fiona jesus

sunflowers, marigolds, buttercups and you

it’s carry on countdown day threeeee and that means pastel/punk aus !! i’m sorry this is so late but just know that i’m actually dead from all the sports i did today and i swear i can barely walk rip- anyways! here y’all are.

i hope you guys like it! in which simon&davy have a tattoo shop and baz&fiona own a flower shop, because i love role reversals as well as pastel/punk aus


baz doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing here. it’s been a part of his life for so long, he rarely stops to question it but today aunt fiona was on his back even more, ranting on and on, that it sort of just hit him again. what is he doing? why does he bother to be here? what is this thing that they’re doing and why does it matter so much to him?

the alleyway is chilly, but baz is wearing a very heavy, very knit, very pale pink scarf that just so happens to match his nails and his boots that are shiny and supple and very warm. still, he can see his breath. it’s nothing like the heat of the furnace inside the flower shop, the alley is basically the polar opposite.

it doesn’t smell like geraniums, it smells horribly like rotting garbage and possibly like dead flowers if anything. the brick on either side of him is rough and dusty, nothing like the walls of the shop which are always pristine whites and soft blues offset by all the spectrums of color flaring out from the vases sitting all around.

baz’s favorites are the marigolds, the flowers that are perhaps the most opposite to the shades he usually prefers, but for some strange reason, he can’t get past how much he adores them. small petals that come in every shade of the sun, and they make any one of his bouquets a little bit more cheerful, like he’s just added a touch of light.

today, with the orders he had to fill, he found that there were quite a few instances that he could insert the flower, which was nice, even though the brash yellows and oranges really did clash with his outfit.

his mittens also match in part his scarf, a soft-toned pink and he hates that he has to wipe his nose on them because they are by far his favorite.

would he just hurry up?

his break will definitely be ending soon, and fiona really doesn’t take tardiness lightly, besides the fact that baz already hates being late.

isn’t he always late? baz doesn’t think he can remember a day where he wasn’t the first one to their spot, so in the winter he’s always been half frozen by the time the boy arrived.

it annoys him. but then again, what can he do about it?

he already doesn’t really know what he’s doing here yet again, why he comes here almost every day to wait in the cold, hiding from fiona who’d probably be reaching the conclusion to her third rant on ‘david snow and his goddamn tattoo parlor’ by now?

‘jesus christ, can he just not?’

‘basilton, are you seeing this’

‘he’s decided to put his sign a full inch over the line between our properties, the absolute audacity of that man!’

baz finds it almost humorous, the feud and everything. how the pitch florists ended up sharing a building with ‘that menacing scumbag of a person, how dare he demand we pay more of our share of rent, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’

but he can see his aunt’s point of view, he supposes. the rivalry, the utter hatred between their families isn’t really anything new, he’s heard all the stories. how david snow came in with his million dollar smile to a deal that his aunt had practically already taken, and turned it into an all out battle over who would get the lease on 6th street, right across from ebb’s coffee shop.

it was prime property, and fiona had wanted it so bad.

baz knew that it had been her dream, and then she had been forced to come to an agreement with this ‘inked up old bastard’ (not that fiona didn’t have any tattoos, baz hadn’t tried to argue this point with her, it really wouldn’t have made a difference) to split the building in half.

now they were constantly fighting, and baz considered himself to be right in the middle of it. not that it was a real war, just practically one of sabotage.

it just was what it was, and he had to play his role. this included doing extra work at the shop, when he already carried so much of the workload, and fiona sending him on her missions, which really never amounted to much other than a lot of screaming and threats that david snow was going to sue her for being a ‘crazy hag obsessed with her geraniums’.

for another part, baz was not to be friends with anyone related to the snow family, and if he ended up being, it was merely an advantage for espionage and further attacks, nothing personal or emotionally attached about the matter.

the thought makes baz snort. the visible puff of his breath in the air reminds him just how chilly it is and he tries to pull his collar up further.

the single rose bud that he’s carrying in his pocket is burning a hole in it, and baz dislikes the feeling because he rather likes this jacket. it’s long, and soft and a shade of cream that could almost match the snow.

he’s noticing that it has started to snow now, because he can feel the flakes melting on his eyelashes and he can see them settling on the ends of his hair, white against the the faint lilac that he’s dyed it.

fiona loves it, says it makes him match the lavender, the catmint, possibly the canterbury bells.

he’s just thinking that the snow is pretty appropriate, when he hears the footsteps he’s been waiting for and he looks around quickly-

eager, he’s always so eager. he hates it.

but when he sees those eyes- it’s always the eyes that strike him first, like he’s plunged into the coldest water- he forgets about all of that. the snow is settling in the curls of simon snow’s goldy hair and looking at him, is like getting the sun in your eyes.

his shoes crunch in the snow on the pavement, and baz starts to notice everything about him, all at once.

he’s too much, everyday, it’s just too much.

how he’s wearing these destroyed sneakers like it’s not below minus ten degrees outside, with the darkest shade of coal jeans, the knees blown out, and baz’s favorite shirt, simon knows that it’s his favorite, the one the simon designed himself, a sketch in black and white of dying sunflowers that makes it look like the flowers themselves are simply dissolving into nothingness, withering into oblivion.

baz’s attention goes to the piercings next, simon’s nose, where his septum sits a dusty silver, and his ears, where the beads and metals travel in uneven intervals all the way along each.

baz’s eyes always finish with simon’s tattoos last.

he knows the placement of every one of them by heart, and they play back in his mind for hours before he can fall asleep. his hands, dotted with lines and symbols making constellations, to his arms, to his neck and behind both his ears.

at this point he’s standing across from baz, just close enough to touch and his lips are hanging open, a pink that is terribly over saturated.

you’re so much, baz wants to say, you’re too much.

instead, he lets simon blink once more after his eyes give baz a scalding once over and state the obvious.

“it’s snowing.”

“i’d hoped you’d noticed,” baz says, and he feels like his chest might explode.

“i’m sorry i’m late,” simon says, and his voice is husky. he fiddles with his earring, the rose gold ones that clash with his entire aesthetic. the ones that baz had lent him.

baz can feel his knees grow weaker.

“i’ve come to expect it.” baz had been about to say, but then he doesn’t because simon says,

“i brought you this.” and he opens up his ungloved hands to reveal a little piece of hectograph paper. baz takes it in his hands as if it were a snowflake.

the sketch on it is incredibly detailed, yet tiny, a miniature image of a violin and a bow, with a rose vine wrapped gracefully around the horsehair.

simon smiles, which also clashes terribly with his outfit, punk boys do not smile, but it’s so much that baz feels his breath catch in his throat.

he can feel something inside him completely shatter. the pleasure of it so intense it could be mistaken for pain.

this is what you do to me.

he takes his mitten off slowly, and he can feel simon’s azure eyes watch his every movement. he reaches into his pocket.

“put out your hand,” he says, and “close your eyes.”

simon just stares at him for a moment, and baz has to laugh.

“i’m serious!”

fianlly, simon’s head seems to snap out of the clouds and he laughs too. it sounds like music.

“sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “i got distracted.”

baz resits the urge to roll his eyes and then simon snow is holding out his palm, and baz is gently taking his wrist, touching the mole in between his thumb and forefinger. his hand is freezing.

simon shivers and baz can’t tell if it’s from the cold or-

then baz places the rosebud on simon’s skin and simon’s eyes fly open. he stares. baz stares at him.

for a moment, he looks a bit helpless.

and baz is pretty sure he looks the exact same way.

then they’re surging together and it’s impossible to tell whose lips met whose first because simon has his hands around baz’s waist and baz’s hand is fisted in simon’s hair.

his mouth is so hot and it tastes like rebellion, it burns baz’s tongue, at the same it’s like sugar, too sweet and too gentle and too much like baz is a fragile object which proceeds to shatters baz’s heart even further because simon snow has never had to be gentle to anything in his life.

he is hard stone, hard rock, black, and as much of a klutz than baz has even seen- it’s really quite astonishing how he manages to tattoo people so beautifully when he can’t even stand up straight.

even now, he’s pinned baz to the brick wall and he kisses like it’s the air he needs to breathe while he leans like he doesn’t have the ability to hold himself up.

their tongues clash before baz can kiss a line down the tattoos on simon’s neck, leaving simon in the perfect position to breathe low, breathless words into baz’s ear like-

“your eye shadow is like pixie dust, i can’t stop staring at you.”

and “jesus.”

and “fuck, baz, my god.”

and baz kisses the mole under simon’s left eye saying

“you know this is my favorite tattoo you have”

and simon will laugh, before baz’s hand on his thigh makes it turn into a moan. and he tries to speak, but he stumbles on the words-

“-t’s not a-a tattoo, i’ve- told you this… s’many times”

and baz just smiles against simon’s skin because he knows, of course he knows, but he likes asking as his way to remind the boy beneath his fingers that even without his piercings, his tattoos, his clothes, he’s the most beautiful boy that baz has ever seen.

all at once it is too much, but now, it’s also not enough.

and baz murmurs

“i’m going to have to leave soon.”

again, not getting far into the sentence because simon’s lips are at his jaw and the last words come out as more of a loss of breath than actual sounds.

simon’s moved down his neck and he smells like the rosebud that he’s still got clenched in his fist and baz tries to forget that he’s got to go back to work in a few minutes and push away the fact that this had ever happened.

“stay just five more minutes.” simon pleads into baz’s collarbone and baz snorts.

“fiona is going to kill me.” he says, but simon’s hands are now in his hair and it just feels so good.

simon’s quickly back at his mouth, they’re so close, and he’s kissing with such an urgency that baz fears he actually might fall over.

“fine, five minutes” he mumbles, and he can feel simon’s smile.

the snow keeps drifting around them, hands attempting desperately to relearn every part of each other in the seconds that pass so quick, and baz knows that there’s nothing that will ever feel as good as this.

simon says, “i don’t want you to leave.”

and baz kisses him deeper, because for all that he knows, this could be the last time. simon’s just moaning and sighing, like he’s all at once so beautifully happy, but all at once so devastatingly sad. his eyes look even more helpless, and baz’s heart agrees.

they break.

simon’s taking his hand and swinging it in between them, and then baz’s pulse jumps as he does something so oddly right, he kisses the back of baz’s hand.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a declarative sentence. but it sounds more like a question even though baz can tell he’s trying not to let it.

and then he’s gone. the alleyway is just an alleyway.

the drawing in baz’s pocket just turns into something a friend gave him, the footprints in the snow where simon stood become someone else’s. baz tries to wipe the happiness off of his features as he opens the door to the shop, but it’s like trying to erase permanent marker with a white board eraser.

when he’s inside, and he’s warm again, and fiona’s said ‘welcome back’ and shoved the next list of his duties at him, he takes the sketch out of his pocket.

he considers that it might be loveliest thing that anyone’s ever given him, he knows it is. and he turns it over, he hadn’t noticed that there was writing on the back-

it says,

can you sneak over sometime? i’d really like to make this permanent.

-s.s

in simon snow’s horrendous handwriting, (baz is serious, he has no idea how this boy is an artist), and fiona comes back into the room, just as baz’s lips are turning up into a smile that takes over his whole face, his whole body and he can’t stop it.

she gives him a funny look.

“what’s so pleasant, basilton? has david snow decided finally to close up shop?”

he just looks at her, because he can’t speak, because simon snow is too much.

simon snow, the only one boy in the world he’s not allowed to have.

how does he ever manage to leave him everyday, how does he ever manage to let go?

simon snow.

his rosebud boy.

A Little Help- Fiona X Sibling!Reader

A/N: Guys I’m not dead. This was requested. Sorry about not posting lately. I recently got a new job and I’ve been trying to put in as many hours as I can so that takes up a lot of time. It’s pretty short but I haven’t been able to find inspiration lately so I hope it’s not shit. Anyways I hope you enjoy!

“Get your asses up for school!” The voice of Fiona screeched from beside you. You dropped the sandwich in your hands, her shrill scream startling you.

“Jesus Fiona! You keep screamin like that and I’ll be deaf by the time I’m thirty!” You giggled lightly at your sister. She gave you a light hearted glare and a quick shut up in response, causing you to snort in amusement. Fiona was your sister, and as bad as it sounds, she was your favorite sibling. She was older by about year, being so close in age you guys clicked at a very young age. When she dropped out of high school to take care of you and your younger siblings you felt awful, you didn’t think she’d be able to take care of everyone all on her own while your dad was drunk off his ass. So you did what you could; you dropped out of high school as soon as you turned 16.

You looked up at the stairs as the morning rush of the many Gallagher siblings started. Handing each of them a bowl of cereal as they walked aimlessly through the kitchen searching for god knows what. Fiona quickly walked past you will an empty box, tossing it onto the table in the front of Ian.

“Bills.” Fiona rushed out before turning on her heels to go and finish packing the lunches. Everyone had contributed into the box floating around the table except for Debbie.

“Where’s your money Debs? I didn’t see you put any in the box.” Fiona smiled brightly at her, Debbie scoffing in return. An instant frown formed on Fionas face.

“Stop relying on me to do everything. I need money too.” She sneered back. You whipped your head around to look at her, flicking your eyebrow up at her when she met your eyes.

“Debbie just put in a few dollars, it’s not going to break you.” You pursued your lips waiting for her to respond. She abruptly stood, her chair scraping against the floor harshly.

“Of course you agree with her. You’re so far up her ass it’s pathetic, really.” You grit your teeth, attempting to hold back your offensive comments. Fiona watching in shock as her youngest sister spewed out insults.

“Debs,” you chuckled humorlessly, “your bitchy tendencies are really getting old.”

She gave you a quick glare before grabbing her bag and walking out the front door. You sighed bringing your hand up to push the hair out of your facing, huffing in frustration. In the time everyone had grabbed their lunches and walked out the door, Fiona had snuck up to her room.

Letting out a sigh you dropped all you had into the box before turning around. “Hey don’t listen to- Fiona?” You looked around confused, not realizing she had left the room.

You walked up the stairs slowly, heading straight to Fionas closed door. Putting your hand on the cold door knob you stopped. A quiet sob could be heard from inside the room. Look down sadly you opened the door, peeking around it to take in the room. A hunched over Fiona was seen on the center of the bed, hands over her face as silent tears slid off her face.

“Don’t cry please.” You stated slowly, sitting down next to her and rubbing a hand down the center of her back. “She’s just an angsty teen.”

“I’m doing a terrible job.” Blowing air out of her mouth she continued, “I let you drop out, Debbie hates me, I don’t even know where Carl is half the time. Ian and Lip never talk to me. Where did I go wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong,” you sighed, “you can’t help those things. You did and are doing a great job Fi. I wanted to drop out. It was my choice I needed to help you. Your doing a bomb ass job and if anyone tells you otherwise find the bat.”

Letting out a soft giggle she pushed you away lightly before pulling you back in for a side hug.

“What should I do without you Y/N?”

“Probably start fires for fun.” You stated, raising your eyebrows in a thoughtful way.

“Y/N, what the fuck”

anonymous asked:

Prompt: where frank is in one of his moods and hits Ian as Mickey is walking in the door, and Mickey sees it and Mickey gets all protective of Ian and goes all Milkovich on frank. Gallavich fluff at the end if u can. THANKS

He stumbled in like he always did, trying to find a bed to sleep in. Fucking Frank. Fiona rolled her eyes at him and kept on tending to Liam, Lip ignored him completely, watching TV with Carl and Debbie, and Ian was leaning against the table, shaking his head as Frank started one of his rants.

He walked over to the fridge, searching through it for some food.

“Would you get out of there Frank, we barely got enough for us as it is,” Fiona grumbled.

“Since when did the patriarch of this family stop getting rights to his own god-damn refrigerator?!” Frank slurred.

He pulled out a plate with a cake covered in blue butter icing and sprinkles and Ian started walking over to him.

“Put that back Frank, Debbie made that for Liam’s birthday,” he said, trying to take it off him.

He muttered a few things, pulling it back and shoving Ian in the chest.

“Hey, stop it Frank!” Fiona snapped.

“This is my house!” Frank said, trying to pick at the cake’s edge.

“Well it’s not your cake…” Ian said, trying again to take it off him and while Frank waved him away and stumbled back, the cake flinging back into his chest and sliding down onto the floor.

“Jesus Frank!” Fiona yelled.

Frank licked his finger and shrugged. “Tasted like shit anyway,” he said.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” Ian yelled.

Lip, Carl and Debbie were standing in the archway from the living room, Debbie was clearly upset about her cake and Lip had his arm around her. It was at that point that Mickey walked through the door.

“Don’t you talk to me like that I’m- I’m your father!” Frank said, lunging at Ian and balling up his shirt in his fist.

His clumsy footing had them both falling into the kitchen cabinet right as Frank had his other fist aiming for Ian’s chin.

“Fuck!” Fiona yelled, putting Liam back in his high chair.

Mickey stripped his jacket off and threw it down onto the table before taking long strides into the kitchen. He grabbed Frank by the arm and wrenched him back, slamming him into the fridge and putting a hand to his throat.

Fiona’s hands clapped to her mouth and Lip had hold of Carl’s shirt in one hand and the other around Debbie’s shoulders.

“Let go of me, this is my house!” Frank garbled.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” Mickey said. “You’re gonna get your ass up and out of this house, I don’t give a fuck where it goes but it ain’t stayin’ here.”

“You can’t-”

“That was me askin’ nicely,” Mickey said, his grip tightening on Frank’s throat for a few seconds. “I only do that once.”

Frank turned up his nose in a makeshift snarl but said nothing, huffing out a loud sigh and trying to push Mickey back.

“You lay a fuckin’ hand on him again and you’re gonna lose the fuckin’ thing, you hear me?” He said, dragging him through the kitchen and to the door.

Fiona rushed to get it open and Mickey shoved him out, watching as he stumbled on the porch.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, grabbing the door and slamming it shut before walking back over to Ian.

He was sitting against the kitchen cabinets, a little blood trickling from his nose. Mickey knelt down beside him.

“You okay?” he asked.

“You don’t have to save me you know, I can handle Frank,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning up onto the bench to grab some paper towel, holding it against Ian’s face.

“I know, I just ain’t gonna sit around and watch while he takes a fuckin’ swing at you,” Mickey said.

“Thanks,” Ian said. “Sorry about your cake Debs.”

She shrugged, “Thanks for trying to stop him.”

Mickey helped Ian up and Ian flinched, clutching at his shoulder.

“You alright?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, think I slammed my shoulder into the bench is all,” he said.

Mickey looked up at Fiona, “You got an ice-pack or something?”

She nodded, “Peas are in the freezer.”

Mickey gave her a nod and grabbed them out, leading Ian upstairs.

When they got to Ian’s bedroom Mickey closed the door behind them. “Shirt off,” he said.

Ian sighed but did it anyway, sitting on the bed and watching as Mickey sat down behind him. He jumped a little as he put the frozen bag against his bare skin.

“That hurt?” Mickey asked.

“Nah, just cold,” Ian said. “Why’d you do that anyway?”

“Do what?” Mickey asked.

“Go all crazy-eyes on Frank.”

Mickey shrugged, “Because you would have been upset if I’da killed him.”

Ian laughed a little, “Why would you have killed him?”

“He took a swing at you man,” Mickey said. “You think I’m just gonna watch someone do that kind of shit to you?”

Ian smiled to himself. “Thanks Mick,” he said.

Mickey leaned over and kissed Ian on the back of the head, making Ian smile harder.

“Hey, anyone lays a finger on you, you tell me,” he said.

“My hero,” Ian grinned and Mickey flicked his ear from behind. “Ouch! What did you just say about anyone laying a finger on me?”

Mickey leaned in again, kissing his ear. “I ain’t anybody,” he said, kissing him again.

DeanCas Interlude during 11x13: Love Hurts

Dean stumbles into the bunker with a hickey early in the morning, kicking off his shoes and making his way towards the food. He’s aching all over; the muscles in his back stiff and his shoulders tight from how he’d been sleeping. Shaking himself, Dean forces himself to kick off his shoes and shuffle towards the kitchen.

Fuck, he needs food, coffee, some water and some painkillers stat.

Slouching towards his destination, the hunter colours a little at the twinge between his legs. It’s nothing major—nothing that would suggest a night of getting his brains fucked out—but his ass definitely saw some action last night; probably a couple of fingers or something.

Jesus, if he can’t even remember that, how much did he drink?

Dean’s hand comes up to nervously rub at his neck, the skin on his right side smarting with the action. Making his way to the nearest mirror, the hunter tilts his head to reveal a huge, dark hickey.

Fuck.”

The night comes back in pieces: going to the bar, getting sloshed, blue blue eyes.

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bc honestly, managing prostitutes cant be any more difficult than running a daycare, and she’s been doing that for years and years

like, can you imagine sixteen yr old debbie gallagher going to school, making the honor roll every semester, president of her class, and running the rub and tug with mickey like

using all that math holly scoffed at to balance the books, helping the girls get citizenship and their geds and in turn, those girls send word back home about how good she and mickey are to them and they don’t even need to buy new hookers after a while, girls want to work for them bc they dont abuse them and they help them find a way out after a certain point 

just. compassionate pimp debbie gallagher 

it’s not the first goodbye and it’s not the last goodbye, it’s the normal kind, the kind couples have all the time, the kind mickey never thought they’d ever have, it’s the i’ll see you in two days and i’ll call you every night, but that doesn’t mean that mickey has to like it. (ianmickey - 1416 words - ao3)

requested by anon [“please hug me”] except i changed the dialogue a tiny bit

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