#characters who are charming and sweet on the outside but fucking ruthless just beneath the surface <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[inkykeiji]

omg genshin fics yes please?!?!?!?!?!?! omgggg

who are your fav characters/who would you write for?

EHEHEHEHE aaaah okay so my ultimate favourite is tartaglia/childe (absolutely no one is surprised) <333 i also really really really reallyreallyreally love thoma <3 tbh i just want to take thoma and make him as utterly abhorrently toxic as i possibly can <3 childe is already there so

[artificialqueens]

Elastic Heart - Part 2 (Branjie) - Mia Ugly

Out of drag, Brock feels smaller. Vulnerable.  He knows he’s still a giant Canadian, but without Brooke’s stilettos and hip-pads he almost feels fragile.  Maybe fragile isn’t the right word, maybe it’s - ordinary.  He goes jogging along Cumberland River and no one notices him. He wears grey sweatpants and Tragically Hip t-shirts like camouflage and blends into whatever setting he’s in. He’s like wallpaper sometimes. People look right past him.

No one looks past Brooke Lynn.  They wouldn’t dare.

Not that he can’t turn a look when he wants to. When his friends drag him out to a club, he can usually find someone who isn’t too intimidated to pick him up, take him home.  He likes being anonymous sometimes (that probably sounds ungrateful, and God help him he never wants this ride to end, but he doesn’t always have the energy to be Brooke Lynn. Especially on his nights off.) 

Back in Nashville he texts Nina every time a new episode drops.  He forces himself to watch each one in public, in a crowded bar or group of noisy friends, sometimes he even hosts the damn watch-party.  At least with people on all sides of him (arms around him, buying him shots, hands on his back) he can’t fuck off without reason.  Can’t run out into the streets or scream without someone coming after him, making sure he’s okay.  So it’s better to do the watch-party thing.  Safer, at least.

“Your fucking face,” he texts Nina during the Monster’s Bal episodel.  On the flat-screen above the bar, Nina’s just taken off her mask and is grinning horrifically at the camera.

“Your fucking mom,” Nina texts back.  Class act, that one.

“Tell me you aren’t actually selling Branjie hats,” she adds a few seconds later. 

Brock shuts his eyes, swallows. His hands don’t shake as he texts back.

“4 charity u want 1?” 

Nina sends him a series of emojis that are just indecipherable enough to be insulting.  And maybe the hats were a cynical move but the proceeds really are going to charity.  It was all Brock’s agent’s idea, and they ran it by Vanessa of course but - the worst part is that Brock’s actually getting some fucked-up kind of relief from it.  From the people online who think the whole sad story was a publicity stunt.  It’s like, fine, that’s all it was, here’s a fucking hat.  You wanna buy a piece of our relationship? We accept Paypal. 

It’s easier to think about it this way, then - the other way. His hand on Vanessa’s chest, heartbeat singing warm and low beneath Brock’s palm.  That harsh, rowdy laugh across the werkroom, making Brock laugh in return no matter what he was doing, and then blush with embarrassment.

(“I’m your jush, hey?”Lips close to Vanjie’s ear, arms draped over her shoulders.

“Aw, bitch, what you want me to say?” Vanessa’s focused on her sewing, but she still gives a cautious glance upwards, smiling with the corners of her mouth. “You need a ring or some shit?”)

That line becomes a bit of a joke between them, though it hasn’t shown up in the episodes yet - and if there’s any justice in the universe it never will.

(“You need a ring or some shit?” after Vanjie wins a mini-challenge, reaching out for a hand to hold.

“You need a ring or some shit?” after Vanjie lip-synchs for her life and throws her arms around Brooke as soon as they’re off-stage, away from the judges and the harsh white lights, smelling like sweat and hairspray and baby powder and -)

Stop.

If Brock ever hears that question edited dramatically into a confessional, he might break a television with his knuckles.  

At the very least, throw a high-heel.

“Are you okay?” Nina texts, too high-achieving for slang or abbreviations.  She even uses punctuation like some sort of monster.

Brock puts his phone down, lets the drama play out on screen for once. Nina doesn’t need a response to the question.  She already knows the answer.

* * *

The first time they kiss, the cameras are not on them. 

Brooke wouldn’t have done that, wouldn’t have wanted to make it something sensational.  She knows there’s a limit to how cuddly they can be before the editors start building a story out of it, putting pieces together that will inevitably lead to some awful climax and a lot of think-pieces on Vulture. It’s best to keep - whatever it is behind Vanjie’s dark eyes - under wraps.

They’ve been trading glances across the werkroom but Brooke tells herself it doesn’t mean anything special. Vanjie is a legend, a rock star, and even though Brooke slays the first runway challenge (all hail Detox, Patron Saint of Latex, hallowed be Thy name) it doesn’t make her think she’s earned any extra notice from the other queens. Maybe a couple of shady glances here and there, but that’s to be expected.

And if she looks a bit too long at Vanessa Vanjie Mateo (all wrapped up in red silk, the sticky-sweet colour of maraschino cherries and candied apples) no one’s going to notice.  Vanjie’s fine as hell in and out of drag; you’d have to be blind not to stare at her.  

Brooke’s clearly only fooling herself because that first night (the fucking first night!) A’Keria slides up beside Brooke in line for craft services, pursing her lips.

“Oooh girl, you be careful.” 

“Why?” Brooke grabs some salad before it runs out. Fuck knows the P.A.s won’t order more of it. 

“Play innocent all you like, but I see you lookin’. Don’t be stupid, now.” A’Keria is too smart for her own good, and too damn cool to be chatting with Brooke over paper plates full of iceberg lettuce. “Any of those producers catch you, they’re gonna be all over it, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I don’t,” Brooke Lynn says, and A’Keria rolls her eyes. 

But Brooke knew.  And she really should have listened.

It’s after the “What’s Your Sign” runway (which Vanjie stomps like she owns it, dripping with red roses and a goddamn Libra, Jesus Christ - Brooke’s so predictable.) 

She takes off her paint and sneaks outside for a smoke break before the producers come to round them all up, pack ‘em into the van back to the hotel.  No one follows her.  The cameras usually leave a queen alone if she’s by herself (not enough drama to waste the film) and Brooke hurries to take advantage of that fact. 

The smoking area is just a nasty little square of pavement with a couple of chairs and an ashtray, but it’s quiet and Brooke can almost see the stars.  For a few moments she’s completely alone and after the chaos of shooting for sixteen hours – it’s nice.  Nice to not have to be “on.” Nice to just be.

And then the door creaks as it opens, and out walks Vanjie.  Back in boy clothes, but still a bit glittery.

“Hello, hello, hello Miss Brooke Lynn.”

Brooke exhales a laugh that tastes like ashes. “You don’t smoke.”

“Nah.” Vanjie sits down on a chair across from her. “But those girls take forever, I’m growing old watching them. Look, baby, I got wrinkles.” She turns her head from side to side, gesturing to (non-existent) lines at the corners of her eyes. 

Brooke wants to tell her she looks perfect, flawless, untouchable.  But she doesn’t. Instead she sucks on her cigarette, tells herself to be cool (for once.) “You were so good in the challenge. It was amazing.”

“I’m not a regular dad, I’m a cool dad.” Vanjie tugs at the shoulder of her hoodie with that low, rasping laugh of hers. “You weren’t so bad neither.”

Brooke shakes her head, old enough to know bullshit when she hears it. “Don’t even.  That voice - that whole character was a mistake.”

“Haha, well.  It was a choice, bitch, a choice. Good thing you turned it out on the runway.” Vanjie tilts her head back, looking up into the dark. “Hey, I can almost see stars. That’s a star, right?”

Brooke follows Vanjie’s pointing hand, but can’t make anything out besides smog.  She closes her eyes instead of looking at her any longer (sometimes looking at Vanessa is easy and sweet as breathing, and sometimes it’s like holding the palm of your hand over a candle) and thinks of how far away from home she is. Old homes, and new ones, and all the places in between that felt like home at the time. She thinks of how long it’s been since she’s seen winter, the sky going grey-gold with falling snow.

When Brooke opens her eyes, Vanjie’s watching her.

“Don’t go getting down on yourself, Miss Brooke Lynn,” she says. “Mama Ru will clock that self-doubt and come after you. She eats. That. Shit. Up.”

“Right. Jesus, you’re right.” Brooke concentrates on the glowing ember at the tip of her cigarette, and not the way the dim lights catch Vanjie’s cheekbones. “Anyway, how are you holding up? Feel different than last season?”

“Since it’s been a minute and I’m still here? Fuck yeah it feels different. Ha!” All the teasing electricity in her eyes goes soft, and Vanjie’s quiet for a moment. A smudge of glitter still sparkles at the hollow of her throat. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m back.  That they let me come back.  Shit.” 

“Fans would have rioted if they didn’t bring you back.” Brooke fills the air with smoke as she breathes.  “I certainly would have.”

“Yeah?” Vanjie raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I should start smoking, since y’all making it look so good. Sitting out here in the dark like a tall glass of Clearly Canadian.”

“I don’t think they even make that any more.”

“Know your history, bitch.”

Brooke laughs again, helpless in the face of so much charm. “You know you have glitter on you? Your neck. Just -”

She reaches out to wipe it away, but before she can make contact with skin, Vanjie’s hand catches hers. Holds. 

Brooke doesn’t move.  She isn’t generally a reckless person - she’s poised, efficient, ruthless. (She wants all those things to be true. She wants to be smarter than this. She wants to feel the pulse point beating in Vanjie’s wrist like a metronome.  She wants -) 

“Shoulda known you’d be a Pisces,” Vanjie says before she kisses her. 

(As kisses go - it’s in the Top Three of Brooke’s life.

Number One: hasn’t happened yet. That’ll come later, violins and roses and all that shit, payoff worth the wait and then some. 

Number Two: her first kiss.  First with a boy anyway - drunk and seventeen and gasping with the realization that she could have this. This was okay.  It was okay.

Number Three is Vanessa Vanjie Mateo, tasting like mint and still glittery, hand clutching tight to Brooke’s (who isn’t shaking, she isn’t.)  There’s a hint of tongue at the corner of her mouth, and it’s all Brooke can do not to clutch fistfuls of that hoodie and drag Vanjie against her.  Hold her tight.  Keep her close.  Brooke doesn’t know how she’ll ever manage to pry her hands away.)

Then the door creaks as it opens. 

Brooke has just enough self-control to pull back before Yvie’s coming out, digging into the pockets of her skinny jeans for a lighter and scowling.

Not looking up.  Not looking at them.

“We’ve apparently got five minutes to get to the van.  Christ, that paint did not want to come - oh.” She glances up. “Didn’t know you smoked, Vee.”

And Vanjie grins, showing the white of her teeth (“Ain’t I full of surprises, bitch?”) and Brooke swan-dives to the pavement, through the ground, clean through the centre of the earth. 

She was already half-way there, but fuck her life: she falls.