( no vacancy ) @mickeyvillegas - Tumblr Blog

— 𝔐𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔰𝔥, 𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰, 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤.

horaetio:

“You are making breakfast in every dream that I have of you. You are in the kitchen, your soft middle pressed up against the cold marble countertops like a vision too beautiful for the magazines, sprinkling dark chocolate chips over pancakes. I think for a brief second that I am dreaming inside of my dream, that I had to make you up twice, just to get it right. You, brushing your dark hair out of your face, smearing batter across your cheeks. You have come and made my dreams smaller, narrower. Filled them with sugar and your body humming in the same room as mine. I dream, now, of a normal life with you. A life where breakfast lasts until the sun goes down, until I have finished gazing at you from across the table, flour dried to your forehead like a kiss.”

— Caitlyn Siehl, Chocolate Chip Pancakes

@mickeyvillegas

#inspire #ft rowan #wipes a tear

rccarter:

A gaze cast down ascends at Mickey’s statement, “I didn’t kiss her,” it had been Joey’s small frame that had lifted to the tips of toes and brought their mouths together after years apart, after years of such a reunion being only dream-like wisps that haunted him in and out of consciousness, “but it doesn’t matter,” did it? “we still kissed.” The rounds of gilded features angle sharp swiftly, “you’re not my second choice, Mick. You weren’t ever, you won’t ever be,” the love he holds for the boy sat adjacent is an inferno, it lights him from the inside out. How could he put to words how he felt? “I love you Mickey. I needed-” a pause, “I just needed that closure with her to move on with my life,” she would be with Oz now, and she would be happy. “You are the only person I want to be with, Mick,” a hand lifts to rub at a jaw, “I fucked up. I know I did. I should have told you. I knew - I knew you would have understood,” he scoffs, how foolish he had been, “of course you would have understood, because you are so good, Mickey. So good. I don’t - I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this,” he had known love, and he had taken it for granted. He meets his gaze, “I want you. More than anything, I want a life with you,” ask Rowan of the future, of what he wished for with a fervent of flame, and he’d speak of a life of simplicity, of a love that makes it otherworldly: a life alongside Mickey Villegas, that is what Rowan wished for most. And so he says, “I love you, Mick. I won’t ever stop. So if you want a breather, to think, then I’ll leave and be back the moment you ask. If you want me to stay, then I’ll stay, and I’ll love you so fucking much that you’ll be sick of me,” irises gleam something glossy as he watches his other half, “whatever you want, it’s yours.”

.

He felt like a man in a photograph, with one arm raised above the glittering surface of the water. Mickey’s gaze fell to Rowan’s, and he felt as though he was neck deep in the Pacific, or the Aegean, any of the seas of myth that carried bodies to new lands, or to war. Teeth bared, his hair plastered to his head, and his arm beckoned— a sweet sight at first glance. We still kissed. Mickey swallowed, and it felt as though his lungs filled with salt water. Not waving, but drowning. The words were a torrent, but he only heard them in bits and pieces, plucking syllables from the air and holding them close, as if they were pieces of paper, reduced to ash, fluttering away from a bonfire. Perhaps it had been premature, their decision to be exclusive— they had both never been solitary creatures, they consumed affection and love in a way that was voracious: for Mickey, it had been enough, but now as he studied Rowan’s gaze, that expanse of blue, he wondered if he would be enough for him. He was just one person, with a heart that overfilled and spilled into a whole house, but Rowan was something on fire, he was a star that lit ablaze: how could one satiate that? Insecurity curled inside his belly and it was an ugly pit, sinking like a stone. And yet, it was Rowan’s plea that tethered him, the twist of his golden features, the way that he looked so sad, so broken up over it all. He would absorb every hurt, swallow down glass if it meant that Ro Carter would never feel the glide of a sharp edge against his skin. Mickey reached forward, finding his hands, threading them between his. “It’s okay,” he murmured, lifting their twined grip to his mouth, pressing a kiss to knuckles that bore a handful of pale scars, whispers and all that remained of fights long forgotten. “We’re gonna be okay.” Hazel eyes lifted, and despite the way that hurt was still a hand wrapped around his throat, dragging him into water, he curved in, closing space between them. “I want you to stay.” His words were casual, deliberate and between the syllables was a pulse as steady of his heart beat. I love you, I love you, I love you.

#chat #chat: rowan #Rowan Carter

📲 stella & mickey

stella: his face turned really red and that's when i left

stella: i didn't want to deal with the man-sized tantrum that was heading my way

mick: sounds like you need a trip to get your mind off things

mick: wanna go to LA with me for a few days, like we talked about?

#text #text: stella #stella monroe

📲 stella & mickey

stella: remember your student's dad who snitched?

stella: he asked me out on a date today

stella: told him to go fuck himself 😘

mick: did he tell you right after that he didn't actually want to go out anyways

mick: and that he's out of your league or something sad and desperate afterwards

mick: he had those Vibes

#text #text: stella #stella monroe

rccarter:

He knows the answer before he says it, but allows it to sit atop his tongue until it scalds, until it blisters: “yeah,” and brows collect as he sifts through all he knows to adequately voice what rattled in his chest: yeah, I’ll love her always, but it doesn’t matter anymore. “Yeah, I do,” the bare flesh of a bronze shoulder lifts to a shrug, “I always will, I think. But in a way thats-” he swallows, “different,” from how I love you, “it wasn’t enough love.” Rowan watches as the other male’s features tilt, gaze averted, and guilt prompts him nauseous, and so his words come stumbling out one after the next, worry knitting them together too closely, “I think it should be everything, the only thing, you know? I think there should be so much of it that it spills out of the room, that those around you see it on you and it haunts them, they can’t imagine it any other way. And that isn’t what I feel for her now, and it wasn’t what I felt then. So I’ll love Joey, yeah, but not like-” not like you, “not like that.” He had wandered this path before, reached the end and split the marrow beneath his breast and offered out the throb of his heart to another, and where had it let him? Abandonment had festered, had made a home within the confines of his ribs- and so rejection is a wraith-like linger who’s mouth splits into something feral then: oh, Sun, how you forgot the hurt, how you will greet it again soon enough. And so Rowan is quiet where he should speak, keeps the syllables guarded, swallowed down: I love you in a way that make those words feel inadequate, Mickey - like we are inventing something new, just for us, and none in time will ever compare. I love you more - I love you most. But it comes out as: “it doesn’t change how I feel about you, Mick. I want to be with you.”

.

“But you kissed her still.” Mickey was fixating, rolling hurt between his fingers like it was something tangible, unable to swallow it down, to find home for it in his bones. Love sat there and it wasn’t ready to sour, instead he felt a dull ache of disappointment within his skeleton, forcing fissures through the most delicate parts of his frame. I think it should be everything, the only thing, you know? He was still looking down, watching the carpet with great interest, his thoughts gnawing at the inside of his skull in the same way that he was sinking his teeth into the swell of his cheek. Copper welled on his mouth and he tongued at the sore spot, making it hurt more, giving him something to think about other than the fact that for him— love had been the only thing. He had wanted everything, not just for himself, but for the both of them; he had stood before Rowan, as vulnerable as one could ever be and presented the other man his heart, an organ that pulsed in his palms, bloody and weak, asking another to guard it carefully. Mick tucked in a breath, trying to formulate words, to fill all of the silence that welled between them. Before, they had sat in the quiet with comfort, fingers knit and smiles curved on their faces but now it was an impasse, legions wide and almost impossible to muster. “I don’t—“ he stopped, correcting. “I can’t be a second choice, Rowan. I can’t be your backup plan.” Hazel eyes lifted, finding blue ones now. “I don’t deserve that.” Not when he loved with everything he had, when he had thought that they had filled an entire house with it— every room spilling over like a jar. His words were choked, they broke mid-syllable, and he swallowed thickly. “I love you, I never changed my mind.”

#chat #chat: rowan #Rowan Carter

rccarter:

The dim of Mickey’s rays is visible in a moment’s fraction, and Rowan’s stomach is something hollowed then, except for the twinning serpents of fear and guilt, whos swollen bodies coil against lungs until the boy of gold can hardly breathe. Silence is birthed between them as Rowan attempts to grasp at the beginning, of where to start. “Joey and I-“ the crescent of a full mouth rolls inwards, and he does his best to keep a cerulean gaze on his counterpart, to bear witness to how the suede ties between them would sour then snap, “we knew each other before here. We met in a bar, travelled together for a few months. We dated, and I-“ digits lift to rub at the vermeil flesh at the back of his neck, “I was in a bad place, when I met her. My parents were- my parents were shitty, growing up. I didn’t know who I was when I wasn’t busy trying to be who they wanted me to be. So I left, travelled a bit. And then there was Joey,” how easily he could envision her that fateful night even then, a celestial with a wattage to rival helios amidst the grimy transgressions of mortals, “and I became someone that I wanted to be when I was with her. I owe her so much. And it’s hard not to fall in love with the person who builds you p to be the version of yourself you were meant for, you know? So I loved her, and I-“ his wrist clicks as he rolls it, a fidget to still how his thoughts whirled in a feverish frenzy, “and I proposed to her after a few months. I thought - I really thought she loved me, too.” He had layered flesh to bone beneath her rays, and oh how he shook when she turned her back, when all he knew was the algid of her shadowed depart. “She took off. And then I didn’t see or hear from her for years, until she showed up here.”

Rowan’s irises are glazed, averted to the union of his digits resting between thighs, “I thought if I said anything about it, it would become a joke. And then I was so afraid it would ruin things here. So I was selfish, and I didn’t say anything, because- because this was the first time I haven’t felt alone in so long, Mick.” Molars sink in to the fleshy round of a cheek until metallic seeps to the velvet of his tongue, “we kissed, a few months ago, when you and I just got together. It was the first time we had spoken in- I don’t know how long. Years,” tenderly, pupils roam the supple angles of Mickeys features, committing them to memory, as though he would watch him leave, too. “She asked me to leave with her, to leave Costa. To take off, just the two of us. I said no, that I wanted to be here, with you.” The angle of his chin tilts, and Rowan’s swelter is doused to embers long abandoned, “I know I should have told you at the start, Mickey. I just - I so desperately needed the closure. For us, for my sanity.” Brows draw inward, worry softening features, “I am so sorry that I kept this from you, Mick. So fucking sorry.” His cadence descends to a decibel for them alone, quiet enough that the seraphs who listen above must lean their gleaming features closer to bear witness, “I’ll go. I can pack some things in a duffel and stay at Andi’s or something,” his digits twitch at his side, wishing to reach out to him - instead, they curl inwards, “whatever you want, I can do.”

.

A levy opens, and the words come. There’s no amount of bracing that can soften the barrage and beneath the blanket that had been tossed over his lap, Mickey fisted a handful of the fabric, his knuckles growing white just out of view. His gaze read that he understood, that he was listening— Mickey Villegas, the supportive boyfriend— but under the surface he felt as though he was wading through a pool of glass, all shards, sharp and glittering. He’d wanted to be loved, and the desire had always seemed like something that was simple, but people weren’t easy, they didn’t come cut out of paper just to suit his needs; and it seemed that whatever perfect world they had created, just the two of them, Mick and Ro, was the eye of a storm he hadn’t realize he had gotten caught in. Rowan kept speaking and he wondered if heartache reflected in his hazel gaze, if the tenseness in his wrist travelled up his arm and was visible in the ache of his jaw, or the hard swallow at words that felt like a dagger between ribs. It’s hard not to fall in love with the person who builds you up to be the version of yourself you were meant for.

Still, he remained quiet, allowing the more golden half of the duo to continue, to spill the words that had been pent up in his chest. It must have felt like wasps, swarming angrily— he had never known Rowan to keep a secret, he had never known him to be anything but honest. Mick cut his gaze over, studying him through sooty lashes, wondering what else there was that he didn’t know about a man that he had thought of himself as an expert on. She’d asked him to leave, and he’d loved her, and they’d kissed and Rowan had lied, tucking himself into their bed, pressing those lips to his skin as though they didn’t bear a secret, as if nothing had changed at all. Mickey waited for anger to well up, to settle in his chest, but instead he took in a breath and nearly choked on something unexpected— an overwhelming sadness. This was heartache, and he could hardly swallow it down. Quiet settled between them, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, before he parted his lips and finally spoke. “You don’t have to go.” He found Rowan’s gaze, clear and as blue as the Pacific— dark eyes were mirrors, but his was a well, there was a depth to them that now made him feel like drowning. The voice that he conjured was quieter now, and it lacked his usual brightness. “Do you love her still?” He would cry later, already water threatened to prick at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them well and fall. “It’s okay, if you do.” Mickey looked away, feeling sick, the clench of his fist matching the knot forming in the pit of his belly. “I just want to know.”

#chat #chat: rowan #Rowan Carter

rccarter:

Location: Hype House Closed for: @mickeyvillegas

Rowan mourns a relationship not yet over for three days following the celebration of the full moon. His past almost leaps from the bend of his mouth more times than he could count: Mick, there is something I need to tell you, rearranges and tumbles from his mouth the moment he meets his gaze as love you, Mick. Because he did - he loved him and was loved in return in a manner that brought him back to life. And Rowan had been selfish, so selfish, to have prompted the truth of his past to fester somewhere between ribs in fervent fear that it would fissure their ties the moment it was spit out, something ugly where only solar rays had touched. He loves him, and it’s because he loves him that he can no longer keep it hidden.

That night was one of the few where it was just the two of them, and he knows it’s the time to tell him, he avoids Mickey because of it - he lingers at the firehall, doubles his usual jogging route, and showers until the water runs cold. When he finally descends the stairs it is long past dinner, and guilt is thorns coiled serpentine to the thick of his throat, coaxing his gaze to volley between everywhere but his counterpart sprawled to the couch. “Mick-” his usual wattage is halved, hands fist into pockets on approach, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to - something I need to tell you,” he folds to a cushion on the opposing side of the couch, distance wedged between them (it’d hurt less, he decides, not having to see Mick move away), “I should have told you a long time ago, and I’m sorry I didn’t-” molars are ground to a clench, and irises are glossy as his gaze lifts to Mickey, “you’ve got to believe me, Mick. I was trying to protect this, I didn’t want to ruin anything - I don’t want to, but-” syllables are gravelled, and he swallows thickly, “but I think I have.”

.

Things were strange between them. There was no true reason behind the worry that flooded him like streets after too much rain, behind the fear that tugged at his curls impishly, whispering doubt into the shell of his ear. At night, he tucked in beside Rowan, studying seraphic features as he slowly fell into sleep, watching the knit between his brows smooth out, and whatever remained unsaid ebb away as he reached something restful. He was sweet like this, childlike with his long lashes drawn against tanned cheeks, his soft breath warm against Mickey’s shoulder. He loved him, his warmth and his strength, but he wondered what it was that Rowan kept guarded, tucked between his ribs— so deep within the cavern that he could just scarcely hear the tick of what he hoped was not a bomb.

The day stretched long, and he watched as the clock hands spun dutifully around the face of the kitchen clock, after lunch, after dinner, where he dines with his friends and piles plates high and laughs despite the fact that his gaze drifted too often over to the empty space beside his. After the meal, he didn’t bother to put away the plate, leaving it there, untouched, before he makes his way onto the couch. Aimlessly flipping through Netflix titles, Mickey finally found rest, dozing off until he heard his name, making him stir. It’s him, and his face is conflicted— most faces aren’t easy to read but Rowan’s has words scrawled between the lines, there is fear printed in the place above his brow, heartache in the corner of his mouth. His own heart stopped then, and the words feel like a barrage, making him inch closer to one side of the couch, away from him. You’re supposed to put distance between yourself and the blast of a shell, to minimize damage from the blow. Rowan said everything and nothing, and he sunk teeth into the soft flesh of the inside of his mouth while his mind raced, “What happened?” His other thought remained unsaid. What did you do?

#chat #chat: rowan #rowan carter

kuwentista

want to come up? not tonight. have to work. ↳ Episode 103; Good Trouble

#mirror

rccarter:

Ask Fate, a creature who’s teeth are wedged with the fine bones of damnation, if it has ever known kindness, and it will murmur of a time where the sun and moon are mortals, men, lovers. They are cosmos reunited after a millennium of knowing each other only in fragments, and this is their Zion: it’s evident in how they touch, in the longing that scalds their tongues. How easily the bodies surrounding descend into nothingness at the site of his counterpart’s mouth wrapped around the width of his thumb, and Rowan’s near reaching for the length of a zipper if not for a stranger’s shoulder grazing his spine and tenderly tugging him from the depths of something dreamlike, a syrupy haze with Mickey the catalyst. “No,” his mouth dips to trail the slope of a jaw, tender kisses pressed in a rove, and he pulls back enough to meet the other male’s gaze, “you’re stuck with me always, Villegas.” Fate laughs at this. Digits descend to knot within the spaces between Mickey’s, “let’s go grab a drink and find somewhere I can blow you without all of Costa and then some getting a free show,” Ro’s syllables are punctuated with a grin, “I don’t want the boy who bags our groceries or the church lady down the street to see that.” He turns then, beginning to tug his boyfriend through the cluster of bodies grinding to the song’s pulse.

.

And what a sweet destiny that was— to know forever lay in the open palms of someone precious, whose touch left a starry trail along his skin. Always was a measure that he wanted to revel in, jaw tilted up, the angle catching on the neon lights that surrounded them. They were beautiful, more so with Nyx as their witness, the goddess of the night laying claim to those who venerated under the full belly of the moon. What was this sort of party besides a worship, they were barefoot and gleaming, the taste of the other sat on their tongues, plied loose with alcohol and music. “Always?” He hummed in contentment, the cool ocean breeze toying with the loose sides of his shirt, exposing further the expanse of his bare chest. “I think I can live happily like that.” Hazel eyes were lit with excitement, and Mick tightened his grip upon Rowan’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I think the boy who bags the groceries could benefit from a lil nudge in the right direction, the poor thing’s practically straining through his pants every time we go through the check out.” He laughed, and the sound pealed around them, clear as a bell and swallowed by the music while they worked through the thick of other bodies. Mickey would follow him anywhere, he realized, stumbling behind, just happy to share in a moment of Rowan’s light.

#chat #chat: rowan #Rowan Carter

cleonxxiv

Tommy Martinez as Gael Martinez in Good Trouble 1x07

Happy birthday, @halalgirlmeg

#mirror

dovealdrich:

“It’s not bad,” she answers over the music, her lips to his ear to be heard over the crowd. “Reminds me of when we played in Dallas,” she says, memories of summer nights and flooded lights imitated in her surroundings. “Met a proper cowboy there. He had long blond hair, the kind you just want to ruin,” she says as her hands finds its way into his once more, stepping in front of Mickey, fingers curled into his locks, her other falling around the boy. “You ever been down under in the deep south of Texas,” she asks, a twang slipping through the cracks of her words as she mimics the boy from her memory.

.

“I know a thing or two about blondes you wanna ruin,” Mickey mused, a smile forming on his lips as his mind drifted to images of Rowan, sun-soaked and godly, sprawled on wrinkled sheets. He liked him best that way, imperfect but beautiful; his golden hair mussed into something more akin to a crown, or a halo. The expression was smug, hidden by the neck of his beer bottle when he lifted it up. “Never been to Texas, but I do have some very specific fantasies of fucking a cowboy. You can’t tell me there’s nothing homoerotic about riding horses all day in full leather and fringe. I bet you wouldn’t be able to tell me shit if I got my hands on one of those hats.”

#chat #chat: dove #dove aldrich

op looks like he writes for hallmark cards but go off ig

Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m using my hand, but thinking of you.

op's hair has me wanting to bring back my bush but go off ig

2021 is the year of the bush

op literally looks like he would fuck maia mitchell's grandma but go off ig

#hehe

op got me wanting to eat ass for breakfast lunch and dinner but go off ig

love u mean it

op literally looks better than the snacks he cooks but go off i guess

#snackaroonie!

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