Aug 21
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Written for Gallavich AUgust, hosted by @gallavichthings
Day 21: Photographer
The studio felt clinical. It was cold in its practicality. The lights reflected glaringly off of Ian's ghostly skin. His stomach rumbled with a hunger he'd long ago learnt to repress. Growing up as a child model had twisted Ian's perception of himself. His mother had raked in the money, wasted it all on illicit substances. All whilst Ian's youth was wasted on illicit affairs with smarmy directors and perverted photographers.
He had been their perfect, posable doll. Look this way, Ian. Tilt your chin up, Ian. Angle your knees just that little bit wider.
He had learnt very quickly to smile just right. And he'd been doing it so long that he was largely desensitised to it all. He would imagine a world of possibilities, of people and places and laughter, and his smiles would come easy.
Monica had passed when Ian was still in his early 20's, but he'd long since stopped providing her with money. Now his wealth was his own.
But he didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't using his body. He'd given up believing that anybody would want him for his heart, for his mind, for his person.
Ian Gallagher was the most beautiful, most wealthy, most successful man in any room. But he was also the loneliest. His name was called out by crowds, his eyes blinded by the flash of paparazzi. Yet he went home alone.
The industry was cruel, merciless, unforgiving. He worried his arms were never toned enough, his cheek bones never sharp enough, his abs never well enough defined. He didn't recognise the version of him presented on billboards and catalogue spreads. Airbrushed and photoshopped into somebody else entirely, an unobtainable pillar of idealism.
He didn't expect M. Milkovich to be any different from the rest. He was an up and coming photographer who'd won the opportunity to photograph Ian. He too would use Ian's body and his fame to put himself on the map. He too would edit out all the parts of Ian that made him human. The ruddy red of the razor burn on the cut of his jaw. The scar on the palm of his hand. The blue of the prominent veins by his knees. The smattering of freckles that covered his skin.
But Mickey was different. Mickey had grown up taking photos of industrial landscapes on a shitty little camera phone. Mickey captured each and every moment, preserving it pristine. The grit of life, he said, was something people needed to see. He took photos to remember, to draw attention. His essence was felt in every frame.
So it was surprising that he'd entered such a competition at all.
But one day, after a long, draining shoot, they got to talking. Mickey showed Ian a years old shot from a lesser known spread. Either the editor hadn't cared to notice or hadn't had the skills to hide it, but there was no denying the flat look in Ian's eyes. They were murky green, like moss on damp soil, but they were utterly lifeless.
To Ian, there was nothing captivating about the image. Many others would say it was even off-putting. But Mickey said it made them kindred. Mickey said he was a fan.
So they worked together a great many times. They texted when they were miles apart. They snuck off from industry parties to eat greasy burgers at 2am. And Mickey said he was beautiful. He never airbrushed over a single freckle.
dressed in a way i KNOW ill regret when there's sweat dripping down my back just from standing there at work but also my dysmorphia knows no bounds and if anyone sees my upper arms rn ill kill myself and everyone else
› STATUS : semi - open. › LOCATION : before the melee. › FEATURING : alaric & the following : ( @glittxeringgold, @shambleslily, @ofchrysalism, @moonslost. )
once, the men around him had been younger and battling with wooden swords. now they were grown with their own lives, with their own obligations, but there was one thing true for all men — they were all waiting for a moment to blow off a little steam. the melee was only a few minutes away, and through the crowd of awaiting competitors was a face that alaric manderly would recognize anywhere. approaching, he reached out a hand for a firm shake. “i am not surprised to see you here. itching for an excuse to feel the rush of adrenaline ? quite the celebration, isn't it ? it's refreshing to be able to speak to adults after returning home to fresh fatherhood.” although the ruling lord adored every moment with his son of two, the burps and splutters weren't conducive to a particularly intellectual conversation. “are you competing or spectating ? either way, i wish you good fortune. i hope my old bones see me through in one piece.”
› STATUS : closed. › LOCATION : after the melee, their quarters. › FEATURING : alaric & cathryne : ( @fvdedsigil. )
his gait was uneven, slightly laboured, as he limped his way back back to their shared quarters. behind him, as was the case for every great man, was an even greater woman. as he shrugged off his clothing he felt the presence of cathryne at his back, his long - suffering wife who had watched from the stands as her aging knight of a husband was pummeled by the fists of younger men. “i may not be blonde like i used to, and the crows have certainly left their footprints beside my eyes, but i was quite formidable out there against men half my age.” it was then that he grunted, resting his hand against his bruised side. there were superficial wounds across his skin — the dull ache of a punch, scuffs and grazes where men had fallen and brawled in the mud. alaric eased himself into the awaiting tub of hot water, watching his wife with a warmth that was always present whenever he looked upon her. “it was just some friendly fun. i am not badly injured — only sore.”
peeta having a little more meat on his bones than most of his classmates bc he’s a baker’s boy? the guilt that comes with that? the way he looks in a mirror and hates the pudge? real and true to me
𝔀illa's goddess of a bodyclaim btw <3