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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

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mouth full of white lies {Machine Gun Kelly} 5

5. you say that you’re no good for me

Summary: So you have actual real feelings for him and they’re kind of starting to get in the way of your job, which is awful because you’re a professional, damn it, you’re better than that. Perhaps it’s time to come clean.

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Casie had gone back to her mom’s about a week and a half ago, and now you’re left all alone with his words of ‘like if you wanted to actually date my dad, that’d be cool with me’ with a strangely knowing air that you’re trying not to think about.

But the point is that now you’re sitting back, watching him snort fake cocaine of a very pretty girl’s bare chest, and slowly and bitterly coming to terms with the fact that your feelings for him have gone from just a lowkey crush, to a crush large enough to make you jealous because a girl’s got her tits all over Colson on a set that looks like a strip club, and you hear ‘and we’re rolling’ a few feet away from you, and you’re not quite sure why there’s an uneasy feeling in your stomach. At first you try and tell yourself that you’re a little indignant that they’re basically just using pretty girls as props, but the girls who are all over your brother in the scene don’t give you that same vague nauseous feeling, so you can’t delude yourself that into believing that there’s any particularly feminist reason for your feelings.

You try not to think too much about the girls on set wearing not much at all, covered in oil and glitter with their hair teased up and curled and laden with products. They’re doing their job, and they’re doing it well, listening to the directors, and you’re just trying not to compare yourself to them because you’re in very different roles.

And you tell yourself this.

Over and over.

“How’re you doing, Duck?” In between takes, your brother will often check in on you, and it’s getting harder to force a smile.

“Great!” But you know even as you say it that he won’t believe you; Douglas can see through your lies better than anyone else in the world. He wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t, Doug,” you tell his quietly, face and voice both falling in the safety of his presence, but you don’t move away, “I’m a professional.” You tell him, but your heart’s not in it.

“I know you are, Duckling -”

“I’m really trying.” You mutter, leaning your head against his shoulder, conceding defeat to your own negative thoughts.

“This is new for you, I know,” he assures calmly, his hand still firm and reassuring on your shoulder.

“It’s just a job,” you remind yourself again, “everyone here’s a professional.” Voice so low only Douglas can hear you, he gives you an almost imperceptible squeeze. Before he can get a word in edgewise, the director is calling for the scene to be reset, and he had to go. Across the room, Colson gives you a quizzical look, and you try your best to smile back; it doesn’t seem to work, his frown just deepens.

And you move on with your life. Try to, at least; pick up your clipboard, ask Josy if she needs anything, and try not to act relieved when she asks you to buy her a coffee.

You get dinner on your own that night, which isn’t necessarily an unusual occasion, but you’re lingering in the fancy Italian restaurant a few blocks from his house, looking a little lonely, a little like the poster-girl for every pining girl in a rom-com waiting for her true love, sadly poking at your half-finished dessert. If you get recognized, you’re pretty sure the press is going to have a field day.

The thoughts won’t leave your head; it’s more than the girls on set, it’s more than the thought that he’s done this sort of thing before, it’s more than even his reputation, because you don’t give a shit about his reputation, but you can’t deny that you don’t have feelings for him, and you can’t deny that you didn’t have feelings for him before any of this even happened.

If you hadn’t said anything, you’re pretty sure nothing would have happened between the two of you. Which is okay, it’s fine, but something about it being fake is worse than it never happening.

So you leave your dessert half finished, and start the lonely walk back to the hotel where your brother was staying.

[💜colson💜: where r u 💜colson💜: u ok? 💜colson💜: did something happen today?? 💜colson💜: ducky 🦆🥰: im fine 🦆🥰: you dont need to worry about me]

But you don’t go to the hotel. You have to see him, have to get these thoughts out of your head before they drive you mad.

“Were you waiting for me?” Your voice is small when you finally get to his house, get to his room, and Colson’s laying back on his bed, stretched out and shirtless, looking a little like the centerfold of a magazine in the lamp light. Your heart’s in your throat.

“I do worry about you, you know.”

“What?” Is all you can think to say, and try to avert your gaze.

“You said I don’t need to worry about you; I know that, I do though,” he says, doesn’t look away from the ceiling.

“Why?” Though it’s said with a laugh, there’s no humour in it, but you don’t know if you wanna hear his answer, don’t know if you could handle it, “if I had never said anything, you wouldn’t have made a move,” you rattle off, the words falling from you like you’d rehearsed them, though it’s more accurate to say that the thoughts had been going around in your head for so long that you couldn’t even find any other words. Colson’s head turns to look at you, frowning, “so you wouldn’t have needed to worry about me then, so you shouldn’t have to worry about me now.”

And then there’s silence, and he’s regarding you with an almost angry confusion.

“What?” He finally asks, disbelief colouring his tone.

“Don’t worry about me,” you sighed, moving around the room to the open balcony door, plopping yourself into one of the wicker chairs, closing the door behind yourself.

“What is your problem? I thought we were good,” Colson’s quick to open the door and follow you out, sitting in his usual spot, elbows on his knees, almost glaring with an intensity you hadn’t witnessed before, “if you want out, you can go, don’t stay on my account if you’re unhappy.”

This shocks you enough to keep your mouth closed as you look out to horizon.

“You’ve got your room at the hotel, you don’t have to stay -”

“Just tell me,” you cut him off, “if I’d never suggested this, I would have just been Doug’s little sister during the whole process, and you wouldn’t have done anything, would you?”

“Done anything?”

“Made a move.”

“Because me making a move on the golden girl of YouTube would have worked out great,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and sitting back, “if you hadn’t said anything, no I wouldn’t have made a move; I don’t actively seek out ways to get shot down by chicks who think they’re better than me.”

“What?” You voice comes out small, confused and a little sad, somehow it’s worse than the answer you were expecting. “I don’t -”

“And don’t go high-roading me on this bullshit; you wouldn’t have made a real move either,” it’s like his own words don’t even quite register as he said, but after a beat, he sighs, the anger, the tension leaving his body in a rush, “I know you don’t think you’re better than me. Now.” He added, and okay, he had a point there; as much as his reputation preceded him, yours did too.

But that’s not what’s caught your focus.

“You would have wanted me to?” Shyly, almost traitorously hopeful, you can’t look at him as you speak. There’s a shift in tone, the tension changing to something new, something a little bit exciting.

“I didn’t want to scare you off -”

“I’m not porcelain, you know,” you say, glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes, and you see him give a half-amused smile.

“Like I said, I know that now,�� he conceded, “but you’re Doug’s little sister; he calls you Duck for fuck’s sake, you give off this vibe like you bleed bath bomb water, and me, I give off this vibe like -”

“Like you’ll rope someone into committing a felony,” you tell him with a dry smile, and he laughs, nodding a little.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he says, with surprising self-awareness, “but yeah, if I knew then,” he pauses for a moment, his gaze moving to the stars; even in this light you can see him turning faintly red, “how cool you were, yeah I would have done something.”

Heart in your throat, you want to ask him if there’s still even a chance, but your mind’s stuck on the if.

“Should I have done something?” You hear yourself ask, quiet, fiddling with your hands, and when he doesn’t answer after a beat, you can feel your heartbeat heavy in your chest. When you turn to him, he’s there, leaning in, and you meet him halfway, kissing him hard in the starlight.

You take that as a yes.

No cameras, nobody around; it’s not an act when you let yourself get pulled from your chair, closer to him, the two of you standing now. At first his hands are gentle, holding your face almost reverentially, like he can’t quite believe he gets to touch you like this without having to put on a show for everyone, and you feel almost dizzy with his lips on yours.

“I can’t believe I waited so fucking long to do that,” he murmurs, and your breath stutters from you, so overwhelmed that he wanted you, that he wants you, really wants you, that it’s all you can do to kiss him again. Rough this time, you card your fingers through his hair, tug, pull him close and kiss him desperately. He can probably taste on your tongue how much you’ve wanted him too.

Wrapped up in each other, it’s better in this one moment than every other kiss you’ve shared put together. His tongue glides along your bottom lip, as if asking for entrance, and you deepen the kiss, all teeth and tongue, a gentle sigh when he bites your lip.

“Is this serious- are you -?” You pull back, breathless, hands still in his hair, and his smile is genuine as he leans back a little, arms still wrapped around you.

“How much more serious can I get?”

“This isn’t a bit, is it?”

“No it’s not a fucking bit,” he snorted, “honestly I can’t believe you’re doing this; the fake shit was your idea!” He’s still holding you close. Opening and closing your mouth for a few moments, looking a little like a fish, lost for words, lost for a response, you settle on;

“Exactly how cheesy can I be and get away with it?”

When he kisses you this time, it’s sweet and gentle, his smiles soft against your lips, and you hum happily against him.

That night, you spend the night watching movies and making out, falling asleep half naked in his enormous, plush bed. When you wake, it’s to the sight of the sun painting his tattoos with light as he scrolls through Twitter on his phone.

[ID: A series of tweets between @duckduckbooth and @machinegunkelly.

@duckduckbooth posted a photo of Colson Baker, laying on his side in bed; the covers are black and there’s a sliver of sunlight that highlights his gentle smile. The wall behind him has a picture on it but it’s out of focus. Colson looks like he’s laughing, and he’s looking at something behind the camera, his hair is a mess. There’s something so gentle and intimate about the photo itself, like he’s just woken up, like he’s sharing a joke with the photographer. You. There’s a hickey that’s cut out at the edge of the photo.

The photo is captioned ‘those ocean eyes’.

@machinegunkelly has retweeted the photo with one of his own; of you, laying on your back in the very same bed, grinning, phone held in both hands above you, but you’re looking at him, expression fond and amused. The window behind you is open, with sunlight spilling through the crack of the curtain, hitting your mouth and chin, highlighting your own smile.

His photo is posted with the caption ‘shed a lot of tears just to smile in the mornin'. End ID.]

Everything has changed, everything has shifted; it used to be too much to touch him casually, to feel his skin burn against yours, but on set over the next few days, it’s a thrilling release, a reminder. He wants me, every time he touches you, he wants me.

Before, it was such a performance, every action so carefully calculated to show that you were in love, never enough to scare him off, but now? You’re ferrying some paperwork for Josy to the offices at the other end of the film lot, and you pick him up a pack of cigarettes on the way back; his whole face lights up and he presses a kiss to your temple, with an easy ‘thanks babe’, and you feel lighter than air, and it shows.

“Everything work out?” Douglas asks you with an almost knowing smile, and you turn your nose to the air, pretending you don’t know what he’s on about, and he’s kind enough to play along, let you have this.

Safe in the security of a genuine relationship, you’re not worried as you once were about the other actresses, not when you know you get to go home with him. Now, seeing him on set, the earlier jealousy you’d felt turns to pride as you watch him work.

“You guys are gross,” Josy says with a smile, watching your display of heart-eyes as drums ferociously behind the band, “it’s adorable.”

“We are not,” you tried, but he twirls his drumstick with a flourish and a smirk and your own grin widens automatically.

“Listen, as long as you’re on time, and you don’t smear his makeup, I don’t give a shit,” Josy shrugs, her tone equally nonchalant as it was blunt. You sigh, but they’re easy enough terms to agree to.

And then you’re travelling, the production going on location to different stadiums and theaters across the country, a few days at time, concerts put on to screaming fans, or more accurately, unpaid, enthusiastic extras. When you’re not with Josy, you entertain yourself well enough; you and Colson usually see the sights of wherever you are, at least when you’re not wrapped up in each other in the confines of your hotel room.

“Hello, I’m [Y/N] Booth,” you smiled at the camera.

“And I’m Machine Gun Kelly, and today we are reading thirst tweets,” he holds up a large, blue mug-shaped object with ‘Thirst Tweets’ written on it, before the title comes up:

Thirst Tweets with MGK & [Y/N]

“I’m gonna start with this one,” you half laugh, holding the little piece of paper up before yourself, already leaning on him just a little, and the tweet comes up on the screen as you read;

“I would let MGK and Duck beat me up and I’d say thank you,” you pause, before looking a little sheepishly at Colson, “that sounds painful - for them I mean.”

“Don’t you get comments like that all the time?”

“I know you do,” you half smile at him, and he laughs, nodding, “step on me Daddy Kells, or something like that?” He flushes, grinning.

“How dare you - that one’s probably in there!” And he fishes out the next piece of paper.

“Machine Gun Kelly looking like 80s Tommy Lee could do anything he wants to me - you haven’t even seen the movie yet!” He exclaims, while you just give a pleased little smile, “what?” He asks with a grin when he turns to you.

“It’s kind of a mood though,” you shrug helplessly, and he rolls his eyes fondly, before pulling out another tweet, giving it a read over and handing it to you to read.

“Duck is stunning, girl lemme lick ya.”

“Sorry dude, that’s my job,” Colson smirks, and you give a small, flustered shriek, though you were still grinning from ear to ear.

#mgk #mgk imagine #mgk x reader #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #machine gun kelly #colson baker #colson baker imagine #colson baker x reader #Douglas Booth #the dirt #the dirt cast #the dirt cast imagine #motley crue #the angry lizard writes

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