited to revel in your skill and teach Letha and Roman how to make it down the hills in one piece (lots of pizza and french fries to come…). But before you all headed to the chair lifts from the resort, Letha wanted to stop for something warm to drink and a bathroom break.

“I really think you’re going to appreciate all the expertise I can offer you,” you commented to Roman as you stood in line.

He blew an indigent puff out through his nose, “I don’t think I’ll need any help.”

A grin pulled at your lips, “Roman, with your long legs, you’re going to be like a baby deer out there. You are going to need my help.”

Roman glanced down at you with an amused expression, growing his own smile at the sight of yours.

“Yeah? You think I’m gonna go up there and eat shit? Fall on my ass so you girls can laugh at me? Fat chance.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll kiss all your bruises afterwards,” your grin smooths to a smirk and you can see his eyes light with the pictures of the after hours activities you two could yourselves into.

“Next!” the barastisa called out and you and Roman removed yourselves from your bubble long enough for you to order.

Your ordered Letha’s usual (a white mocha with a splash of peppermint) your usual, along with Roman’s (a black coffee with two sugars).

You hadn’t thought the barista was flirting with you. You hadn’t thought you were being overly friendly. You didn’t even think Roman had been paying any attention at all, he had been clicking away at his phone at the time. Though, after you paid and were waiting for your drinks to be made, it was clear that any and all banter that had begun in line would not continue.

Roman’s posture was ridged, as he stood two full paces away from you. His lips in a hard line and his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets. You wanted to ask what had happened. You wanted to ask if he was ok, if something on his phone had upset him, if he was having second thoughts out the day you and Letha had planned? But you didn’t. Roman had angled himself away from you, and was looking over his shoulder every few seconds to search for Letha.

When she returned from the restroom, you silently handed her her mocha as she naively asked what she missed. You simply shrugged and you two shared a moment of knowing eye contact that Roman was in one of his trademark moods.

With linked arms and an effort to disregard Roman’s shift, you both clenched your paper cups, and headed toward the mountain in high spirits, ready to ski.

You were beginning to feel the pleasurable surge of adrenaline and the thrill of excitement the closer you got to the chair lifts. You were buzzing with anecdotes and tips and memories from your time abroad. Letha was playing along, nodding, oh-ing and ah-ing at the right moments, and thanking you for your know-how.

You and Letha were nearing the line for the lifts and you were about to pull her aside and help her onto her skis, when you were suddenly yanked backward.

Within the lapse of a blink, Roman had gripped the collar of your coat and jerked you back with such a power and haste, that your dwindling coffee was clamped in your fist and exploded onto your gloved hand and sleeve. When he had roped you closer by your protruding collar, he then continued to take a heap of snow and shove it down your back.

The snow shocked your senses, and your skin blistered from the cold and your muscles flinched and recoiled from the temperature change.

When it was all over, Letha was horrified, Roman was laughing and you were mortified. He had made such a spectacle of his antaic, that most of the line had turned to see what had happened. Not surprising by the decibel of Roman’s laughter and your scream.

“Roman!” Letha reprimanded as she fled to your side, doing her best to wick away some of the coffee from your sleeve and the snow from your neck, “What is wrong with you?”

“What? Never had that happen with any of your fancy french ski instructors?” he bit out maliciously, still laughing, but in a forced way. He was only laughing to continue your humiliation.

“You’re such an asshole!” you screeched.

“No, I’m funny. That was funny. It’s not my fault you can’t take a joke.”

“You’re not funny, Roman,” you whipped around, almost topoling a fretting Letha as you did, “you’re just a cruel little manchild who acts out when no one is giving his tantrum any attention!”

“Yep, see,” Roman gave a patronizing grin, “Can’t take a joke.”

He looked at you with condescending eyes, and he only seemed to grow happier the angier you became.

No matter how much you had been looking forward to the excursion, you refused to spend the day with him after this pathetic stunt. You picked up your discarded ski bag and let it hit Roman hard on the shoulder as you began back down the mountain.

“Aw, come on! Aren’t you the savant? Aren’t we getting ready to watch you show off your Olympic skill? Can’t do that if you throw a bitch fit and pout!” he called after you.

You could hear Letha’s frail calls as well, but at least she knew better than to come after you. You wanted to be alone and away from anything Godfrey.

When Letha and Roman came back later in the evening, he knocked on your suit door and was greeted with silence. He called your name, he dialed your number, he texted, but was left with no response. He was sure you were just enacting your silent revenge on him for the snow incident and he decided to let you. No matter how much he was looking forward to having his hands all over you (it’s all he had been thinking about for months).

But the next day, you were still nowhere to be found. Letha had been sworn to secrecy on your whereabouts, and even she was sticking her nose up in contempt when he entered a room.

He knew that you were serious about your indignation for him and what he had done, and he was becoming restless. He was only awarded fourteen days of your time twice a year, and he liked to make the most of the moments he was allotted. There was usually a day or two you would punish him for something he had said or done, but you always caved soon enough. Roman wished he knew what was so different about this time that had destroyed your usual refractory period for his bullshit.

“You embarrassed her in front of everyone,” Shelly’s automated voice informed him on the third day of silence.

Roman himself had taken to sitting in his suite, laying in bed with a scowl and an obligatory nasty bark when anyone commented on his new hibernation.

“You always teased her but this was different. You laughed at her and belittled her. She has every right to ignore you.”

Roman knew she was right, but only rolled onto his side so his back faced his sister. He didn’t want to admit that he was wrong, he didn’t want to have to tuck his tail and apologize. Because while he had embarrassed you, fessing up to his actions would embarrass him. He didn’t do well with putting his pride aside and accepting that what he did was wrong.

But as he spent the rest of the day holed up under hotel sheets and eating fresh potato chips from room service, Roman realized that maybe it would be worth it in the end. His moment of discomfort would pay off. Swallowing his ego and apologizing would be ok if it got him back in your good graces (which he so desperately craved).

That night, everyone gathered to have a nice dinner together. “Nice” entailed thousand dollar tabs, the highest quality champagne and whiskey, caviar and prime rib, and whatever anyone desired.

Roman had arrived before you, and made sure that the seat beside himself and your mother were the only two open by the time you joined them. As mad as you were at him, you would never willingly sit next to your mother, lest you want to spend the evening being picked apart by her freshly manicured fingers.

And sure enough, when you entered oh God, had you always been that beautiful? you spotted the seating arrangement and scowled. Your step faltered briefly in front of the open chair by your mother and Roman’s heart sank, before it slowly pushed its way back to the surface as you decided against your choice and rounded the table to take your place next to him.

“You look stunning this evening,” he whispered to you as you smoothed your napkin over your lap.

“You look like a kiss ass,” you replied, curtly thanking the waiter who was currently filling your glass with wine.

“Am I not allowed to compliment you now?”

“Stop talking to me. I don’t like you.”

Roman sucked in a breath and turned back to his appetizer. This was going to be a long evening.

Roman spent the rest of the dinner slowly chipping away at your resolve; with flirty jokes, jabs at your parents, reminiscing about your shared time together, and heaps of compliments and praise. He even pulled out his nickname for you at some point.

“I love when you run your fingers on the stem of the glass like that, sweet girl.”

Roman saw you put a strained pressure on the glass as he spoke.

Even after pulling out all the stops that he could, Roman didn’t seem to be making headway with you, which he despised. There was a flurry of fear in his chest.

Had he fucked up one of the very few good things in his life because of some stupid bout of jealousy?

As the night drew on, and all the parents were fat and happy with fine food and wine, they all drunkenly dismissed the four of you to do whatever you pleased.

Letha and Shelly, who had sat on the other end of the long table from you and Roman, fled away together. Maybe in hopes to avoid the tension between the two of you, or in hopes to force you both to reconcile. Either way, it left you and Roman to walk to the elevator alone.

Taunt, uncomfortable tension lay between you both on your path to the elevator. When you got to it and pressed the button for the upper levels, you tapped your foot impatiently for it to arrive.

Roman decided to strike.

“Are you going to be mad at me forever?”

Silence.

Roman frowned, “I’m sorry, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

Silence.

“It was -- fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what possessed me to do it. But yeah, I just, it was wrong. I’m sorry.”

More silence. You stepped forward to press the button again.

“Jesus Christ! I’m sorry! I said it, can we just put this behind us now? I was just tugging on your pigtails or whatever moms say. That and I don’t know, immaturity of something…”

“It was all immaturity.” you finally spoke.

So, Roman decided to steer into the skid. He told himself that he was only admitting to all of this so you would blow him later, but he secretly knew that everything he said was absolutely and undoubtedly true.

“Yeah, ok, it was immaturity and the old Godfrey gene of not knowing how to grapple with emotion.”

“Letha can express her emotions quite healthily,” you countered, still refusing to look at him.

He sighed, “I think only the men in my family got it… and my mother. But she’s a whole bag of fucked up, so…”

There was another bout of silence before Roman heard you let out a breath.

“You really hurt my feelings. You embarrassed me and stained my coat.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Roman replied, his face crestfallen.

“You tugged me back so hard that my neck was all red and rashy from the pressure and my clothes for the rest of the day.”

Roman felt despair bubble in his stomach, “Fuck, I’m so sorry sweet girl. I’m an asshole, I know that.”

“Yes, you are.”

The elevator at last opened it’s steel doors and you and Roman entered and pressed the number for your floor (Roman pressed the button before you could, in his search for forgiveness and to be gentlemanly).

As the elevator started up, Roman inched toward you until his hand rested on the hollow of your back. You didn’t flinch away, and after a moment you placed your temple to his shoulder.

He felt a feeling of overwhelming relief as he took the chance at creeping his nimble fingers toward your waist, to gain better traction to turn you into his chest. You went easily and willingly, and nuzzled your nose into the hollow of his throat in the way that he loved and longed for on lonely nights in Pennsylvania.

Roman held your waist tight with one hand and brush your hair away from your neck to trace tender lines up and down your vertebrae. He felt a tremor quake through your body and smiled. He continued his ministrations until the doors opened to reveal the floor you were both staying on.

You let Roman lead you to his suite with no hesitation and let him worship your body for a majority of the night. And later, you let him feed you ice cream in a hot tub and you let him snuggle your naked form so he could go to sleep.

Indulging in Roman Godfrey always had its bitterness, but as he laid sleepy kisses across the expanse of your skin, you thought made the sweetness was worth it.

#I hope you like it!#I haven’t written anything good in a long time so yeah anyways lmao #this got long #roman godfrey x reader #roman godfrey imagine #stevesharrlngtonswrites

88 notes · View notes

hearteyes-for-killmonger · 4 years

Text

2. Mona Lisa

I stay in a two room double on campus which means that I share a bathroom, but the room is my own to do with as I please, within reason.

Typically, I'm milking this privacy for the money to fund my education while simultaneously releasing my sexual tension in the most taboo of ways.

Sighing, brush my teeth and reapply my lip gloss in the mirror. I can feel tremors in my poor peach, she's reminiscing on the good times when she was exhaulted like the queen she is. Men would spend literal hours worshiping her every crevice and pay me handsomely for it.

Four days down, ten to go, I tell myself.

Sex is my ideal outlet for stress relief. It's my interest, my hobby, my reprieve. As you can imagine, I have to change my sheets on a daily basis, but I don't mind that.

Yes, I have brought a number of guys over to participate in certain acts that I'm sure my bathroom mate has heard through the wall. She doesn't look me in the eye anymore though I always speak to her.. and she hasn't done so for the past month or so. I think she's traumatized.

Tickled, I re-apply my sunscreen and change into my grey PINK leggings with matching sports bra, pulling my 360 install into a curly high bun and stretching to prepare for my mid-day jog.

Everyday, I jog through the Main Quad and work up a sparkle, since princesses don't sweat.

I carry a pink hydro flask and I jog as far as I can push myself to go, often ending up at the Oval, a place where students play volleyball and walk dogs. I like to sit out from time to time and watch.

Then I head back to my room and assemble my hygiene kit to take into the bathroom. I shower, cleanse, exfoliate if necessary, moisturize, and redress for the evening.

Today's evening wear is a black graphic half shirt with a gold crown printed on and black high waisted shorts with black platform sneakers from Dolls Kill. I add my gold anklet for mood before turning on my music.

Pretty little bird, pretty little bird

You've hit the window a few times (the window a few times)

You're pretty little bird, pretty little bird

You still ain't scared of no heights

When the spiral down feels as good as the flight

When hating you feels good for the night

When the morning comes, I hope you're still mine

My cellphone rings and it's Natalie, one of the black girls in this dorm. The first day we met, we made a silent pack to stick together, us and a couple others, and months down the road we've stuck to it.

"Back from your jog, Gem?"

"Yes, and I'm looking at my notes so no you cannot borrow them."

"Jokes on you, I took them yesterday when you were jogging and made copies, I'm set."

"You bitch," I tease. "What's the move tonight?"

"Whaaat? You're not busy with one of your John's?"

"Bitch, my legs are closed, my books are bussed wide open," I smile highlighting a sentence in the textbook. I have four exams to take.

Checking a text from one of my subs, Keon, I send a short reply with a 💋. He was just checking on me, asking about my studies.

"Well we're thinking of hitting a party with a few of the black exchange students."

Party?

My book slams shut. I have been extremely well-behaved this week, I deserve a little magic in my life. It won't hurt.

"Who's we?"

"Me, Kayla, Letitia, Kevin, and Chris."

Damn, Chris' fine ass can get it. I want him.

Okay, it's decided. I can finish up here, meet Mr. Stevens at 7 in his office, meet up with Natalie and the crew around 8 and then we'll head out. I can handle a few drinks.

Jumping up, I feel alive again for the first time in four days. I snatch up my makeup trunk and set it on my desk pulling out my handheld mirror.

Light beat. Lashes. Dark liner, heavy gloss.

I release my loosened strawberry curls from the bun letting them wave and fall on my shoulders.

xoxo

Approaching the office suite, I walk through to find that the other offices are already empty. I can tell because of the quiet and closed doors. Mr. Stevens' door is open and yellow artificial light streams into the small hallway.

When I come upon the door, Mr. Stevens is at his desk staring intently at a spread of papers, his gold-rimmed glasses fallen at the end of his nose.

My peach is telling me this scenario could be a problem. Dr. Stevens is a steak and lobster meal and my peach? She's salivating. Crossing my legs on the spot where I stand I knock on the door drawing his eye.

"Ms. Miller. Come in, have a seat."

Quickly, I plop down into one of the two chairs in front of his desk and sling my bag down to the floor beside my chair.

He awakens his computer, typing before reading through whatever's displayed. Then he turns the screen to face me and I'm looking at a layout of of my grades for the class. It's looking pretty good.

"Could be better," I stare waiting for what I came for.

"You're right, it could be. You see, as it stands everything for you is riding on this exam. You could walk away from this class with a high C or a high A. It's really up to you."

I lean forward with my elbows on the desk to look him in his narrow-set eyes.

"Look at my face, Mr. Stevens," I glare for emphasis. "Does it look like I'm down to settle for a high C? What did we discuss in the classroom?"

Again, it's a chess match of stares.

After about ten seconds this time, he pulls his glasses off, folding them gently and sitting them off the the side near the computer. He turns the computer screen back to it's original position and pulls a paper packet from his desk, raising it vertical with the print side facing towards himself and away from me.

It's the exam, I know it. I maintain eye contact.

"This," he pauses holding it up near his head. "If anyone... and I mean anyone.. discovers that you have this... you're on your own. I'll turn ya ass in so fast your head will spin. You will be expelled."

I've never heard him curse before.

"No one will find out, I'll guard it with my life."

"There's one more thing." He lowers the packet setting it away from me on the desk near his glasses. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, but I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of you not playing bout your grades or money.."

"Yeah?"

Licking his lips, he leans forward and I sit bolt straight.

"How far you willing to go for both?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

I blink in shock. Not good ol' Mr. Stevens! This has gotta be a joke. Mr. Hottie would never sleep with a student, he's far too strict.

"Gemini," he whispers, the name lingering on his tongue in a way that gives me full body chills. How did he know my stage name?

"Mr. Stevens, I think you're mistaken. My name is Phoebe, remember?" I tilt my head to jog his memory. "Phoebe Miller?"

He scoffs, loosening his tie and I'm aware of myself breathing harder.. loudly.

He tosses his tie on the desk between us.

Unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt, I can see his sharp clavicle and a tease of the muscle beneath. My mouth is watering and he leans forward again.

"Let's skip the part where you play dumb and get straight to negotiations. You're a smart girl...Sexy," he whispers.

My eyes widen hearing that word come from his lips. My thighs press together. This isn't a body that can hold back once started up. He's treading dangerous ground.

I lean forward slightly and the corner of his lips lifts in a dark smirk.

I've never seen this man like this.

"I've been to Mickey's. You know, there's this move you do... on that pole... I've seen you do a few times now and I've been wondering every time I see your lil conceited ass in my class... how it would work if you tried it on a dick."

Shit.

He said the magic word! I'm wet. I'm wet! I cross my leg over my thigh and he sits back, standing tall as I look up at him, ready to do anything.

He walks over to the door, closing it gently and locking it. Panting, I watch him do it and then he walks back to his seat, reclining with his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

"I have the power to give you an A," he announces. "Right here, right now."

"Oh really."

Oh my fucking god, I'm so wet right now. I can feel it.

"Mhm... I can also ensure that you pass your other classes, no problem," he brushes his shoulder. "BUT."

"But," I breathe.

"I need something from you."

Blinking at his boldness, I can't help the lust that comes to my eyes. This is a fantasy. Shit like this does not happen.

"Yes?" I'm licking my lips, biting them in anticipation. Say it, I beg with my eyes. Say it!

"I want you.."

Yesss?

"..to be.."

I lean in closer.

"So eager," he laughs. "You know, the way you look at me, you remind me of the Mona Lisa. There's a secret behind your eyes and every time I see you... that's what the fuck I see. It's like you wanna fuck me..."

Sitting up again to lean forward, his face is now inches from mine.

"You're going to be my slave, Ms. Miller. My personal.. little slut. Just until the exams are over," he nods.

I have to think about that, but not for long.

"And you can ensure all A's," I confirm.

Smiling, he nods. It's the perfect scenario, I want to cry.

"Deal."

"You can't tell a soul," he whispers coming in closer. His breath smells like spearmint. His lips are centimeters away now and I can't hold myself back any longer, I close the distance meeting his soft lips with mine.

Getting as far as a peck, he pulls back looking away like a man who's just made a deal on something as trivial as a lawn gnome or a piece of patio furniture. There's an unrushed boredom that only serves to intrigue me as he goes through the buttons on his shirt, letting the white fabric fall open to reveal the built muscles I kind of knew were there... but never to this extent.

His skin looks like smooth rum and I want a taste, but he has a deliberate pattern of raised bumps all over his chest and abs. It's not a turn off. In fact, I can think of a few things to do with that.

He smirks as if reading my mind.

Leaning further forward, I'm out of my seat and leaning over the desk.

With my right hand I reach up to touch his right pectoral but snatch my hand back when he smacks it away. I feel the sting. He's heavy handed.

"Did I say you could touch me?" His eyes hold venom.

He sounds like me when I'm disciplining a sub.

"No sir."

"Don't smile."

"But my smile is so cute," I grin watching his wheels spin.

"That's true," he admits with a nod. "But you know what's even cuter?"

"There's cuter?" I tilt my head innocently and he smiles.

"Hm," he chuckles. "...Don't move."

Holding my position over his desk, I remain still as he stands up again, slowly circling out of my view. Behind me, he stands and I can feel his presence. I feel a spanking coming on. I can feel him-

"MM," I squeak feeling the first hit. It's firm, but not too rough.

"Shut up, you've taken worse," he comments and I wonder how he knows because it's true. This is nothing.

Hit number two comes and it's a little bit harder than the first.

"Be gentle," I whisper looking back.

The third hit is double the strength of the last, I feel it and breath out.

The fourth is much harder and I make a sound to let him know I feel it. He hears me because the next swat feels like he really reeled back and it stings. It has me anxious for the next hit.

"I once saw you take a flogger," he breathes and I hear it in his voice, he's getting excited. I wonder if his dick is hard. How big is it? "Who you think requested it," he huffs and the swat he takes makes me hit the desk.. for real this time.

"You're a sub-SSSS," I hiss throwing my head back. "Damnit, okay now," I warn."

"Move your hands."

I don't know.

"Get back down... and move your hands," he repeats firmly.

Hesitantly, I drop them and brace myself on the desk.

"Uh!" I close my mouth and gather myself. It really stings. He keeps hitting the same damn spot, but in the way that tying a rubber band around your finger feels good, it also feels good.

"Take those shorts off..," he mutters. I can hear him breathing and when I look back, he's taking the button up completely off and unbuckling his black leather belt. "Hurry up.. take it off."

#original #erik killmonger #killmonger #erik killmonger smut #killmonger smut #erik x oc #erik killmonger x oc #tales of a masochist

81 notes · View notes

yikeswtfmate · 4 years

Text

Strange Times || Ch. 5

previous part // Strange Times Series Masterlist // next part

Summary: Raymond has to deal with the aftermath and does his best not to lose it again.

Pairing: Raymond (Charlie Hunnam - The Gentlemen, 2020) x Reader

Warnings: language; mentions of violence; mentions and descriptions of blood & bruises and the likes; alcohol consumption; drug consumption

A/N: hello my Ray darlings, I’ve neglected you enough! i know it’s a bit on the short side, but i felt it ended where it should have; part 6 will be the last part, so until then...please enjoy!

There is a small lamp on one of the nightstands that’s doing its best to throw a dim warm light in the dark room. It only reaches a few long strands of hair in the middle of the bed, away from the body that’s curled up in on itself, taking as little space as possible. She looks shrunken, smaller, dimmed down like the last sliver of a setting sun, and the occasional shiver is sometimes accompanied by a heartbreaking whimper.

Raymond is sitting at the bottom of the bed, a hand placed on her feet, watching her breathe under the blankets. He’s been promising himself he’ll go back down in a minute for an hour now, even though the sleeping pills have long since kicked in. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight, but he knows he’ll eventually have to face the aftermath.

The images of her tightly bound and bloody keep flashing in his mind, and he does his best to keep his rage in check. The rampage he went on has left him drenched in blood, sweat and grime, but he’s not yet been feeling appeased.

He supposes he can let her rest, now that the Oxford house is crawling with nearly every single one of their employees and a vast range of their buddies; even if it weren’t, he’s made sure to be at an arm’s distance from a gun at all times. So he strokes her hair a few times, kisses her forehead – careful not to leave any more blood on her skin, and with a heavy sigh, gets out of the room and closes the door again.

Bunny is sitting in a chair in the corner of the hallway, a grim expression on his own face. He’s lost his jacket sometime during the altercation, and the visible gun tucked in the shoulder holster is an open reminder that Pearson’s men are not playing at the moment. When he sees Raymond, he does nothing more than nod and move his chair closer to the door. He doesn’t have to be told that no one is to enter the room beside Raymond, Mickey or Rosalind. He just prays Y/N will feel better when she wakes up, and hopefully Raymond will have taken a shower by then, because that man is unrecognisable.

Downstairs, Raymond sits down heavily in an armchair. Someone hands him a tumbler of whiskey and there’s a plate of Jaffa cakes on the table in front of him. He stares at the round biscuits, transfixed in another time, wondering how long they’ve been sitting there. Behind him, Rosalind gives someone directions to make tea, before she places a hand on his shoulder and with the other gives him a joint. He takes it out of inertia, but doesn’t light it, suddenly feeling all the adrenaline wearing off, and exhaustion seeping in like a dam breaking loose.

He vaguely registers Mickey taking a seat next to him, already halfway through a blunt of his own, an empty glass on the floor by his foot. He’s just as bloody and dirty, hair mated to one side with sweat, shirt untucked and torn in places. There’s a cut just below his left eyebrow, that might leave a scar, a bruise starting to turn purple on the other side. Raymond supposes he’s not painting a prettier picture.

“You good?” Mickey asks.

Raymond takes a deep breath and drowns the whiskey with a hiss. He lights up his joint and nods. He’s trying to steel himself for the conversation that’s coming, although ironing out the details of what the next steps should be is the last thing he wants to do. He just wants to curl into bed next to Y/N and hold her until the end of time, because he’d be damned if he’ll ever let her go again. Everyone else can go to fucking hell.

Three hours later, when the house is starting to quiet down, Raymond finally manages to slip back up. He tells Bunny to go home and get some rest, and silently enters the room. The lamp is still on, but a creaky board in the floor makes Y/N slowly turn her head towards him. They look at each other for a few seconds, and Raymond can see the tear streaks on her sunken cheeks, even more prominent now. He’s not one to show emotion easily, but she can easily read exactly what is going through his head.

“I want to take a shower.” She whispers before he can say anything.

“There are clean towels in the bathroom.” He nods. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“No.” She says, and this hurts Raymond more than all the times he’s been shot.

He’s about to get out of the room again, intent on taking Bunny’s place on the chair and wait for her, however much would be necessary. But Y/N calls his name, a whisper that holds a shadow of the exasperation she’d show him when he’d act dense, and looks at her again.

“I need you to stay with me.” She explains. “And I think you also need a shower.”

At her pointed finger, he looks down at the tattered suit, destroyed beyond hope. He’s past caring, but he’s grateful Rosalind had the mind to send for a change of clothes for both of them. He takes a few steps forward, keeping his eyes on Y/N, careful not to make any sudden movements. He doesn’t think he can take any more pain right this second, so seeing her cower in front of him again is out of the question.

She follows his movements and finally takes off the blankets when he offers her a hand to stand up. With an arm draped over her shoulder, Raymond helps her into the bathroom, where he has to take in a deep breath before looking at her in the sharp lighting. Her hair is tangled, and there’s dried blood in it, her bottom lip is broken and there’s a shallow cut following her jawline, ending in a yellow bruise on her right cheekbone. Rosalind’s done everything she could with a wet towel, but with Y/N refusing to take her clothes off, no one has yet seen the extent of her bruises.

Raymond raises his hands, whispering soft words, cotton candy sweet nothings, reassurances that he needs just as much as she does, as his fingers grasp the hem of her jumper, once beige when she left home an eternity ago. He has to clench his jaw when he tosses it off, and the rage comes back once he sees the purple bruises on her ribs, the scarlet cuts on her collarbones. Y/N hisses off his attempts at talking, and keeps her eyes downcast, refusing to see the pity in his. She works the buttons of his shirt until that too is thrown to the pile, and her cold fingers trace the bruises left by the bullets that had thankfully been stopped by the vest.

Her hands find his shoulders for balance then, silently allowing him to peel off her cashmere pants. He murmurs a little prayer of gratitude that her skin is still as flawless, her legs still as smooth and heavenly, devoid of any mistreatment. Raymond has to take a moment to breathe, kneeling in front of her, forehead on her knees, palms on her ankles. Her fingers move to his head, slowly dragging her nails through his hair. He came to love her doing that, always bringing him a sense of peace and tranquillity that he’s never experienced before. Raymond looks up at her, tears in his eyes while she’s forcing herself to control her own.

“I was so scared.” He whispers. “I was so scared to lose you.”

“It’s alright. You found me.” She says, hand cupping his cheek, and Raymond leans into it. “I knew you would.”

Y/N helps Raymond back up a few minutes later, when she starts shivering in the cold air. They take off their remaining clothes, in a silence that is only filled with grunts and whispers of reassurance. He needs to keep his eyes on her at all times, he finds, an urgency that has nothing to do with lust, as it did whenever she’d undress, but entirely fuelled by the deep dread that still runs through his veins.

Stepping into the shower, she turns on the hot water and stands under it for a few seconds, while Raymond keeps watching her. An extended hand, blindly looking for him, demanding him to join her and then he’s engulfed by the steam and the spray that’s coming off of her. There’s blood mixing with the water, changing the tiles to a pale scarlet. Y/N refuses to look at her feet, and when she opens her eyes, there he is. The only person that she needs.

It takes them a long time to clean themselves, partially because they are both hurt, but mostly because Y/N would stop to grab at him and beg him to hold her. He’d comply every time, each time stroking her hair or drawing soft patterns on her back. She starts crying at one point, a moment that Raymond will forever have ingrained in his brain.

“I’m sorry.” She keeps whispering, wracked by heart wrenching sobs that reverberate through her entire body.

“It’s ok, baby.” Raymond responds, still stroking her hair. “It’s alright, my love. It’s not your fault. You’re here, you’re ok. You’re safe now. You’re with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, love.”

Y/N quietens down eventually, but Ray is the one who needs to hold her now.

“I love you.” He whispers.

She whimpers again, nails clawing at his back. Her head turns into the crook of his shoulder, his hands wrap tighter around her body. There is no more blood at their feet, and clear water is flowing off of their skin. It’s done, and she’s here, back where she belongs; so he kisses the top of her head, just to remind her once more that she’s safe, and he’s never letting go.

“I love you too.”

***

Strange Times Taglist:

@myfriendmademedothisxd @alainabooks143 @rvmanova @aisling1985 @beautiflow @lollipopdomination @grincheveryday @whovianayesha

139 notes · View notes

littlespoonevan · 4 years

Note

“please stay” for gallavich 🥺🥰

ok so the other week i saw gifset of the policeman telling ian mickey escaped prison during s7 and people were discussing the suggestion ian had visited mickey more than once so obviously i had to write it. so here’s a little snippet of ian visiting mick in juvie/prison over the years - i hope you like it

(this got angsty in the middle lol sorry)

Ian had been nervous when he’d first shown up tovisit Mickey in juvie, too afraid that Mickey might refuse to see him and notat all strong enough to deal with that kind of rejection. But Mickey had agreed to see him – not only that,he’d seemed happy to see him.

Well, as happy as Mickey ever allows anyone else tosee.

Sure, Mickey scoffs when Ian says, “I miss you,” butIan can see the way he hesitates before he starts throwing out threats, thequiet surprise in his expression before it melts into something else. Ian is convinced it’s understanding.

It’s what prompts him to reach out, to reach forMickey even though he can’t touch him.

“Take your hand off the glass,” Mickey says and Iandoes but he still has to bite back a smile.

He lets Mickey change the subject then, happy to lethim complain about his inmates. It’s inane conversation that doesn’t mean much– even Ian can tell the majority of Mickey’s threats are empty ones – but hestill revels in listening to Mickey talk.

He really fucking misses him.

All too soon their time is up and Ian has to fightthe way his face falls at the warden’s warning.

“It was good seeing you,” he says hesitantly,watching the way Mickey’s expression flickers before going carefully back toneutral. “Can I come see you again?”

Mickey huffs, “Do what you want, man, I don’t care.”

Ian nods, trying not to let himself feel dejecteduntil Mickey’s fingers tap against the glass once – so quickly you’d miss it ifyou weren’t looking. Ian blinks in surprise, gaze shooting up from whereMickey’s hand has disappeared from the table to Mickey’s face.

Mickey nods silently and hangs up the phone.

Juvie the first time had been shit but relativelymanageable. Juvie the second time was torture.

The first time he’d been able to pretend he didn’tmiss Ian, pretend he didn’t care about him and that they were nothing but fuckbuddies. And in spite of all that he’d known Ian would wait for him in somecapacity. Even if he’d been off fucking other guys he’d still want Mickeybecause what they had was good.

Now…

Ian probably hates him, the last words Mickey had saidto him were that they were over, and Mickey misses him so fucking much he feelslike he can’t breathe.

When he’s told he’s got a visitor he assumes it’sMandy since it’s always Mandy, what he doesn’t expect is to see Ian sittingthere on the other side of the glass. He’s got a fresh buzzcut and hisshoulders look bigger with the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest butit’s the look on his face what gets to Mickey the most. The look of nervousdetermination like he’s more than willing to tell Mickey, “fuck you,” if hequestions him for coming.

Christ, Mickey wants to touch him.

He sits down heavily in his seat, putting the phoneto his ear and gripping it too tightly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ian says back, voice carefully devoid of anyemotion. “How’ve you been?”

Mickey shrugs, averting his gaze, because lookingdirectly at Ian after so long hurts his eyes. “I mean, it’s juvie.”

Ian nods like he gets it even though he’s neverstepped foot in this place unless it’s to visit Mickey.

“You?” Mickey asks then, unsure of how to navigatethis conversation when he’d felt so angry the last time he saw Ian.

You’renothing but a warm mouth to me haunts him at night. Ian’snot a warm mouth. He’s warm everything. He’s the only fucking thing that’s evermade Mickey feel warm.

Ian lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Okay, Iguess.” He falls silent for another beat before looking up at Mickey under hislashes. “For what it’s worth, I think Frank drank away whatever brain cellsregistered what we were doing. He hasn’t brought it up since – I don’t eventhink he remembers.”

Mickey swallows hard, forcing himself to nod. “Kindafigured when my dad didn’t sic anyone on me in here to send me to theinfirmary.”

Ian’s mouth pinches into a tight line and Mickeywants nothing more than to reach out and smooth it out.

“Would he really do that?” Ian asks and Mickey wantsto scoff or roll his eyes or call Ian fucking deluded but he’s too tired so hejust nods.

“Yeah,” he says, resigned. “He would.”

Ian’s quiet as he absorbs that, expression unreadablewhen he turns the full force of his gaze on Mickey again. “How long you gotleft?”

“Six months, I think. Maybe less if I get out on goodbehaviour.”

“Okay,” Ian replies, voice too soft, and Mickey wantsto remind him where the fuck they are but he can’t get the words out.

Ian taps the glass just once, seeming more like anervous habit than anything else, but it sets Mickey’s heart pounding in hischest for the rest of the night.

This is probably a mistake. In fact, it’s definitelya mistake.

But Ian feels like he’s drowning in plain sight andnobody can see it. He’s hollowed out inside and raw and broken and he just reallyfucking wants to see Mickey.

He hasn’t since the last time.

When Mickey showed him the tattoo and Ian had liedand said he’d wait. But he thinks he’d been lying more to himself than toMickey.

It’s just- fuck, he doesn’t want to put Mickeythrough this. Over and over again. He doesn’t want Mickey to see him like this.But he also can’t breathe and Mickey’s the only person who knows how his lungsare supposed to work.

Mickey freezes on the other side of the glass when hesees him, hand gripping the back of the chair where he’d been about to pull it outto sit down. Ian wouldn’t blame him if he threw the chair at the glass andstormed off. He deserves worse.

Mickey doesn’t do any of that though because Mickey’sa better person than him. Instead, he sits down, faltering for just a momentbefore he picks up the phone and puts it to his ear. “Fucking hell, Gallagher,”he breathes. “What happened?”

“Hey Mick,” Ian replies quietly. His voice doesn’teven sound like his. It seems to be permanently hoarse from disuse lately.

Mickey’s initial shock seems to have worn off,replaced by a deep-rooted look of concern that Ian feels all too familiar withnow. “Ian,” he says, like the name’sbeen ripped from his chest. “What’s wrong?”

Ian shrugs, hunching his shoulders. “Jus’ been a badday,” he mutters.

“Uh huh and how long’s this bad day been going onfor?”

Ian closes his eyes because Christ, Mickey knows him. Mickey sees through him everyfucking time.

“A month or two,” he admits finally, swallowing hardat the sadness in Mickey’s eyes.

“You takin’ your meds?” Mickey asks likes he’s afraidto even say it.

“They’re not helping,” Ian replies tremulously.

“So try different ones,” Mickey murmurs, voice asoothing balm on Ian’s soul. “Ian, you can’t pull yourself out of this on yourown.”

Ian nods, staring down at the table in front of himas he takes a steadying breath. “I know that.”

Neither of them speak for a moment and Ian isoverwhelmed with how much the yearning he feels for Mickey consumes him. God,he just wants to hold him once more.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, voice wavering as he meetsMickey’s eyes. “For trying to push you away. For what I said. For everything.”

Mickey seems so surprised he forgets to keep hisguard up and his face is too open, too vulnerable. Ian has never despised thepanel of glass between them more. “You mean that?” he asks eventually and Iannods fervently.

“I thought you’d be better off without me,” hereveals, ducking his head self-consciously.

“Ian, when the fuck have I ever been better offwithout you?” Mickey asks tiredly and Ian closes his eyes, forcing air into hislungs and back out again as he pushes back the burn behind his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with me when I’m likethis. It shouldn’t be this for therest of your life.”

Mickey stares at him, mouth working. “How ‘bout youlet me make that decision for myself, huh?”

Ian nods as his eyes travel across Mickey’s face.Fuck, he misses him. “I miss you,” he sighs.

“I miss you too,” Mickey says, almost choking on thewords. His eyes are shining when Ian looks at them and he doesn’t think when hereaches out, just presses his curled fist against the glass.

Mickey takes a shuddering breath as he watches himbefore his own knuckles mirror Ian’s.

“Eight years is really long time,” Ian whispers, thelump in his throat making it hard to speak properly.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, opening his mouth to say somethingelse before closing it again.

“Ian, can you just- Please stay,” he requests finally,shoulders hunched and head bowed like he’s already expecting a rejection.

“I’ll stay,” Ian replies quietly and Mickey suddenly seemsto breathe easier.

Ian stays until visiting hours are over, neither ofthem really even talking – just watching each other, committing one another’s facesto memory once again.

“I’ll come back soon,” he promises, forcing himselfto stand when the warden starts eyeing him irritably.

He touches the glass one last time and Mickey’s stillgripping the phone so hard it looks like it’s going to break but he nods.

Ian’ll come back.

Mickey had felt sick to his stomach stepping backinside prison. It hadn’t been the usual fear – it’d been different.

Fear of rejection tangled with nerves andanticipation.

It had all melted away the moment Ian had looked athim though.

It’s been hours since then and Ian had climbed downoff his own bunk the second the guard had done his last check, crawling intoMickey’s and kissing him until both their mouths were raw. Now Ian’s lying onhis side against the wall, head pillowed on Mickey’s chest and Mickey can’tfucking believe this is something he gets to have again.

They’d talked before, not about much beyond how thefuck Ian ended up in here and muffled, “I missed you”s in between kisses. But theystill haven’t really talked about them.They’re quiet now, Mickey’s fingers gently trailing down between Ian’sshoulderblades and back up again.

Ian reaches for his shirt then and Mickey doesn’t getwhy he’s tugging at it until he catches sight of his own tattoo peeking outfrom behind the fabric. Mickey feels shame and embarrassment burn through himand he’s about to pull Ian’s hand away until Ian’s pushing up on his elbow abit and kissing Mickey’s heart, right where his own name sits.

Mickey swallows hard, hand coming up involuntarily totwist in Ian’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” Ian mumbles into his skin. And it’s notthe first time he’s said it but it still makes Mickey’s chest tighten.

“I know,” he says after a beat.

“It never went away,” Ian tells him, gaze boring intoMickey’s. “Loving you, I mean. It never went away.”

Mickey wets his lips and tries not to let hisemotions get the better of him. Searching for something to say, he lifts hisfree hand and reaches for Ian’s, folding their fingers together on top of hischest.

“I know that too,” he mumbles.

It never went away for Mickey either.

#gallavich #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #my fics #Anon #asks #meme thing

198 notes · View notes

mxtantrights · 3 years

Text

˚ · · . · ✵ ✷PART TWENTY-EIGHT

word count: 2.7k!

Warnings: jessie gets high but it’s not detailed, just the after part. ALSO FLUFF

HAWKINS, INDIANA

DECEMBER 26, 1984

I watched as all the kids sat around the game table and exchanged gifts. It was the day after Christmas- friendsmas as I'm dubbing it- and we were all held up in Mike's basement. I know they wanted to see each other all on actual Christmas day but their schedules and families wouldn't allow it. So I called everyone up this morning and arranged this.

They all thanked me with a hug when I got here with Mickey and Dayton.

Speaking of which,

I find Dayton sitting on the couch fiddling with his hands. He's been back for about two weeks now and we haven't talked much about the elephant in the room.

I take a seat next to him and smooth down my skirt. "Why are you fiddling with your hands so awkwardly?"

He stops and looks to me. "I feel like I left you here and I let you down."

"You didn't. You did the best you could do for someone who was in a different time zone. Trust me." I clap his shoulder hard- like really hard, he hates it when I do that. And he winces. "You raised me right."

"Ha-ha."

Theres footsteps coming down the steps and quickly at the bottom is Steve. He waves to the both of us before saying his greetings to the kids. Dustin and him are up to some new handshake and I think if they don't find one soon we'll all be in trouble.

After that he finds his way on the couch next to me and my brother.

"I think we met last year at the fourth of July party. Steve right?" My brother asks Steve so un-smoothly. Did he really think I didn't know that he had Steve look over me while he was gone? He even holds his hand out for Steve to shake.

Steve awkwardly laughs. "Yeah Dayton she knows."

"What? She knows?!"

I try to stifle my laughter at his outburst.

"She used her abilities on me to make me tell the truth! What was I gonna do?" Steve argues his point.

It's true he couldn't have done anything about it.

Dayton only shakes his head in annoyance.

Lucas and Dustin come up to us on the couch with two bags in their hands. I looking between the two of them and their shit eating grins.

"If this has anything to do with milk I'm giving y'all both wedgies."

Dustin passes me a red bag. "It has nothing to do with you being milk girl."

Lucas gives Steve his bag as well.

I move around the fancy tissue paper and see jeans? I pull it out with my hands and I see that it's not pants but a jean jacket. And the back is painted on with some eye popping colors but the patches on the sleeves are what gets me.

One of them is the state of Texas. And next to it is a Hawkins patch. There are a few notable patches besides those. A lasso. One says Cherry bomb. And one with a brain on it.

I look up and it's not just Dustin and Lucas anymore. The rest of the gang is behind them now watching me.

I pull the jacket on and it fits loosely. It's the best kind of fit.

Looking over at Steve I see his gift. It's another jean jacket but his is different from mine. His has got no patches on it just the paint on the back. And I can't miss the big 'MOM' on the back.

"We wanted to thank you guys for everything you did for us." Mike- the kind asshole- Wheeler speaks up.

I get up from my seat and hod my arms out. "Hugs right now or so help me I will cry on every single one of you."

Max and Mickey are first in almost making me fall over. Then Dustin and Lucas, lastly Mike. I quickly place a kiss on the top of their heads, almost missing Mike because he pulls away slightly but I pull him back.

"Okay Jessie, give me my kids now."

HAWKINS, INDIANA

JANUARY 1985

My stomach grumbling was getting annoying. I needed to put food into my system before I combust. I just didn't feel like leaving Mike's couch. After sitting here while the boys play their precious D&D after a whole year, I'm growing attached.

I'm laid on the couch like a mad woman. My legs are leaning off the side arm, only one of my arms is slanged over the back of the couch. The other one is holding me up properly.

Steve comes down the steps. Hair flopping around like usual.

"Steve! Good you're here!" I say as he descends down the last steps.

"Hey!" He waves to me.

Then he's saying hi to the kids. I watch as he makes his rounds and then walks over to me and the couch. NO if he sits down then we're not leaving here. And I need food.

I bolt out of my seat. "I'm revolting I need food."

"Why don't you ask my mom for something?" Mike asks me.

I didn't want to trouble his mom. I also didn't want to have to interact with any adults. My mouth is a little crazy as Mickey and Dayton keep saying. I'm not good at holding back my opinions.

I shush Mike and look at Steve. "Please can I get food? Please? Pretty please? The D&D is making me want to eat the floor."

"Hey!" All the boys and Max say at once.

Steve chuckles and puts his hands on his hips. Oh no what does he want. He only does that when he wants something. What could he want from me? Wasn't being friends with me enough?

"I need your skilled handwriting for some envelopes." He puts rather simply.

Okay I can do that.

"Alright I'll do it," I grab his arm and start dragging him the way he came. "I just need food. Food. Steve my stomach is like boiling. I need food."

"Alright alright. I got you." Instead of letting me drag him up the steps he falls in line with me.

Always the gentleman, he opens the door and lets me out. I let go of his arm, and let him lead the way. He takes the both of us out the back and I see his red BMW. With a spur of energy I run to the passenger side and dive into the seat.

"Come on, faster pretty boy. I'm trying not to die of starvation here."

"Have you been getting any memories lately?"

I turn to look at Steve in the drivers seat. I had just finished a whole meal and now he wants me to talk? I need my post-meal nap pretty soon.

I guess I could just talk to him and wait until we get back.

"Not really, no. It's been radio silent up here." I knock on my head twice.

He can't help but laugh when I do. Maybe that will ease this conversation back to a more friendly topic. I don't want to think about all the bad things today. I was trying to just have a nice day. I could think about it tomorrow. Or the next day.

"I'm serious though. You'd tell me if you did?"

"Yeah." I shoot back.

We continue on the drive in a comfortable silence. It feels like it should be awkward but its not. We have some weird upside down bond now. We haven't seen it all but we've seen enough together.

It doesn't take long before I see Mike's house appear outside my window. Steve's quick to get out of the car but I'm not, I just ate! I need to take it slow don't wanna pull a stomach muscle or something.

I've got the itis.

Slowly I open my door and roll myself out of the car. As I do I know Steve is watching me struggle. He loves to do that sometimes I swear if he wasn't my friend I would yell at him, I swear it.

He's back at my side in an instant holding his arm out for me to lock with mine.

"Ah Steve, such a gentleman."

HAWKINS, INDIANA

JANUARY 1985

I try to smoothly make it to my desk in one piece without raising suspicion. I don't trip, or look anyone in the eye as I make it to the back where Steve is sitting. However I do see his floppy hair and I have to clamp my mouth shut to not giggle.

His hair!

How does he do it everyday?

How?

I sit down and put my notebook on the desk.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks.

I turn slowly to nod at him, I don't wanna do it to fast or he's gonna think something is up with me. I can't alert the troops. I can't alert anyone!

He studies my face, and then his face changes. Did he just figure it out? Did he just find out that quickly? Maybe he won't say anything.

"Are you high right now?" He whispers to me.

My head is nodding again even though I wanna deny it. I was about to deny it. But my head is faster than my mouth.

Ha!

I watch closely as Steve pulls my chair and then my desk close to his. My fingers start playing with the loose ends of my knitted sweater. I wonder how those little dangling threads happen. Why did they happen? I didn't cut my sweater.

I hear our english teacher clear her throat to get the class to settle. It's then that I roll my shoulders back and face the board with the straightest face I can make.

The class settles after a few moments pass and our teacher begins to write names on the board. I watch with confusion. Why was she writing down our names? Did she forget them?

Then she writes down my name. And Steve's.

I look at Steve.

"She was picking random students to read their essays today- Jess we are fucked." He whispers to me and the way he sounds is so funny I start laughing under my breath.

I pull my sweater over my mouth to try and hide it. My eyes are watering before I know it and I have to put my head down on the desk to hide my laughter.

"Ms.Glendall whats the matter?"

Then that makes me laugh even more. Holy shit I'm about to get caught! I'm about to get caught and I don't even have an excuse to give! I'm gonna get detention! Holy shit have I ever gotten detention since I've been here?

No I haven't. I would remember.

"Jessie's not feeling to well, can she read her essay another day?" Steve asks for me.

I can feel his hand come to pat my head like I'm some sort of dog- I'm laughing even harder now. My stomach is starting to hurt with how much I'm dying from this.

"Sure Mr. Harrington."

Steve peers in close to me, close enough to whisper in my ear. When I can feel his hot ass breath on my ear I stop laughing. "You owe me big time Jess."

Oh god how am I gonna make it to Lunch. Hopefully Jon doesn't mind skipping with me to get some food. I am not eating slop while under the influence.

I can't believe I'm this much a wuss. I mean I tasered a demo-dog for crying out loud. You'd think I've grown some macho in me.

But no.

Here I am with my envelopes for colleges. Ready to send.

And I'm holding them in my hands like they're about to fly away.

"Step away from the applications."

I swiftly turn around.

Steve's leaning against his car.

"You know I can just go right back upstairs and cancel our plans to hang out." I quip, already turning away.

It's not long, what with his long ass legs, before he has my arm in his grasp and he's stopping me. I turn around slowly to face him, ready for that stupid look on his face. He's gonna make fun of me. I know he is.

He sent out his early applications and I'm standing here, fiddling with my regular applications.

But he doesn't have a look on his face. He looks serious.

"Alright so do you want me to do them for you or do you want a pep talk so you can do it yourself?"

I look between him and my mailbox. A few times. Maybe it's actually more than a few because he snatches the envelopes from my hands and does it himself.

Instead of letting him get the final touch I do it myself. I raise the red flag on the box.

"Well ladies and gentlemen I think Jessica Glendall has finally finished with her applications! How about a round of applause for the girl!" He starts yelling. I try to cover his mouth but he's too tall. And he's fighting me off a bit.

"Cut it out you weirdo! I have neighbors!"

"Is that what the other houses are for? I thought it was decoration."

HAWKINS, INDIANA

JANUARY 1985

"Did you actually have a lasso back home?"

I stop eating and look at Jonathan. He's got a big smile on his face because he knows he's being a little shit. But he wouldn't come up with this on his own. I know this is Steve's doing.

"Steve put you up to this?" I ask him back.

He shakes his head but can't hide his laughter.

"Nah. I just heard it from Will, who heard it from Dustin, who was told by Steve." He explains to me.

"I don't care that we're the same age I will give you a wedgie you do know that right?" It's rhetorical as he puts his hands up in surrender.

"I'd love to see you give Steve a wedgie. Or put him in a lasso."

"Yeah I'd love to see it too."

I was cheering Steve on in the gym not too long ago. He's playing really hard right now so that the scouts can see him. I know that he feels like he has to overcompensate with sport because his grades are too hot.

But neither are mine. We're in the same boat here.

His car chirps and I look around for him. I was waiting for him on his car after all. I find him walking my way with his sport bag slung over his shoulder. They didn't win today but he did carry his team the whole way through. That's gotta count for something.

He doesn't say anything to me- no snide remark, no sass, not even a hello. All he does is get into his car and slam the door. Maybe he wants to be alone right now?

I hop off the hood of his car and he turns the engine on.

Maybe I should take the hint and leave.

I put my bag over both of my shoulders and start to turn my body away when I hear the horn honk. So I turn back.

The window is rolled down on my side.

"Aren't you coming?"

I open the door swiftly and get in. "You sure you don't want to be alone right now? I mean I can understand-"

"No I'll be fine. I just need to drive around for a little bit." He says to me and starts pulling out of the parking lot.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" I offer

I remember the forth of July party and what he said. About College and parents. This was definitely a topic that he dreaded.

He pumps the breaks on the car when I say it. I almost jolt forward but he holds his arm out to brace me. It makes me let out a breath that's all I know. His arm retracts back to his side as he keeps his eyes on the wheel.

"My dad sucks. And my grades kind of suck. And he's riding my ass about college."

I carefully put my hand on his shoulder. "Look all you can do is your best Steve. At the end of the day it's all anyone can do. Your dad might not see it but it's you who needs to start seeing it. It's your life."

"Y-yeah."

"Plus all of the shit you did with those monsters from hell is pretty badass. You'd probably get a metal for it if it wasn't top secret."

He laughs. "Thanks Jessie."

"Of course Stevie."

"Jessica!"

"Stephen!"

#DAMSEL #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #stranger things #stranger things imagine #steve harrington #OH YEAHHHHHH #OH I"M IN IT NOW

5 notes · View notes

pi-cat000 · 4 years

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 35)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3, Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34

Part 36: here

LEWIS POV:

Whereas he barely felt the knife stabbing into him, Lewis definitely feels it come out. It doesn’t help that the thing pretending to be Arthur seems to be going out of its way to cause as much pain as possible. And yes, there is a lot of pain. Even with a whole lot of adrenaline smoothing over the worst of it, it is probably the worst thing Lewis has ever experienced. It briefly whites out his vision, so he almost misses Arthur as he steps out of the torchlight. What Lewis does see, in amongst the white spots, is that twisted uncanny smile, smug and self-assured. Nothing like any expression he has seen Arthur make before. It’s all wrong.

Lewis doesn’t remember kneeling, but he must have because suddenly Vivi is crouched in front of him, supporting his weight, preventing from face-planting into the concrete. Quickly, she ties her scarf around his side.

“I’m fine,” He mutters, trying to wave her away, “Go after Arthur.”

“You’ve been stabbed,” Vivi objects, frustrated, adding, “…and I can’t,” blue eyes meeting his before flicking over to Mystery who is blocking her way. The dog is glowing red, and his growls make Lewis’s neck prickle with unease despite not being the target. Right. Because, not only is Arthur possessed by that thing, but Mystery is a supernatural whatever as well. If he weren’t in so much pain, the revelation would be more impactful.

His next words are drowned out by another louder shout.

“ALRIGHT ASSHOLE…STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Both he and Vivi turn. Lewis stares openly at the middle-aged man who seems to have materialised from the gloom, holding a shotgun that moves between all three of them, landing on Arthur.

“Nobody move.” Is ordered in a tone consisting of visibly uncontained rage which doesn’t bode well in the slightest. Just when Lewis thinks they are done with the nasty surprises, another one comes crawling from the woodwork. Lewis struggles to stand so he’s ready to run if need be, his side throbs with a spike of intense pain.

The man, Lewis vaguely recognises him but, with the darkened surroundings, he is hard to really place, addresses Vivi, “Never heard of Arthur huh?”

Vivi stiffens, and Lewis realises, with a quick note of leather clothing, that this must be the leather-wearing crazy guy from earlier. Though, given the circumstances, perhaps he isn’t as crazy as initially thought.

“Good thing I didn’t believe yah now isn’t. You kids are in some real shit,” The man glowers past them, “I finally got ya. Nowhere to run now.”

“I’m sorry. Have we met? You human’s all look alike,” The body snatcher, Lewis refuses to think of this thing as Arthur, sounds mildly irritated.

“You fucking know who I am!”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” Lewis recognises one of his chef knives as it is waved around flippantly.

“Sonofabitch. You’re going to regret messing with…”

“Hold it. Wait…” The body snatcher interrupts, clicking its fingers, “I remember. Wait. No…I’ve lost it. Maybe give me a hint?”

The man’s face twists into a snarl of furry, “Slimy rat-bastard…If you think for one…”

“Oh! I’ve got it! Mickey. No. Micky. Yes. Apologies. You were such a useless, forgettable host that it completely slipped my mind.” If the body snatcher is trying to make the other man mad, it is succeeding. Worried, Lewis observes the livid expression on the gunman’s face. Even in the dark, the rage is very apparent.

“How is that gunshot wound treating you? It looks infected.”

“How about I give you a matching one, and you can tell me all about it!?”

“Tch,” Arthur’s green eyes narrow losing some of their humour. Then, seemingly addressing none of the people present, it comments, “And this is exactly why leaving hosts alive always backfires.”

Before, when the creature had been supposedly conversing with Mystery, it had made clear eye-contact with the dog. Now, it gestures loosely into the middle distance. It’s talking to Arthur, he realises, and it simultaneously fills him with hope and makes him sick to the stomach.

“They all get this notion in their head that it’s my fault their pathetic lives went down the toilet. And then it’s all ‘you’ll pay for this’ and whatnot.” It turns Arthur’s eyes back to Micky, “I suppose you’re still mad about your brother. Dan was it?”

“Don’t say you dare say his name!”

“Dan? Short for Daniel? The most promising exorcist in three generations and far better than you could ever be? That Daniel? …Maybe if you’d been even half of what he was, you wouldn’t have been possessed so damn easily. I mean, this kid put up more of a fight, and he’s pretty much a walking collection of neurosis.’”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

“Did you even go back to bury him, or did you just leave him there? What happened to all the ritual, funeral nonsense to send his soul on its merry way? How disrespectful.”

The gun clicks. It’s like it wants to get shot! Lewis feels Vivi tense beside him and knows that she has come to the same conclusion.

“Stop!” Vivi lurches uprights, trying and failing to dodge around Mystery. “If you shoot, you’ll kill Arthur!”

“That fucking brat sent us to our deaths. He’s just as guilty.”

The body snatcher sniggers, “I’m sure Dan would be very unimpressed at how you’re threatening this poor innocent human. I mean, if he weren’t a shish-kebab at the bottom of a cave.”

A loud, almost animalistic, yell. In the fraction of an instant before the gun goes off, Arthur’s body lurches to the right. For a moment, it looks like Arthur might manage to dodge. Lewis’s breath catches.

Crack.

The gun fires. Arthur flickers. It is as if, for a split second, there are two people overlayed atop each other. If the body snatcher is planning to dodge, protecting both itself and Arthur, it fails, stumbling, visibly hurt.

Next, there is an explosion of energy, briefly lighting the space with ominous red. From the flash leaps a giant canid creature with many lashing tails, obstructing his view. The gunman, obviously just as surprised by its appearance, turns wildly, aiming the gun at the new threat. A second shot discharges with another loud crack, point-blank, right into second monster’s chest. The giant- Lewis thinks it might be a fox- doesn’t falter, slamming into the gun-wielding maniac, jaws closing on the weapon.

“Arthur!” Vivi’s voice snaps his attention back to Arthur. Lewis is not sure where the bullet has hit but the way the body snatcher’s face twists, spitting to itself, “You little shit,” before toppling over backwards, means it hit somewhere. He struggles to follow Vivi, who has already run forward, ignoring how his side burns and his breath is more laboured than it should be. Lewis hurries up to his prone friend, spotting the quickly spreading stain of red on Arthur’s left shoulder.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Vivi mutters, “Bleeding…that’s a lot of blood. Need to control the bleeding.” She pulls off her shirt, placing it over the wound, pressing down. Arthur’s eyes snap open, bright green, focusing on Vivi and then on him. They flicker to golden-brown.

“Arthur?” Vivi breaths, also noticing the change.

“Vi…”

“Shh. Don’t speak. Everything will be okay. I don’t think its hit anything important. Just lie still.”

Gold flickers to green again, and Arthur grins, “What’s…up. You…goin…watch him die …with me?” The words get chocked off when the gold returns. The smiles twists into something more pained. Lewis leans in as Arthur tries to speak again.

“No.” Vivi puts out a hand, leaving a red mark on his shirt, “Don’t make skin contact.”

Green and gold flicker again, so fast that the two colours bleed into each other like coloured ink running together. “Even if …you save him…I’ll be here. You’ll never get me out…He’ll be mine for…” It’s the body snatcher, struggling to form words as blood trickles out the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“Don’t talk,” Vivi snaps. The hand nearest to him twitches, trying to touch her wrist. But the blood loss has made it slow and lethargic, allowing Vivi to draw away.

“Lewis, hold his arm down so it doesn’t try to grab me. I need to keep pressure on this. Do you have your phone on you? We need to call for help, like an ambulance, and….”

Vivi’s instructions wash over him as he stares at the hand then back at Arthur. If they do save Arthur, then they would be right back to where they started, with this thing piloting around his friend’s body. Probably, hurting Arthur in the process because he can’t imagine that it’s a present experience. Lewis takes his phone from his back pocket and places in on the ground.

“Lew…is.” It’s Arthur again, barely managing to speak, breathing hard as Vivi pushes down, stemming the worst of the flow. Even the two words sound so defeated and sad. Lewis can’t just do nothing. Not when he can save Arthur from this thing. In that moment, in the seconds between Arthur’s breathing and the sounds of fighting behind him, Lewis reaches to take Arthur’s hand.

“Look after Arthur.” He orders. Vivi makes a brief noise of objection, but it is too late.

Skin against skin.

Arthur’s hand is unnaturally cold.

There is a sharp pain in his palm which travels up the limb. Quickly, he lurches upright, stumbling two steps back to get as far away from Vivi and Arthur as possible. A portion of his arm begins to turn a sickly green, which travels up towards his shoulder. Arthur, the real Arthur, is now the picture of horror.

“W…hy?” His friend coughs. Lewis finds he can’t respond, body frozen. Slowly, green creeps, inching along, making his skin crawl.

Then, a heavy weight hits him from behind, causing him to stagger. Jaws and sharp teeth clamp down around his upper arm, halting the green. One large, red eye stares at him, almost apologetic. As if moving in slow motion, Lewis sees the fox bite and hears the crunch of bone splintering. Blood droplets spin hypnotically in the air.

It is probably fortunate that, right then, Lewis is yanked back and away. If he can’t handle the pain of a stab wound, he can’t imagine enjoying the sensation of having his arm ripped apart. This is what Lewis thinks while he falls into deeper, more complete darkness.

He is falling, nothingness surrounding him. He is falling right up until he isn’t.

Above him, a ceiling fades into view. Confused, he blinks at the pale grey roof overhead. Is he dead? He doesn’t feel dead. Hurriedly, Lewis sits upright, grasping for his arm. It is still there, attached to his shoulder, no worse for wear. Except, Lewis’s eyes widen, watching the limb flicker, disappearing then reappearing. He can feel it and move it, but when he stares at it for too long, it doesn’t seem real. Transparent.

“…have known… too good to be true….It’s always too good to be true…” The irritated voice, though muffled, is familiar. Lewis twists, searching for its source, finding himself on the floor of a grey-coloured version of the Kingsman workshop. However, unlike Kingsman Mechanics, which was always alive with activity and the sound of machinery, everything here is still and eerily silent. Through the open garage doors, instead of the Tempo desert, Lewis sees an expanse of endless grey void. Across the floor and ceiling spreads several jagged cracks like the room is seconds from falling to pieces.

“…there was no way in any of the hells that some punk human would get away with breaking The Rules and not have it blow up in their stupid face...”

Leaning against the workbench, a few feet away, is Arthur. Only, it’s not Arthur. The skin is tinted green, not unlike his arm in those brief moments before Lewis was pulled down here.

“…and I just got suckered in like some witless porn.” Growling, kicking the bench irritably, not-Arthur grumbles, “What a waste of potential.”

Slowly, Lewis tries to climb to his feet without catching its attention. He is unsuccessful because, no sooner has he moved, its eyes snap to him. Now, instead of bright green, they are flecked with golden yellow.

“Hello Lewis,” It greets in a voice so like Arthur’s that it grates on Lewis’s ears. A larger crack appears across the ceiling, lengthening, almost splitting the room in half. Grey dust rains down around them, and the room shakes.

“Nice of you to stop by, even if it is for a few seconds. I was so looking forward to possessing you too. It really is a shame.”

Lewis glares at the twisted, mock version of his friend, who, despite everything, is still grinning. Now his mind is no longer muddled with the pain of a stab wound, there is new mounting anger. He clenches a fist.

“What’s the matter big guy? Had a rough day? Not often you get stabbed by your best friend now is it?”

Lewis should be scared. This thing has made it apparent that it didn’t give two shits about killing him. Hell, this bastard had stabbed him. Lewis glances briefly at his side. There is no wound to be seen. In his mind’s eye, he sees the last few minutes flash past. He can see Arthur, in pain. His best friend had looked so defeated. Somehow he knows it is this things fault. Everything until now, all the supernatural weirdness and confusion, this thing is at the centre of it all. No, Lewis isn’t scared. He's furious.

"There's the Lewis I was waiting to see. None of that sentimental concerned crap…only anger,” The fake-Arthur grins wider, noting his rage.

"This is your fault." He snaps in lieu of a proper come-back, taking an aggressive step forward clenching and unclenching his fist. "What did you do to Arthur.”

“Hehe, still more worried about Arthur? You really should adjust your priorities, considering there is a high chance that my removal will kill you. Losing an arm isn’t pretty.”

Lewis twitches. The rage builds. It builds in waves, expanding to fill his chest and, before he knows it, he’s across the room, picking the fake-Arthur up by the shirt, and slamming into a wall. There is no real-Arthur here to hold him back. He wants to wipe that smile off its face and make it pay for all the stress and hurt it has forced on all of them in the last few days.

“What happened to Arthur!”

A scoff of contempt. “Nothing happened to Artie, aside from getting shot, he’s back in his body. All he had to do was sit back and not interfere, but instead, he got in the way like the suicidal little shit he is. I’d watch out for that, your friend is a real basket case.”

Lewis sees fire and red. He slams the creature against the wall, causing new cracks to form and spread like a spider web. It feels unevenly satisfying to hurt this creature. It feels good right up until the body snatcher turns its face into something that looks almost exactly like Arthur. No smug smile. Just pain. If it weren’t for the green skin, Lewis might have believed it.

“So willing to hurt Arthur. You’re giving me goosebumps.”

His grip falters. “You’re not Arthur,” He retorts.

“No. But I look like him. Not that that matters when assigning blame. No wonder Arthur is scared of you.”

His anger simmers down into something more akin to apprehension. Before, outside his family diner, the demon had said something about knowing the truth behind Arthur’s reason for avoiding him. What did this thing know?

Lewis grits his teeth, "I didn't do anything to Arthur. I couldn’t of. It must be something else. Another variable." That’s what Vivi said, and she is right. Why does it sound like he's trying to convince himself now?

"Is that what you think, or is that what our good friend Vivi thinks? She's smart, I'll give you that, a real catch, but you can't rely on her for everything. You have to make your own decisions based on what you want. You know Arthur is scared. You saw it. Pure fear."

The body snatcher gives him a shove in the chest, forcing Lewis to drop the other to the floor. Tense, he watches it spend a moment straitening its shirt in a very Arthur-like move. Suddenly, he feels very guilty despite knowing this was only a replica of his friend.

It grins again, glancing up, “I can show you, you know. I have Arthur’s memories. I can leave them behind before I’m forced to leave." More cracks are appearing now, covering every surface like one half of the room is about to fall away. Deliberately, fake-Arthur leans towards him, “What do you say?”

“Arthur will tell me the truth when he’s ready.” Lewis wants to object further but finds the words stuck.

It laughs, an unpleasant sound, full of malice, “Not if he thinks the truth will hurt you. He’ll continue lying for forever if he thinks it’ll protect you. Besides, you might die right now, so Arthur might not even get the chance. Then you’ll never know.”

Uneasy, Lewis swallows, realising that it is right. Arthur would lie to protect him and Vivi. It is probably the reason why he’d been lying for the last few weeks. Lewis frowns down at the ground, breaking eye contact, trying to work through what he actually wants and not liking the answer. Its got him. Despite knowing that having Arthur’s memories is a bad idea that it will cause more harm than good, he finds he doesn’t care.

"Well, do you want the truth or not? Quickly now, I don't have a lot of time here."

Why is Arthur scared? He needs to know why. He desperately needs to know.

“I want to know.” He says it before he can really help it.

One elongated step and the body snatcher is suddenly close, acting before Lewis can change his mind. He attempts to move back, but the body snatcher is reaching up, grabbing his collar, yanking him down to eye level, “Good choice.”

Lewis instinctively pulls back, but the faker's eyes swirl hypnotically, shifting to a more potent green, holding him in place.

"It’s been nice talking, I think I’m beginning to see why Arthur’s so damn obsessed with you, so much delicious internal conflict...but alas our time is up.”

The walls around them crumble, splintering apart.

“It may be a day, a year or even a few decades, but I’ll be back so we’ll meet again. That's a promise."

The workshop dissolves.

"Until then, enjoy Arthur’s memories. And remember, you wanted this."

Note: Lewis joins Arthur in the pit of bad decisions.

Part 36: here

72 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

What Might Have Been - 16

@goodomenscelebration - themes prompts!

Read the full story on AO3!

Happy Good Omens Armageddoniversary! How many of these can I post in one day?

(For those who have not read previous sections: Kasbeel is our Aziraphale, trapped in another universe and going by a pseudonym. Crowley’s “mirror image” is his AU self.)

Far Future

Kasbeel hovered in the air, giving his report.

“The demonic army attempted to strike from the Scottish Highlands, reinforced by several thousand of the Marked soldiers. They were driven off by Matafiel’s troops. We believe there may be some still hidden far to the north, on the Outer Hebrides.”

“These names mean nothing to us,” said Tufriel, rolling his eyes towards his partner. “Some of these scouts are starting to go native.”

“Won’t be a problem much longer,” Bezaliel replied. “Never mind the demons, we’ll get an update further north. Is this land still free from the blight?”

“Yes, Dominion,” Kasbeel bobbed his head with the correct amount of deference. “The whole of the Peak District is believed to be the last area free of Abaddon’s curse anywhere on this island, though rumors persist of some clear ground in Ireland.”

“Are there any humans left on the islands?” Bezaliel asked.

“The Retrieval squads took ours and we cleared out the rest last month.” Tufriel crossed his arms. “If only this island were so easy to deal with. Still, if this is the only unblemished land, it’s probably where the humans will gather. Once they realize they can’t get in the city. We’ll keep watching it. Good work.”

“Thank you.” He held up his messenger tube, sealed and directed to Michael’s base camp in Cornwall. “I will need to continue south with this. Do you have any details to add?”

“Only that I thought we’d be finished by now. Seven damn years of this. How much longer is it supposed to go on, anyway?”

Bezaliel grinned hungrily. “Not much more. Our offensive should begin in a little less than a month.” A wink towards the dutiful scout. “Keep an eye on the sky, tonight or tomorrow. Things are starting to happen.”

Kasbeel saluted, and the other two returned to their patrol. When they were well out of sight, he landed on a bare rock outcrop and hummed. Not with his lips; his wings vibrated, creating a single, perfect tone, echoing off the stones of the Peaks.

The humans began emerging from their hiding spots almost immediately, secreted behind stones or in deceptive hollows. Mostly teenagers, a few older, many younger, about half with a Mark upon their faces. They gathered around the angel, moving silently on the grass and moss.

It took nearly an hour for all to arrive. Kasbeel’s group of wanderers now numbered in the hundreds.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re going to be safe up here much longer,” Lyla said, without preamble. “Probably should have left last week, like I said.”

“Perhaps,” Kasbeel conceded, waving his arm to miracle up some food. It wasn’t much. Loaves of bread, potatoes, carrots. A little bit of meat, but he couldn’t produce anywhere near enough for a group this large. “But if we’d left then, Jennifer, Mickey and Ollie wouldn’t have found us.” At only five years old, Ollie was the youngest they’d taken in.

“Fine.” Lyla counted out the servings of meat and checked her list. “Group six gets the meat tonight. Only group six, Alex, I know that doesn’t include you.” She turned back to the angel who led them. “But we leave tonight.”

“Agreed.” He sighed, looking around the tumbling rocks one more time. “We’ll have to move quickly. This was a good hiding place. We won’t find another place this convenient, or this safe.”

“Where to, then?” Lyla grabbed Alex’s wrist, sending the thirteen-year-old over to the bread line. “Ireland? I don’t know how we’ll cross the sea, but it sounds like they’ve stopped looking there.”

Kasbeel pursed his lips. “Have you given up on finding New Eden, then?”

She spun towards him, fury in her eyes. “You know I haven’t. But it could be anywhere in the world! How the hell are we ever going to find it? We’ve barely searched half of England in over three years.”

He winced. “Three years, four months, six days,” he muttered. It was a very, very long time to go without hearing from Crowley. He’d tried contacting the demon in his dreams, over and over. He was here. He could sense that. But nothing else. “It’s in England. It must be. One of the patrols told me…Aziraphale,” he hesitated over the name, as always, “chose the location himself. He wouldn’t pick anywhere other than England.”

“Your double.” Lyla sat down next to him. She had grown, in the last three years, her hair getting long, her clothing replaced by whatever they could loot in half-abandoned cities, as was the case for all Kasbeel’s wards. Even her newest shirt was threadbare, the colors faded, as if the inanimate objects of the world had ceased to care. “You never told me what the deal was with you two.”

“No. I think it would be rather too much for you to understand.”

“Kasbeel, the world is ending. The ground is cursed. And I spend half my time talking to a rogue angel. What could possibly be weird at this point?”

He smiled. “My child, you haven’t the first idea.” He smoothed his hands down his jacket, then realized he was still in his scout uniform. A wave of his fingers turned it back to the familiar suit, bowtie and all. “Still, if you like, I can bring you all to Ireland before I continue my search. It should only take a few days to reach the coast, even with the young ones. After that…” he hesitated. Miracle up a giant ship? And how to make sure it landed somewhere unblighted?

“You know we won’t last a day without you,” Lyla sighed. “Wherever you’re going, you’re stuck with us.”

He turned back to the crowd that he had slowly gathered across the years. Orphans. Renegades. Many of them troublemakers who had been thrown out of the gangs they thought would protect them, others the only survivors by angelic or demonic attack. Exhausted, half-malnourished, so worn and dirty as to almost blend in with the rocks around them.

But not afraid. Of all the people left in the world, and Kasbeel feared there were not many, these few hundred slept safely at night, under the watch of an angel.

His godchildren.

“My dear Lyla, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He settled down on a rock that conveniently grew to about the size of an armchair, with a thick cushion of moss.

She rolled her eyes at him. “How is it even out here, you manage to pamper yourself?”

“Millennia of practice. Now, what do you say we try for London again? It’s a risk, with all the patrols, but it may be the only place large enough to hide this many.”

“Assuming we can get in.”

“Assuming so, yes,” he said, gazing across the crowd. “And it sounds like there are many angels gathered in the south. But If I’m right about the wall of energy surrounding the city, I may know how to cross it.”

“And you still think your friend might be there.”

Kasbeel nodded. “I can’t imagine where else he might be. He should have contacted me by now, but they say no messages can get out of London. But, still, I would think–”

A cry went up from the gathered crowd, a scream of fear, echoed by person after person. “The sky!” Someone shouted, pointing. “The clouds are parting!”

In an instant, Kasbeel was on his feet, wings spread. He should have heard the trumpets, sensed the angels long before they parted the clouds – he had spent months honing his senses, in order to protect his charges. He braced himself for the orders that would arrive in his mind; if the Guardian of Humanity were among them, it would be difficult to resist…

Nothing came.

Instead, the clouds simply drifted apart, faster and faster, not a small parting but the whole sky, revealing the fading blue of twilight, deepening to black. Stars pierced the sky, just a few at first, but each bright as a jewel, clearer than he could ever remember them being, even in Heaven.

“Oh my God…” Lyla whispered, stepping next to him. “It’s clear. It hasn’t been clear since…since the war…I was a kid…”

Another star seemed to burst into view, white and shining, and Kasbeel fell to his knees, remembering…remembering a cottage in the South Downs, a blanket in the back garden, laying on his back and watching them arrive, while next to him…next to him…

That one’s Regulus. Not one of mine, Angel, that was some snooty wanker who thought he was so clever just because he could get four stars to orbit each other. And over there is Arcturus. Also technically not mine, but I had this really great idea and I needed a red giant to test it out on. It worked, by the way, so keep an eye out for a helium flash in the next thousand years or so…

It hurt, like being pierced by a spear, like being torn apart. He reached out a hand, grasping, wishing to feel Crowley, lying at his left side, as he always was, his protector, his partner, his friend…

A small hand caught his, wrapping around his fingers. He turned, blinking tears from his eyes, to see Lyla, kneeling beside him. A moment later the others started gathering around. Mickey, Rahima, Alex, Lochlan, Mariah, Amiyah, Dominic, Ollie, and so many more.

“Look,” Kasbeel said, pointing at the sky. “That star there. That’s Regulus. And over there…that one is named Arcturus…”

Far away, in a cell that seemed to exist in its own bubble far from anything else, Crowley snapped awake, emerging from a dream that was slightly less painful than reality.

Something had changed.

He could feel it, deep inside. Something that had been missing, suddenly returned.

“It’s the stars,” said his mirror image, across the cell. Shoftiel had left them both in their human bodies this time. The manacles that held their wrists – Crowley’s left, his mirror image’s right – were too short to lay down comfortably, so they both sprawled against their walls.

They didn’t talk much. The secrets they held were the only things keeping them alive. So they simply existed, here, together, witnessing each other’s pain and humiliation, waiting for their own turns. It bonded them in ways conversation never could.

“The sky is clear again,” the mirror image continued, looking up at the ceiling, lost to the dark above. “I wish I could see it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, allowing himself to remember a night on a blanket in a garden, just for a moment. “Me, too.”

“Not long now,” the mirror image said. “Seven years. That’s all it ever was.” His eyes met Crowley’s, and they were full of fear. They couldn’t hide their emotions without the glasses, and that was one thing they were never allowed. “If the stars are back, time’s nearly up.”

“So they’ve…learned everything?” It wasn’t something they asked each other. But if it was the end, Crowley wanted to know.

“Just one secret left.” The mirror image rolled his head, with a broken version of Crowley’s smile. “How to get into London.”

#good omens prime #good omens celebration #goc2020 #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #principality aziraphale #guardian angel aziraphale #takin on some godchildren #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #What Might Have Been #good omens #ao3 #ao3 link

8 notes · View notes

shewhowantsmouseears · 6 years

Text

The Son Of Scheherazade, 9

Notes: As always, big thanks to my amazing editors Drucilla and BlueShifted!

Welcome to the "breather" arc, a filler meant for hilarity before we dive back into the plot. Donald's reaction to Panchito's and Jose's... enthusiasm is kind of like one of those anime cliches where the girl becomes so embarrassed she runs away with her hands on her face. Embrace popularity, Don.

Another anime cliche I had in mind was with Minnie and Lotus Blossom - you remember those old-school anime where rival girls would fire lightning from their eyes? Poor Mickey.

For those not in the know, Lotus Blossom is a comics-only character. Sometimes friend, sometimes foe, always a pain in the butt.

Summary: With Mickey's confidence at an all-time high, he's about to learn arrogance has its price. He's also about to have his first date... but it's not with Minnie!

Mickey would never call himself a patient person, but he was currently waiting calmly in front of Clarabelle and Horace's room with a smile on his face. Panchito and José were at his side, struggling to be as composed as Mickey was and failing, judging by their incessant tapping of feet and fingers itching on Panchito's guitar. Minnie was napping in her lamp – at least, that's what Mickey assumed she was doing, since he didn't see any other purpose for being in there. He definitely wouldn't have guessed Minnie was rolling around trying to handle all the confusing feelings and questions swirling around in her mind.

“Almost done!” Clarabelle's voice called out from inside. “Why, you won't even recognize Donald when I'm done with him.”

“It's not that big a difference, for crying out loud,” said Horace, who was no doubt earning a smack from his wife. Donald could be heard chuckling quietly, which made Mickey pleased beyond measure.

Ever since Donald had first climbed onboard, he had followed Mickey around like a baby bird imprinting on its mother. Mickey hadn't minded at all, happy to show Donald all around the ship and properly reintroduce him to everyone. Donald had been nervous to express any of his natural feelings, out of fear for his powers, but with every passing day he allowed more and more of his real self to emerge. It had finally culminated in him timidly asking Clarabelle for a favor, which she cheerfully obliged.

“And...there! What do you think, Donald?” Clarabelle asked.

A moment of silence followed, and then the doorknob twisted. Donald opened the door and stepped into the hallway, revealing the “big change” - Clarabelle had snipped away his ponytail, and smoothed down his feathers, giving him a much more humble and natural look. It highlighted all the other changes that had taken place since his arrival – the bags under his eyes were gone, and now his stomach was fuller, since he'd been given proper meals and attention. Mickey mused that Donald now looked more like a handsome prince than he did when he thought he was royalty.

“What do you guys think?” Donald asked, scratching his cheek shyly.

“It doesn't matter what we think,” Mickey replied, a hand to his heart. “What matters is what you think, Donald! This is your life now, after all.”

Donald took a moment to consider this, and nodded. “In that case...I like it! I kinda feel more free. Like a burden's off my shoulders! And I'm going to wear different clothing too! No more tight, frilly, fancy stuff! I'm even going to choose my favorite color and everything. I'm a whole new man!” He proudly put his hands on his hips, ready to strut his stuff, when he realized Panchito and José were staring at him dumbly. “...What's with them?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Probably something very silly. Watch yourself.”

Panchito suddenly slammed his hand downwards, creating a loud chord with his guitar, then pointed up in a dramatic fashion. “José!”

“Panchito!” José called back, holding his umbrella out in the same manner a knight would brandish their sword.

“Long have we searched this world for the very thing that has been missing from our souls!”

“Yes, we who are two, we have been incomplete! But we could not tell what we lack!”

“But you who understand me so deeply, you now know what I know, and so you know now!”

“I know now and now know more than anything else I ever known!”

“Can you put a name to this feeling in my heart, the one that calls out in this moment?”

“Of course I can, for I feel it in the very depths of my soul! Say it, my friend, say it!”

Donald was about to ask what in the world they were going on about, when Panchito latched himself onto Donald's left arm. “This can only be... love! Our third caballero!”

José snatched the right arm. “Love and love only! I implore you, dear Donald, to be with us forever and ever!”

Donald's entire face began to redden, and the sunlight that was pouring through the windows began to intensify to a blazing degree. “Wuh-wuh-WHAT ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT?!” Oh, this was the feeling called embarrassment.

“I think they like you,” Mickey said mildly, by now used to the bird's bizarre antics.

“We love him!” Panchito agreed, pressing his cheek to Donald's. “Come, we shall drink and be merry and make you a part of our life forevermore!”

“We shall sing songs and dance and introduce you to everything about this world we live in!” José took the other cheek. “We shall be your constant companions, your loyal servants, your wingmen! … See, it's funny, because we're birds.”

Donald, who had never heard a genuine compliment in his whole life, was wholly unprepared for the instant adoration thrust upon him. He covered his face with his hands and ran down the hallway, with the two nutjobs giving chase. “WAUUUUGH!”

“Look at how fast he goes, José, already bragging about his superior speed!”

“Praise be unto Donald, for he is mighty and amazing in all he does!”

Horace finally poked his head out of the doorway. “Oh, that's going to be fun to adjust to.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mickey chuckled nervously, unsure if he should help or not. “Well, at least they won't constantly be asking for stories from me anymore.” He had been delaying that every chance he got, knowing he had nothing in his head that could compare to his mother's marvelous imagination. “I just hope Donald's emotions don't crash the ship before we land. How long until we reach Khade Town?”

With the crew having to adjust to another member, especially one with potentially destructive powers, Goofy had deemed it necessary to make a stop at nearby town to get extra supplies. “Should be less than an hour!” the captain himself declared, walking down the hallway, having just barely dodged the parade of birds that were now running up and down the ship. “We should be done in a day or two, maybe even shorter if we don't run into any distractions.”

“Like Mickey picking up another friend,” Clarabelle continued, giving Mickey a small smirk.

Mickey crossed his arms defensively. “It's not my fault we keep running into people who need our help! Besides, Minnie and Donald are going to help us out in my journey to get my parents back. Maybe we could even find another helpful person in the town!”

“Look kid,” Horace walked out of the room. “I'll admit, so far your knack of chronic hero syndrome has worked out for the better... but it's not always gunna be that way. Sometimes we can't save everyone, and sometimes not everyone deserves saving. You gotta be ready for people to take advantage of that big heart of yours.”

“I think I can take care of myself pretty darn well.” Mickey turned his head away. Shoot, he'd already been in some epic battles and used his strength and smarts to get out of them. He could take on any challenge that headed his way! And even better, his victories had nothing to do with him being the Son of Scheherazade. His heart would never steer him wrong! He was the hero of the story, and the hero was always right!

“We shouldn't run into too much trouble,” Goofy interrupted, trying to stop an argument from occurring. “It's a pretty small town... the only notable thing about it is a shrine to some gods from the north. Other than that, it's your average, run-of-the-mill kinda place. So we probably won't find anyone in life-threatening danger or folks with magical powers or villains with evil schemes to take over the world.”

“Boy, wouldn't that be nice,” Horace groaned.

“Don't be such a coward, Horace!” Mickey held his chin up, and began to head back to his room, full of confidence and swagger. “We can take on anything that comes our way! I ain't afraid of anything!” If he had heard this line of dialogue from one of his mother's stories, he would have immediately assumed that the hero of that tale was going to eat his words by the story's end. But now Mickey was drunk on his own spirit, unable to conceive his own failings. He was the hero who rescued the genie, who freed the prince of storms!

What could the world toss at him that he couldn't handle?

~*~

The ship “landed” a few miles outside of the town, anchored in by small rocky mountains. Once again, Pluto stayed behind to guard the ship, and the rest of the crew was split into groups. Panchito and José insisted on showing Donald around, and Donald allowed it if they stopped singing for several seconds. Goofy, Clarabelle, and Horace would be the second group, and Mickey and Minnie would be the last group – although Horace objected to this, insisting Mickey should stay with him, due to his attitude.

“I don't need a babysitter,” Mickey insisted as the groups walked into town, the birds already going in a different, loud direction. “Tell 'em, Minnie, didn't I do great at Donald's kingdom?”

Minnie gave him a curt look. “Is that a wish?” She had quickly settled back into her snide routine, not wanting to entertain the warm, weird thoughts the last adventure had brought her. Okay, so, Mickey was a decent enough fellow, but that just meant his darkness was hiding deeper than most people's did. He was not an exceptional, extraordinary being. Sure, maybe he was the tiniest bit clever, and perhaps the smallest bit generous, but in the end he would be the same as all her other masters. Not that she cared when this happened. Because she didn't. At all. Just like she didn't care how much Mickey was so-called “in love” with her, which he wasn't, he just liked her looks, and not her personality, because genies don't have personalities, they are tools, and so by that logic, Mickey didn't really love her and so Minnie really didn't care SHE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT CARE SO STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

Mickey rolled his eyes, oblivious to Minnie's inner nonsense. “Thanks, Minnie.” He would have explained further, but his big black ears picked up an odd sound.

It was something the others didn't pick up on, especially Horace. “Kid, I'm just trying to look out for you.” He closed his eyes, drawing upon years of experience. “You've been cooped up in a palace all your life, so you don't know the cruelties of the world! In a year's time, I bet you'll be thanking me for all my help. All you have to do is... he ran off while I was talking, didn't he.”

“Yes, yes he did.” Minnie pointed to the cloud of dust that had once been Mickey.

“Kid's gunna age me twenty years,” Horace groaned.

“Aw, let's just go shopping like we planned!” Goofy insisted. “We gotta buy some lemons so we don't get sky-scurvy.”

As Clarabelle yelled at Goofy for the tenth time that sky-scurvy was not something that existed, Minnie took it upon herself to look for her wayward master. What had distracted him?

The rapid sound of footsteps, that's what – Mickey had weaved himself through an open alleyway, and that's when he caught the origin of the sound. Three burly, tall, masked men were chasing a young woman who was carrying a wrapped bundle in her arms. Startled villagers ducked out of the way, frightened by the display.

“Get back here!” One of the men shouted, full of anger and spit. “There's nowhere you can run!”

Mickey instantly decided he knew what was happening – those three bullies were trying to rob that woman! So much for peace, quiet, and boredom. Looks like it was time for the Son of Scheherazade – no, Mickey the Hero, to write another exciting chapter! He looked around the area, trying to think of a solution – as much as he wanted to leap into the heap of battle, he didn't like the odds of one against three. The entire group was coming up, and if he didn't act fast, they'd all pass him.

What could he do, what could he use? He quickly surveyed the area – a humble food market, full of yummy fruits and vegetables, such as bananas, apples, and oranges – round oranges! Mickey ripped off a satchel of coins from his belt. “Hope this'll pay for everything!” He shouted to the shopkeep who had probably hidden inside by now, and he tossed the satchel inside the building – before taking out his scabbard and hacking away the legs of the fruit stand, causing it to crack and break, sending the oranges spilling into the street.

The timing had been perfect – the woman managed to avoid the spill, but the three men now found themselves tripping and rolling over the mess beneath their feet.

“Hey!”

“Whoa!”

“Dude, I JUST washed my robes this morning!”

While they tried to regain their balance, Mickey dashed ahead to the woman's side, having an idea for one more trick. “Here, this way!” He grabbed her wrist, which is when she finally noticed him, giving him a surprised, puzzled expression. He pulled her into another alleyway, spun her around, dipped her low, and took off one of her pointy yellow sandals, and then chucked the shoe across the street. Once the action was done, he held up a finger for silence, while the woman blinked at him. Mickey would later realize she had been awfully calm all the while.

The trio of attackers managed to finally find their footing, catching up to the alleyway. The leader of the group stopped them, pointing at the shoe. “Look! She must have gone this way!”

“Excellent finding, bro-ski. Don't worry, we'll find her!” said the smallest of the group.

“Only when we find ourselves, can we find another,” said the largest of the group.

They then took off ahead, believing they were right on their victim's tail. Mickey waited until he could no longer see them to let go of the girl – to be frank he wasn't sure how much longer he could have held her, given that she was two heads taller than he was. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could get a good look at her.

She was a pretty thing, he supposed, the kind of prettiness that other men would find beautiful but simply not Mickey's type. Her long black hair was tied up in a high ponytail with bright orange flowers, and a pair of golden earrings hung in round circles, rocking back and forth whenever she moved her head. Her deep blue top had yellow lining, exposing her pale arms that apparently could carry heavier things than one would think, given how large the bundle in those arms was. Her blue dress had noticeable slits that revealed shapely long legs. Curious dark eyes studied him, and she finally smiled, curling a lose hair behind her small ear. “You saved my life!”

Mickey placed his sword back in its scabbard. “Aw, it was nothing.” He replied with a puff of his chest. “It's just what us heroes are made to do. Are you all right?”

“I am now, thanks to you.” She held the wrapped bundle close to her chest. “I was trying to get my precious family heirloom home, when those thugs corned me! I thought I was a goner until you arrived! May I know the name of my brave hero!”

“I am Prince Mickey, the Son of Scheherazade!” Mickey only realized what he'd said when it was too late, and he resisted the urge to slap his forehead. “But... uh... just 'Mickey' will do.” Shoot. He was so conditioned to that title it came out as natural as breathing.

The woman's eyes took on an intense glitter. “Prince?” she repeated, before putting the heirloom on the ground and bowing low, hands on the ground. “I am not worthy to be in your presence, your highness.”

“What?!” Mickey jumped, and then raced over to grab her hands. “No, no, stop that! It's not like that at all! You don't have to do anything like that! I just wanted to help you, I don't want any special treatment.”

“Please forgive me, then... I have never been with someone so important.” The woman didn't pull her hands away from Mickey's. “My name is Lotus Blossom. How can I ever repay you for your kindness?”

“I don't need any kind of payment, really!” Mickey now tried pulling his hands away, but my, she had an awfully tight grip on him. “Listen, Lotus, if those guys are still out and about, maybe I should walk you home so they can't get their hands on you.”

“Your generosity truly knows no bounds, Mickey. But now I carry a burden with me, if you can't allow me the simple act of returning a kindness. How will I sleep at night with this guilt? Can't I be allowed one simple thing?” She raised a hand to touch his cheek, leaning in and lightly whimpering.

“Ah... well...” When she put it that way, it did seem harder to deny her. “I... I guess if you really want to, it'd be rude if I said no. Doesn't have to be anything big, though.”

“Oh, thank you, your highness!” Lotus suddenly threw her arms around Mickey, drawing him close to her plump chest. Mickey jerked, but he didn't want to insult her by backing up. His cheeks burned, and he tried to patiently wait out the hug and praise, eyes darting around for a proper place to rest his eyes. Like the sky, or the walls, or Minnie -

… Or Minnie standing in the alleyway staring at Mickey as he was pushed into the bosom of a pretty woman.

“NOTWHATITLOOKSLIKENOTWHATITLOOKSLIKE-” Mickey yelled loudly, his words so smashed together that no one understood what it was he was trying to say, jumping backwards and landing on his butt. Forget Mortimer the Magnificent or Donald's storms, this was as close to death as he ever felt!

Lotus frowned, and then looked in the direction Mickey was flailing at. “...Can we help you?” Her sweet voice now turned sour.

Minnie looked at Lotus, looked Mickey, then back to Lotus. “I was merely searching for my Master, and I have found him. That's all.” An average onlooker wouldn't have noticed the fire in Minnie's eyes or the aura of wrath all around her, but Mickey sure did, and he hoped one of the laws the genies had to follow was to not murder their masters. “Come, Master, we should return to the duties the Captain gave us.”

“Uh,” said Mickey, which for the moment all he was capable of saying.

“Right now?” Lotus put her attention back on Mickey, taking his hand with both of hers. “But I haven't properly thanked you yet! And what about those vicious men who are after me? You said you would help me.”

“Uh,” said Mickey again.

“My Master has his orders to follow, and can't afford to waste any time helping every single person he meets.” Minnie began to walk towards Mickey, and grabbed his other hand. “I'm sure this woman can find her own way home. She is an adult, not a child.”

“Uhhh.”

“Why yes, I am.” Lotus smiled, with a hint of fang to it. “Are you saying you're an adult too? I'm surprised, since you certainly have the body of a child...”

“UHHH.”

Now Minnie was glaring hellfire at Lotus and got it back in turn. “My looks have nothing to do with my Master returning to where he is supposed to be!”

“If he really is your master, then he should be able to make his own decisions, shouldn't he? You sound awfully bossy for a slave.”

“And you sound awfully attached for someone he just met. Why can't you find someone else to take you home?”

“He saved my life, of course I trust him!”

“He saves everyone's life, that's what he does!”

“Why don't you back off, tiny?”

“WHY DON'T YOU BACK OFF?!”

“WHY DON'T YOU MAKE ME?!”

Mickey had finally gathered enough bravery and strength to whistle high enough so both women stopped. “Listen... I have no idea what you two are doing, but that's gotta stop.” He cleared his throat, starting over. “Yes, I do have duties to fulfill, but Lotus Blossom was in trouble. I can't ignore people when they need help! And she says she won't be comfortable unless she repays me. So I'll take her home, and then she can repay me, and then I'll return to my duties. Everyone okay with that?”

Minnie “hmph”ed, but then glanced away. “...I suppose it is a matter of honor.”

Lotus clapped. “Wonderful, we're all in agreement! And I know exactly how to repay you, your highness! It will be something you and I both enjoy! And it's the only thing I want to give you, so you can't say no.” Was it Minnie's imagination or did this sound rather planned and rehearsed?

Mickey merely nodded. “Sounds fair. So, what is it?”

Lotus took Mickey's hand again for a big squeeze. “A date!”

“... A date?” Mickey repeated in disbelief.

“A date?” Minnie repeated in equal lack of belief.

“A date!” Lotus finished, now standing up and gathering the heirloom into her arm. “Oh, it'll be so much fun! We'll have a great time together! A hero and the damsel in distress he saved, together... isn't it romantic?” She then paused in her glee, noticing Mickey wasn't celebrating, and she eyed Minnie suspiciously. “Unless you two are...?”

“Oh, no, uh, she's, no.” Mickey fumbled, airily trying to gesture what he himself was barely figuring out. “She's... well... my friend? I mean, we've never... you know...?”

“I must say, that is a relief!” Lotus chirped, giggling. “There are some truly despicable masters out there.”

“NO, NO! I would never do anything like that!” Mickey said realizing what she meant, and then felt he just had to add, “I don't think I would be comfortable even kissing Minnie now.”

Now, Mickey was still trying to work out the tricks and oddities of romance. So he was fairly clueless why Minnie's jaw had dropped and she looked ready to either burst into tears or strangle him. “Comf...Comfortable?” She said shakily, her body twitching, fingers clenching. “You think the idea of kissing me is uncomfortable?”

Mickey blinked, knowing he was digging himself deeper yet unable to understand why he had the shovel. “Well, sure. Wouldn't anyone feel that way?” Lotus Blossom grinned, enjoying the show.

“Youuuu...” Minnie stretched the vowel out, shaking harder with anger. What happened to the dopey, goo-goo-eyed boy who had been drooling over her when she was on stage? Was she that repulsive now that she was a genie? What was so uncomfortable about kissing her?! Had he been uncomfortable when she kissed him on the cheek ages ago? NO SIR, THAT STUPID BOY HAD ENJOYED IT! “You, you, you...” She sucked air in through her teeth, her tail curling up behind her. “Well... I'm SO SORRY that I make you so UNCOMFORTABLE, MASTER!” Mickey had never heard her shout so loudly, and was literally floored, reeling on his back. “DON'T ALLOW ME TO MAKE YOU ANYMORE UNCOMFORTABLE! ENJOY YOUR DATE!”

Minnie then stormed off, her feet stomping so hard one could swear she was leaving footprints that would last a lifetime. Fine! FINE! Let him have his fun! He really just was like all the others! Let that harlot take him so they could cuddle and coo and KISS and have COMFORTABLE kisses! What did she matter? She was only a genie, and genies weren't supposed to entertain any thoughts about their master besides sheer obedience. It was her own fault for feeling this way.

As for Mickey, he still laid there, trying to process everything. “...Wha'happen?” he mumbled, as if he'd been run over by a wild stampede of elephants.

“I'll show you the way home!” Lotus took Mickey by the hand and began to drag him away, not caring if he ever got up to walk. “Then we can plan our date! I simply can't wait!”

Then Mickey thought the one thing no hero in a story should ever think – At least it can't get any worse.

#disney #fanfic #the son of scheherazade #mickey mouse #minnie mouse #donald duck #goofy #clarabelle cow #horace hosecollar #panchito pistoles #jose carioca

3 notes · View notes

shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

130lb of Ukrainian Courage (pt3)

Svetlana pulls up outside the old house and sets her cigarette in the cars ashtray. She checks her reflection in the mirror and reapplies her lipstick. She does not need to do this, the house contains two homosexuals and her son but she likes to look her best at all times and what little charm she wields over Mickey will come in handy today.

She presses the doorbell and smiles at the excited cry of ‘Mama!’ that comes from somewhere inside a moment before the door is flung open and Yevgeny crashes into her middle, hugging her tightly.

“Hello sweet one! Ah! You get bigger every day! I have missed you very much.”

Svetlana wraps her arms around him and peppers his dark hair with kisses. She had hoped the blonde hair he was born with would stick but alas, he appears to be becoming as dark and short as his father is. One cannot have everything though.

“Hey.”

Mickey appears from the kitchen and she sees his eyes flick over her carefully made-up lips and lifted breasts, appraising but not in the least bit lustful and a twinge of something that Svetlana refuses to call regret, catches her.

“You goin’ out or something?”

“No. I dress up for myself and for my most wonderful man only.”

She smooths Yevgeny’s hair as she says this and he looks up at her with the simple adoration of small children. Mickey frowns and purses his lips

“You’ll give him a complex.”

“Two fathers? He is already complexed.”

“That doesn’t make any … you know what? Doesn’t matter. You coming in?”

Mickey is holding the door open in invitation and Svetlana is grateful. Things will go smoother if he is in a good mood and he clearly is. He looks tired but healthy, she had been worried he would get fat when he and Carrot made a nest together but if anything, he is leaner than he used to be. Most likely drinking a little less.

“Please.”

Svetlana detaches Yevgeny, who barrels back into the house past his Papa to resume a video game with his Dad.

“I like your shirt. Blue is a nice colour on you.”

Mickey glances down at the fitted t-shirt he is wearing and back to Svetlana. His look of patient good humour instantly replaced with watchfulness. Shit! She has played too nicely.

“Your pants look awful though. Too tight on your ass.”

His expression softens and Svetlana thinks, not for the first time, that he really is the most peculiar man she has ever encountered. Not all bad by any means, but so very strange.

“You want a coffee?”

“No, thank you. I will not stay long.”

“Hi Svet!”

Ian waves from the living room, craning his head over the back of the sofa.

“Hi.”

She smiles and watches as Yevgeny bounces all over Ian in sudden excitement over something the blue hedgehog is doing on screen.

“I’m gonna win, Mama!”

He yells and Svetlana laughs, happy to see him so happy.

“Good luck!”

She calls and follows Mickey into the kitchen, which is always agreeably clean. A world apart from the house they shared together when Yevgeny was a baby. Terry’s house was always filthy, even when Terry wasn’t in it. Carrot is clearly a good influence in some ways.

Mickey is drumming his fingers against his leg and doing that fucking annoying thing of chewing the inner corner of his lip. Svetlana things it makes him look like a retarded chiwawa. It also probably means he has either done or is about to do, something stupid. She sets her face into a mask of readiness and folds her arms.

“What foolishness have you done?”

Mickey’s expression changes to his familiar look of long-suffering contempt for the world and Svetlana relaxes a little.

“I haven’t done shit! Why the fuck you asking me … and get that look off your face! You’re his Mom not mine.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders and scratches his upper lip with his thumb.

“Fine, you have done nothing. What is it then?”

Mickey peers over her shoulder before stepping forward furtively

“I just … I wanted to ask you if we’re … you know … if we’re properly divorced?”

His voice is low and eye contact is urgent and swift. Svetlana sighs and smiles

“Yes, you signed. I signed. We are divorced. You are planning to re-marry a new whore?”

“No … yeah … maybe. Not a whore. Don’t say anything, Okay?”

Svetlana’s eyes open wide in surprise and she claps her hands, clasping them before her chest delightedly

“You are planning a proposal for Carrot?!”

“Shhh… keep your fuckin’ voice down!”

Mickey snaps although Svetlana has in fact been whispering so low even he can barely hear her. Svet cups his anxious face fondly between her hand and kisses his lips exuberantly

“Good for you.”

“Ugh. Never do that again. Jesus.”

Mickey pulls away, roughly rubbing the lipstick from his mouth but there are two high spots of colour in his cheeks and he is clearly at least a little pleased by her reaction. Svetlana’s smile disappears as suddenly as it bloomed and she steps back from him.

“I have news that is not as good.”

“What?”

Mickey is still faffing with his mouth, trying to ensure all traces of crimson have been removed and Svetlana takes advantage of his distraction, taking a deep breath before saying

“Yevegny will not be coming to stay next weekend.”

“No? Why not?”

Mickey glances up and Svetlana sighs heavily

“He is going to meet his grandfather.”

Mickey grins and raises his eyebrows in surprise

“No shit? Your Dad’s coming state side? I always kinda thought he was dead!”

Svet presses her lips together and shakes her head sharply

“Not my father. Yours. Terry is being released and he wishes to meet Yevgeny.”

She watches the colour slowly drain from Mickey’s face and the intrigued smile falter and then disappear.

“Fuck.”

The word comes out in a hushed whisper. Fear is written plainly across his features and it makes him look younger, more like the boy she first met.

Mickey stares at her for a moment and then drives his fist painfully down onto the counter top, a jagged, reflexive movement that Svetlana expected. It is good to release tension swiftly, and she knows that this is how men like Mickey tend to do it.

“FUCK!”

“OK in there?”

Ian’s voice carries back to them and the initial tug of fear in Mickey’s heart freezes into a lump of cold terror.

“Dropped something.”

His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away as he answers Ian and kicks the door shut. He closes his eyes to try and blot out the images swirling through his head.

A dusty old car pulling up outside the house ...

Ian, alone and unprotected, eating cereal over the sink ...

A knock at the deep blue door Ian painted so carefully...

Ian setting his breakfast aside with a cheerful expression, ready to welcome a guest, and going unsuspectingly to the door …

Svetlana lays her hand gently on top of Mickey’s fist but he snatches it away, turning his back on her and pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, trying to maintain control.

“When does he get out?”

“Friday. He will come with Yevgeny and I to the park and then he will head to Canada to stay with your uncle.”

“What?”

Mickey comes back to reality a little at this. Yevgeny. Terry is making a beeline straight for the kid for fuck knows what shitty reason but it sure as Hell isn’t a game of catch in the park. Mickey shakes his head tersely.

“No! Fuck no! Don’t let him near Yevgeny! Jesus, Svet.”

“Geny is his only grandson. He says he wishes to give him some money, for college.”

Despite the absolute horror churning in his brain, Mickey can’t help but laugh a little at that.

“You think you know my Dad? If you had the first clue about him, you’d know that he thinks college is for fags, pussies and clever fucks in need of a beat down. There is no way he wants Yevgeny in college.”

Svetlana flicks her hair over her shoulder and shrugs.

“He has been changing. He is older now, tired. He wants to see what family he has left.”

She is trying to make it sound as if she is cajoling him but Svetlana knows that his answer will eventually be yes. Mickey has never denied his father anything he wanted. Fuck the whore. Marry the whore. Raise a child. Whatever Terry has asked of him, Mickey has done.

The only thing strong enough to change that pattern a little is what Mickey feels for Ian, and it got him disowned by the Milkovich patriarch so irrevocably that his name is no longer allowed in Terry’s presence. Not a great loss by any imagining but Svetlana knows how much it wounds Mickey all the same. Her ex-husband would never admit it, but he is a deeply sensitive man and despite it all, he still loves his father. It is his weakness and she leans on it heavily now.

“You are dead to him, Mikhailo. You know this?”

Mickey nods, licks his bottom lip and his eyes, dark with hurt, flick away and then back to her.

“Yeah, I know.”

Svetlana notices a nerve near Mickey’s eye starting to twitch. It trembles just above the small white scar that remains from the pistol whipping Terry gave him and guilt gnaws uncomfortably at her.

Her mother was a person like Mickey, Natania Tarasov was a woman of few words but her face was a colourful story book of emotions. Each nerve seemed capable of telling all that was in her heart if people only bothered to learn her unique language.

Mickey lacks Natania’s subtlety of character and his tics are more pronounced but somehow he can be more difficult to read. Svetlana supposes it is because she never bothered to learn him. Ian did though. Ian would know that the little twitching scar is shame and regret and loss and the beginnings of another defeat to the whims of Terry Milkovich.

“Why the fuck do you want to let him see the kid anyway?”

“Family is important. So is money for college.”

Svet shrugs with her usual pragmatism. She allows a few seconds pause and then lays her final playing card

“I have told your father that if anything happens to you, he will never see Yevgeny again. He promises there will be no trouble.”

Mickey looks at her sharply, his eyes wild and full of protective fear

“I don’t give a shit about me. What about Ian?”

Svetlana suppresses a little smile and feigns nonchalance as if this is not the reaction she was waiting for.

“I can bargain for Ian too if you want me to.”

“If I …? Of course I fucking want you to! Ian is the whole fucking deal, tell that old prick to stay the fuck away from him! You hear me, bitch?”

Mickey takes a single,threatening step towards his ex-wife and then catches himself and stops, turning to grip the underside of the counter, hard, using it as an anchor. He keeps his eyes trained on her though and his gaze so furious Svetlana holds up her hands, nodding hastily. She always underestimates the pull of Carrot Boy.

“Of course. Ian will be safe. That is the deal? Geny gets money from his Grandpa and you have your Carrot?”

“There is no way this is all he wants. He doesn’t even fuckin’ like kids.”

Mickey says softly, almost to himself. He is breathing a little easier now and he makes himself let go of the counter, dimly aware that the sharp edge of the wood has raised blisters across his palms.

“It is one afternoon, Mikhailo. Then he will leave.”

Mickey rubs at the tiny quivering scar by his eye irritably. He hates it but if it is what it takes to extract a promise for Ian’s safety...

“You’ll be with him the whole time? Yevgeny, I mean.”

“Of course. Your father does not want to babysit. Only meet.”

Mickey is slowly nodding to himself. His Dad is a horrible old bastard but if Svetlana will be there … Mickey knows she would never let anything happen to Yev … and maybe she’s right. Perhaps after all this time the old man is starting to mellow a little. That’s not impossible to believe, not even for Terry. Maybe he’ll even be able to forgive Mickey a little … not that he cares but, you know, it’s his father ...

“Ok. Yeah OK. But don’t leave Dad alone with Yev. He’s got a fuckin’ short temper and Yev can be a little mouthy.”

“I will stay close.”

Svetlana smiles, touched by Mickey’s obvious concern for their son.

“Alright. Can we have him Saturday night though? Ian will still wanna see him.”

Mickey is staring into the middle distance and Svetlana knows better than to try and talk to him much more when he is wound up so tightly. Terry is the stick. Mickey needs his Carrot. She lifts her purse a little higher on her shoulder.

“I will bring Yevgeny on Saturday before dinner. You’ll feed him.”

“Thanks.”

Mickey mumbles and barely notices when he is suddenly alone.

Ian finds Mickey in the kitchen. He heard him say goodbye to Yev but then he’s been so quiet, Ian wondered if he’d gone out.

“Hey! There you are! You OK?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey’s lip quirks upwards but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes which are large and dark with worry.

“You’re not. What’s wrong?”

Ian is in front of him in an instant, large hands resting on his shoulders, peering intently at him, reading him.

“Babe, what’s happened?”

Mickey drags himself back from the swirling white noise filling his head and swallows dryly. He sniffs, glances up at Ian and suddenly lunges forward and presses an urgent kiss against Ian’s mouth. It is harsh and quick and Ian doesn’t have time to respond before it is over and Mickey is moving away.

“Nothing. I’m good. Hey, listen, ah, Yev isn’t going to stay here next Friday.”

“How come?”

Ian’s lip is stinging a little where Mickey crushed it against his teeth but he ignores it. Mickey is a ball of nervous energy and it is giving Ian jitters just watching him prowl around the kitchen. It reminds Ian of how he used to move, furtive and angry, like a caged animal.

“Mickey. What’s going on?”

Ian grabs his boyfriends arm and enfolds him in a tight hug. Mickey stiffens and for a moment, Ian thinks he will push him away but slowly his arms circle Ian’s waist. When he looks up at Ian, he still a little absent but much more himself and Ian lets out the breath he has been holding.

“Tell me, Mick.”

“Svet wants to take him somewhere. It’s nothing major and I don’t want to fuckin’ argue about it with you. OK?”

“Okay…?”

Ian lets go of Mickey, giving him space, and leans back against the worktop, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets.

“She ... she heard from Terry. He’s getting out and he wants to meet Yevgeny.”

Mickey looks across at Ian, eyebrows raised expectantly, his expression is defiant, almost challenging and Ian lets out a startled laugh and shakes his head, confused.

“Well fuck that! You told her that’s not happening, right?”

Mickey just keeps looking at him with the same expression and Ian feels the first stirrings of anger pushing through the shock.

“Mickey, there is no fucking way ...”

“It’s his grandson, man. He just wants to see him.”

Mickey interrupts, he doesn’t want to argue about this. He doesn’t want to think too much about it. He just wants Terry to see Yevgeny and then fuck off out to Canada and never come back.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t give a fuck what he wants! He raped Mandy, he got someone else to rape you … Jesus! He tried to fucking KILL you, Mickey!”

Ian is practically beside himself with frustration and his voice bounces off the walls, the words slamming into Mickey, who pushes a hand tersely through his hair and returns the glare Ian is giving him

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic. It was a fight, no one tried to kill anyone.”

“Are you insane? What does he have to do, huh? What does the great Terry Milkovich have to do for you to see what he is?”

“I told you I don’t want to argue about this.”

Mickey shakes his head, trembling hands tapping a cigarette out of a packet and lighting it, no longer able to look at Ian, who presses on despite Mickey’s obvious discomfort.

“I can’t believe you. You are so frightened of him that you would use our son as a shield! It’s pathetic!”

Ian snaps, he doesn’t care about Mickey’s ego just now and if his words hurt then so be it! He is completely blinded by his anger. He thought the days of Mickey ducking and diving around the wrath of his father were done but here they are again and this time it is not Ian Mickey is willing to risk but Yevgeny.

“You call Svetlana and tell her there is no fucking way that evil prick is coming near our kid!”

Ian demands, sliding his cellphone across the counter top but Mickey makes no move to take it.

“I don’t like it either but it’s one afternoon! He just wants to say hi, give him some money and maybe get a fuckin’ picture to stick on his next cell wall, I don’t know but it isn’t gonna be a big fucking deal unless you make it one.”

Mickey is trying not to lose his temper. He gets why Ian is so upset but Ian doesn’t know Terry the way Mickey does. If Svet can make him agree to leave Ian alone then fuck it, this is the best chance Mickey has of protecting him.

“It’s not happening!”

Ian roars, slamming his hand down hard enough to upset the half-finished mug of coffee beside him. Neither man pays any attention to the warm, brown liquid dripping onto the lino, they are locked in a stare off and neither is willing to blink first.

“Yes it is.”

Mickey says finally and turns to leave through the back door. He needs to leave. He’s too wound up and he doesn’t trust himself to be around anyone right now. It’s too much. He feels too hot, like he has a fever and his head is pounding.

Ian knows Mickey is about to take off and it infuriates him still further. That he thinks he can just make this decision and then fucking run away when it suits him! Fuck that! Ian knows the triggers of Mickey’s temper very well and deliberately pulls them all at once.

“Are you really still that scared little boy? Mickey Milkovich: Daddy’s little bitch! Is that what you are?”

The effect is immediate and horrible. Mickey spins around and storms toward Ian, rolling his neck from one side to the other as he moves, finally and spectacularly losing his shit.

Ian stands his ground, not giving an inch even as Mickey’s finger jabs him in the chest and he gets close enough for his hair to brush under Ian’s nose.

“I know you’re upset, but you need to watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

“Fuck you.”

Ian spits, shoving him. Mickey has planted his feet, years of fighting conditioning his movement, and he only staggers slightly before stepping back in. He can smell the faint sweetness of bath lotion on Ian’s clothes and knows that there is a steaming bath upstairs waiting for them and that it will probably go cold still waiting and the knowledge only serves to add fuel to the inferno that is quickly becoming his temper.

“This is my dad, and my kid and if I say they can fucking hang out, then guess what, bitch? It’s happening. End of fuckin’ discussion!”

Mickey’s nostrils are flaring and his jaw is clenched so hard the muscles stand out starkly but Ian doesn’t care.

“No! Yevgeny is my kid too!”

“No he fucking isn’t!”

The words are out before Mickey can stop them and the silence that echoes around them is deafening. Ian goes completely still and fixes his gaze a few inches above Mickey’s head.

“Fuck. I didn’t mean that ...”

Mickey tries to touch Ian’s face, trying to make him look at him but Ian jerks his chin away and Mickey lets his hand drop.

“Ian ...”

“I’m going out.”

Ian says flatly and pushes roughly past his boyfriend.

“Ian … don’t… I ...”

Mickey falters, his words failing him as he watches Ian walk away. The front door slams and this time, Mickey is painfully aware that he is suddenly alone.

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #mickey milkovich #Milkovich #yevgeny milkovich #Gallavich #redstarfiction #shamelessly4shameless

63 notes · View notes

mulder-isms · 6 years

Text

Begin at the beginning - (Thorcid fanfic)

A\N: It’s a sorta late halloween treat! 🎃

Thank you @fashionclownn and anon for the prompts:

“Look, I dressed up as you.”

“I’m the tall dark stranger your parents warned you about.”

This fic had many inspirations, but mostly Acid’s bunny look and Thorgy with the most wanted t-shirt ever.

As you know, you you liked let me know! Thorcid crops are dying and I could use some love.

“Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

It was never a hard task for Shane to connect with people. People can be one of a kind, but Shane was one of many kinds. A lonely existence perhaps, that could be not so lonely when finding someone he shared many things in common.

There was no way to avoid it. Jamin felt it in the air. He began to lose him piece by piece, just slipping through his fingers. After All Stars 3 a switch was pressed. Drag Race always changes everything in one try out, if you get the chance to come back it’s a damn revolution.

Shane was the one to confess.

He got emotionally involved with Trixie and the one night they had a gig together he wasn’t able to control himself anymore. He cried and asked Jamin to forgive him, begged on his knees, that it was just a fling but it was just too much.

He had not only cheated on him, but cheated with Trixie. Fucking Trixie Mattel, the constant ghost of his life.

Jamin cut him loose.

The day of his fortieth birthday he got a card from Shane. He read it and rip it. The facade behind Acid Betty was that Jamin had the sweetest fairy tales illusions. That when he would turn 40 he would have someone to share his life with because he really believed that was possible, but instead of that he had meaningless sex with someone that wasn’t Shane for the first time. He was completely hammered, covered in sweat in the small bathroom stall, the dim light, or was it just dark in his head? The much younger man was eager had bleached blond hair, and was grinding harder on him, the birthday hat both were wearing on the floor. He was hard and what’s his name was determined to make him very happy. But there was a wave inside of him, that kept coming back and getting bigger. He still loved that mothefucker so much.

The worst thing about their break-up it wasn’t because Jamin didn’t love him anymore. It wasn’t because there was no desire. The ultimate betrayal was the lack of sighs of the upcoming disaster.

He impatiently grabbed the younger men by the ass pushing him against the wall trying to break the ocean.

A blink of an eye and it was Christmas.

The colorful lights in New York reached a new dimension. Christmas in New York has always been the most magical experience. Time heals everything is not true. At least not in such simple terms. Times heals without you being aware of it. One day the pain paralyses and breaks you in thousand pieces, and the other day the pieces crawl back together. The other day you’re whole again, all stitched and glued. Just like that.

Thorgy and Trixie were in a mini Christmas tour together. Jamin had no idea if they were in a relationship, and he honestly didn’t care. He was involved with new projects and planning of moving out of New York. That city was stained. Brooklyn was a cursed territory.

But ghost of past Christmas was there.

He was having a drink in the bar with some friends and on the TV hanging on next to the drink shelves they were showing many RuGirls presentations. When he raised his head to see who was going to be the next, the duo of musicians were there.

Trixie was sitting on a stool with her guitar, a colorful flowered dressed with long sleeves and white boots and Thorgy was sitting next to her following the song with the violin. She was wearing a red sequin dress with a big bow she wore last Christmas tour, but with a beautiful styled blond wig.

Jamin suddenly couldn’t hear the noises around him, as if there was only the TV in front of him. Trixie was singing looking at Thorgy and the audience and had a sweet smile. The same sweet smile Jamin saw countless times at home. When Shane was his home.

He kept looking at Thorgy’s expressions, and the image was getting closer and closer, and he could see a sort of sadness in his eyes and the picture was zooming more and more until, there was only his eyes, all grained like they were trapped in a 60’s tv show.

Jamin woke up with a big gasp as the air filled his lungs again.

He was laying on his couch, his glasses all crooked on his face. There were drawings all over the coffee table with sparkling stones all over it . A bunny ears head piece was half beaded on the corner of the table.

He checked the time in his cellphone, almost 2 AM. Shane was out for Alotta’s auction and he said he was staying in but Jamin had a bad taste on his mouth. His stomach was aching and when he checked himself in the mirror he was pale as a ghost and his skin positively zombie-ish.

The urge to vomit was building up and before he realized that he was feeling sick too fast he ran to his bathroom toilet and threw up all the pizza and wine he had earlier for dinner . He hugged the toilet for awful two minutes after three big sprays of vomit making he feel like Linda Blair.

He leaned on the wall sitting on the cold tile, his head spinning fast. When he closed his eyes Thorgy was fucking Trixie in a bedroom that looked like the cabin from Evil Dead and then he opened them fast, panting. What the fuck was in that pizza? He didn’t even drink the whole bottle of wine.

He dragged his body to the living room again collapsing on the couch. He was feeling cold and didn’t want to get up again to grab some water. He accepted his destiny of dying in that couch when he heard the door opening and Shane coming in, his leather bag full and a tray with cupcakes on his hands.

“Girl, the auction today was so much fun! Alotta asked why didn’t you come and called you Gollum. You need indeed to get out more...”

Jamin has been in a very creative state lately, and since he was the one making everything and their travelling schedule was busy, Thorgy in gigs, and Acid in the Werq the world tour, he gladly welcome isolation in his studio when he was at home.

Shane was putting everything on the kitchen table and not noticing that Jamin didn’t even move from the couch. He kept babbling about the people he saw there and how some of them were treating him differently because of AS3 when he joined Jamin in the living room.

He had the tray of cupcakes on his hands and he was wearing Jamin’s new Mickey hoodie. Also he didn’t remove all the traces of makeup because he still was wearing a bit of eyeliner and his lips were still red as if someone just kissed him.

“What’s wrong?” Shane noticed putting the tray on the coffee table and sitting in front of him on his knees and pressing his palm on Jamin’s forehead. He removed his glasses to take a better look at him and he looked zoned out.

“I felt sick...threw up everything...maybe there was something on the pizza I don’t know” he replied slowy as Shane caressed his face. He was still feeling cold with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Poor baby” Shane pouted rubbing his forearms to make him feel warmer. Jamin reacted weirdly about Shane touching him. The fresh nightmare still resonating in his memory.

“Is that my sweater?” Jamin noticed also that Shane was wearing his black beaded pants. “And why are you wearing my pants?”

“Yeah!” Shane replied excited closing the zipper and showing the Mickey print. “I dressed up as you since you’re not going out anymore. Happy Halloweeeeeen!” he giggled opening his arms in a big ta-da and then kissed the tip of Jamin’s nose. “Your friends miss you” he confessed stroking his chest in circles. “And I miss you”

When Shane leaned to kiss him it was too overwhelming. Jamin leaned his head to the side and winced pushing Shane away.

“Vomit breath” he justified. Shane’s smile faded awkwardly.

“I was just giving you a peck, relax” Shane got up a bit irritated with his rejection.

Jamin closed his eyes in regret. He had no idea why he was treating Shane like garbage lately, and maybe the dream was his own unsolved issue with Trixie and the fact that he was feeling jealous of Thorgy’s connection with her. Trixie was the constant mistake he had to deal with. Their relationship was friendly, but he would always be the bitch that came for the most beloved doll.

And he was afraid again she was going to stain the thing he loved the most.

It all made sense now. Even though he was still feeling sick. He observed Shane checking his phone standing up and he gathered forces to sit up too. He saved him cupcakes and looked adorable with Jamin’s baggy pants and hoodie.

“Thorg, sorry, It’s just the sickness speaking... I feel like there’s an alien inside of me”

Shane left the room and came back with water and some pills. He sat on the coffee table in front of him and Jamin laid again on the couch. Shane wasn’t as cheerful anymore but seemed to be okay.

“Just drink lots of water and take these pills. Not now though” he warned and stopped Jamin from taking the pills. “You have an empty stomach. Just drink water and rest. Don’t even think about eating the cupcakes”

Shane continued checking his phone and took off the hoodie and undressed of Jamin’s pants. Jamin observed him folding them nicely and when turned to leave Jamin grabbed his leg and sat down facing him, even if it made him more drowsy.

“I had a nightmare”

Shane stopped and his expression softened a little, showing that he was at least curious. He sat on the coffee table and Jamin still had his hand on his thigh, the thumb caressing his naked knee. They were inches in front of each other. Jamin smoothed his hair trying to find the words and look less nauseated, but Shane didn’t say anything as if he just wanted Jamin to answer why he was acting so weird the past weeks once and for all.

“You cheated on me. With Trixie.”

When Shane heard the name Trixie he immediately chuckled in disbelief.

“And we broke up, and I had moved moved on. And you two were touring together and happy as two clown musicians. And I had sex with other men....”

Shane folded his arms on his chest and shifted position with the confession. Jamin took a deep breath and tried to focus again, even though his stomach was swirling again.

“And it was...not good. Because even in dreams I seem to only love you. I guess I’ve been acting weird because I feel like after AS3 everything is going to change. Again. Drag Race brought us together and I think it’s going to tear us apart this time. And you’re friends with Trixie. And I thought I got over the whole situation with her, but you mentioning her and being with her in gigs....fucked me up. It’s stupid, and doesn’t make sense, and I should know better. But I’m a tired ass jewish man that is turning forty and still lost as fuck”

He shrugged hoping for the best. Shane seemed to be still processing everything and he almost said anything and then stopped again confused.

“I- I- I don’t even know what to say. I guess sorry that I didn’t realize how my connection would Trixie would bother you? I never thought you would care because I’m the sensitive one. But after all of this, I guess I’m the asshole…”

“No, no, no” Jamin pleased caressing both of his knees and cupping Shane’s hands. “This is stupid. I’m acting like a prick lately, it’s what I do, I tend to isolate myself when I don’t know how to deal with something”

“Jamin, my connection with Trixie is just as a sister. We sure have many things in common, but we want completely different things and living completely different moments”

“I know, I know, you don’t have to justify anything. This dream, even though it was horrible, made me sorta snap out of it”

“I thought you were just like, over me. Like what the fuck did I do proposing to this bitch? Am I really going to marry Thorgy thor?”

Jamin rolled his eyes and kissed him pulling his head with both hands but Shane kept still. He kissed him slowly, his fingers caressing his earlobes.

“You do taste like vomit” Shane replied laughing when Jamin trailed down to his jawline and he stopped and pulled back.

“Well, I warned you”

They realized the TV was on the whole time and both looked at the screen, and Plan 9 From Outer Space was on.

“I had a dream about you last week too. I don’t remember much but I was a teenager in my dream, and I was playing in the school band. And you were the new music teacher. And you played the keyboard, and had lots of tattoos and I had a huge crush on you...and my dad, he read my diary and found out that I was writing all these dirty stories with you, and he threatening me to get me out of school…

“Oh my god, that is....detailed?” he replied surprised and laughing leaning on the couch. Shane peaked on the TV again “Why you didn’t tell me sooner?”

“I don’t know, you know I’m crazy, I always have stupid dreams” he shrugged.

“You must have been cute as hell as a teenager” Jamin smiled thinking about it and opened his arms inviting Shane to cuddle in. He laid by side placing his head on his chest and they both kept glancing on the TV.

“If you think greasy hair and really bad acne is cute. Also my brows were out of control. And I used to listen to symphonic heavy metal every day. Dream dad would be very mad to see me right now. He was right to take me out of that school”

Jamin hugged him tighter and kissed the top of his head.

“And you know what’s weird? I do play the keyboard”

Shane shifted and got out of the embrace looking at him with opened mouth.

“I’m the tall dark stranger your parents warned you about” Jamin replied biting his lower lip and raising his brows.

Shane scoffed looking at his sick face with dark circles under his big blue eyes.

“A bit paler than in my dreams I must say”

They kept in silence. Jamin was feeling much better with Shane’s warmth next to him and the slumber was taking over again, they were both almost falling asleep as Bela Lugosi’s monsters talked on the screen.

Jamin spent the whole afternoon in his studio making the new makeup video for Halloween. It was great testing new materials and trying new editing programs. He was very happy with result checking the camera pictures, still covered in pearls and face with still some traces of makeup, until he realized what time it was.

He was late as Alice’s bunny. His flight was in three hours and he had almost nothing packed. He heard a knock on the door and it was Shane.

“What are you doing here? Isn’t the Roast in like an hour?” he asked before saying hi. He was still startled about being late.

Shane was struck with the vision of Jamin shirtless covered with pearl necklaces and wearing those baggy pants he had that traced his crotch and ass in a marvelous way.

“What is happening here?” he was opening a mischievous smile and getting up, looking around the studio. “I came to pick up the things Alotta had separated for Halloween, remember? Hey, I wanna see the pictures!”

Jamin rolled eyes and picked the camera showing him and Shane started to pass and zoom them.

“This is incredible, it’s my instant fave right now” he was amazed with what he was seeing. Jamin finally could take a look at the man in front of him. Shane was wearing a fun yellow t-shirt on, printed with all women characters from Kill Bill, social black slacks that fitted perfectly and black Toms. Hair all up and neat and smelling fresh. Jamin checked the watch again. Alice’s bunny yelling “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!”

“What?” Shane asked clueless about his boyfriend hungry eyes.

“You look really good, I mean, these pants. They actually fit you” he voiced checking him out like he was a delicious dessert.

“I had these forever. I used to play with them in gigs, they are nice, right?” he twirled still not getting what Jamin really wanted.

So he made it clear.

Jamin hovered over Shane kissing him urgently and he almost dropped the camera when he answered his embrace.

“Are you sure you want to do this, I-I don’t think we have time...I’m gonna be….” Jamin grinded harder pushing him against the wall making him almost bump his head on the top shelves with miniture toys. “Oh shit!”

Shane tried to put some sense into his head but there was something else on it. Jamin’s erection was poking between Shane’s legs and Jamin was trying to remove the necklaces but Shane stopped him.

“Keep them on” he pleaded panting and Jamin held his hand and they went to the couch trying to not step on the mess that was on the floor. Jamin sat and Shane was in front of him and he pulled him by the waist kissing and nibbling on the flight of his pants, while his hands grabbed Shane’s ass, making him moan and giggle at the same time.

“Take them off I’m still getting out and these are black….” he asked gathering all the coordination he had taking off the yellow t-shirt and Jamin unfastened his belt quickly, pushing down his pants so he could get out of them and the shoes. Jamin took the opportunity to get out his pants too and he was stroking his cock looking at Shane undressing, and one shoe got stuck in the pants and he jumped three times to get rid of them making Jamin laugh, sorta breaking the mood.

“You looking at me, jerking off with pearls and smudged makeup on….” Shane said as he approached Jamin’s lap, straddling him slowly, his cock sliding between his butt cheeks. “It’s such a Velvet Goldmine fantasy”

Shane started to rock slowly, cupping Jamin’s face with both hands as he rubbed Shane’s back, his thumbs ran up his spine, fingers fanned out over muscles that tensed and released under pressure. Shane’s cock was hard and slick, rubbing against the pubic hair of Jamin’s tummy as the kiss was deepening. With the friction of Shane’s body rocking against Jamin’s, his little hairs of the chest kept getting stuck in Jamin’s pearls.

“Ouch” he complained after another pull, stopping kissing and looked down his chest that was all red. Jamin winced. The skin was quite irritated.

“I can take them out”

“No” Shane demanded pulling him with a fistfull of pearls and Jamin started licking Shane’s chest, nibbing on his nippples and pulling him closer making him moan louder in approval. As Jamin was working on his nipples and caresisng his ribs, Shane was undoing his hairdo letting some part of the dreads lose and Jamin licked the area next to his armpit making him laugh and getting even more turned on.

Shane then grabbed one of Jamin’s hands and licked his fingers, letting a lot of saliva run down on them. Jamin’s hands were still a little bit dirty with makeup.

“Sorry” he said giggling noticing Shane’s face with the taste of his fingers. But they were slick enough so he could warm him up a bit. “I have lube in the bedroom”

“I’m not going anywhere” Shane lifted a bit and that was the sign. So Jamin inserted two fingers inside him slowly, getting in and out as Shane pushed him harder against the couch’s cushion and making Jamin grunt louder.

His hips were finding a perfect ride rhythm as Jamin kept pushing two fingers, feeling him tensing up around them, his cock covered with pre-cum rubbing under Shane’s balls.

“Fu...you need to slow down a bit…” Jamin begged holding down his hips with both hands and Shane stopped completely breathless.

“We’re late, bunny…” Shane bluntly said out of breath and raised his brows, guiding Jamin’s hand to reach for his cock, teasing his entrance.

He started penetrating him very slowly, watching Shane enjoy every inch of it arching his back. They haven’t had sex in more than three weeks so he needed to be gentle even though he wanted to fuck the shit out of him right now. He was tight and so very, very hot. He thrusted hard into him once and Shane threw his head back, losing his breath like Jamin pushed it out of his lungs. "You want a little more?"

"I want a lot more" Shane didn’t hesitate through gritted teeth, riding him harder. It was his turn to lose his breath for a split second, then Jamin thrusted back into him , shoving and raising his hips, the hands pinning Shane’s hips. His delicious panting as the muscles squeezed around Jamin’s cock.

Shane pulled the pearl necklaces making Jamin lean forward to kiss him and embrace him by the waist and Shane kept riding him non stop...their bodies locked, Jamin feeling the old couch making crumbling noises.

“We’re going to ruin this couch again” Jamin said laughing and panting reaching for Shane’s cock to stroke it as his other arm kept him stabilized in an embrace but Shane seemed to be completely dazed, eyes closed and moaning like crazy.

He grabbed Jamin’s chin and looked him in the eye, “Fuck me harder and I’ll pay you a new one”

Jamin flipped him making him lay on his back on the couch and now he was on top, with Shane’s legs over his shoulders as he pounded him harder answering his challenge. Shane pulled him by the necklaces again and one of them broke splitting pearls all over him, but Jamin kept going and Shane was working on his cock when Jamin laid over him reaching for his neck. He was feeling Shane tighten around him , hearing his cry out softly with every one of his thrusts. He was buried deep, hitting his prostate, biting into his neck again, his face brushing on his dreads spread on the cushion. He'll leave a mark. They'll deal with it later.

“I’m so close, just like that, just like….oh...fuck…!” Shane whispered with eyes wide shut.

And then he felt Shane tightened around him like a vise, an electric shock, a whirl of pleasure hitting him deep in his stomach making Jamin following him seconds later. His entire body stiffened growling in pleasure, and he wondered if the sparks flying off their bodies were going to catch something on fire and how that couch didn’t break.

He collapsed on Shane’s body. The pearls all over the floor, and his long legs wrapped around him, as he was listening his heart beating like a heavy metal drum slowly finding the classical sonata pace again.

“I was…” Shane still breathless, and Jamin’s weight on him was not helping. “Kinda triggered when those pearls broke, having a flashbacks with my lipsync with Chi Chi…”

They both laughed and Jamin got up all sweaty and removing what was left of the necklaces. He grabbed some tissues on the table and cleaned the hot liquid on his stomach and on his cock, putting his pants on.

“I still need to pack. You want shower again, right?”

Shane just nodded with a post orgasm satisfied smile, and then Jamin approached and leaned planting kisses on his stomach.

“I feel like I can’t walk yet”

“Hey, you asked for it. Let me get you a towel”

“I’m not complaining”

Then Jamin leaned to kiss him before leaving the room.

Half an hour later Shane was in the car with Ruby Roo and Kirk going to the roast of Sherry Vine, fixing her hair. Kirk noticed the red marks on Shane’s neck.

“You might wanna cover these...allergies” the redhead implied handing him Ruby’s foundation powder.

Ruby looked back a little suspicious.

“I swear my skin is falling apart. Drag will be the end of me” he justified and kept teasing his friend hair and finished with a bit of spray.

#thorcid #whorses #rupaul's drag race #acid betty #thorgy thor #trixie mattel #rpdr fanfiction

11 notes · View notes