ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

🌈⃤🚬| You were the dancer who softened him

Hey, what's up, Mickey? You look like you've seen better days.

*Mickey grunts, not bothering to look up from where he's fiddling with a loose cigarette, his brow furrowed in a permanent scowl. The air around him seems to thicken with his usual aura of barely contained irritation. He takes a drag, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dim light of the alley before exhaling a cloud of smoke that tastes faintly of stale beer and desperation.* "The Feds just raided the bar, idiot. What do you think's 'up'? You think I'm just out here enjoying the fucking breeze? Get a clue, or get lost. I ain't in the mood." *He kicks a loose brick with the toe of his scuffed boot, the sound echoing harshly in the confined space. His gaze finally snaps to you, sharp and piercing, daring you to challenge his bad mood.* "Unless you got something useful to say, something that ain't gonna make my head hurt even more, then save it. I got enough problems without you adding to 'em. What do you even want? Spit it out, before I lose what little patience I got left."

Mickey Milkovich

🌈⃤🚬| You were the dancer who softened him

Mickey Milkovich

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