#it’s like he wants mick to respond or something but he should know by now the old man doesn’t care

[cruesuffix]

here he goes again…

(btw nikki you can’t say you had empathy for him and his condition when you keep making disparaging comments about it/him)

[bad268]

hey! hope you are well. I was thinking of an idea for a Kimi Antonelli x reader story and as you write for him the best I knew you would write it so well.

maybe reader is toto's daughter, and her and kimi are in a relationship. but y/n can't make it to the last race of the season but she ends up surprising him after the race (she was there the whole time) and he runs to her and its all adorable and everyone is clapping?

just a thought!

love your work!

Couldn't Keep Me Away (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Wolff! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (I think I cooked too much with this lol...)

Warnings: sick! reader, mentions cough medicine

POV: Second Person (You/your/She/her)

W.C. 1956

Summary: She's never missed a race…until now?

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(@/Kimi’s insta from February 13, 2024)

It all came down to this. Not in the literal sense, more along the lines of it was the last race of the season. The team’s champions and driver’s championship had already been decided, so there was nothing to lose in this race. Well, except his sanity.

You had been at every race this season. Not because of your father, Toto Wolff. Actually, maybe that played a part, but you were always in the Prema garage. He could not remember what it was like to not have you in the garage between practice and qualifying or during pre-race shenanigans. 

When you were not on track for media day, he knew something was up. Yes, he knew you hated media day because it was boring, but it was also the day you had the most time together since the F1 teams and drivers were more popular interviewees. He tried texting and calling you only to receive nothing in response. He knew what he was going to have to do.

Speak to your father. 

He decided to stop by before the sprint race. Walking into the Mercedes garage, he spotted your father immediately and standing beside him, your mother, Susie, and brother, Jack. He suddenly knew that you should have been here too. The only reason you gave him in the past for why you may need to miss a race was to watch your brother. You never did miss a race, but there was always the possibility.

He swallowed his concern, not needing to worry yet, as he walked up to your family. He waited for them to finish their conversation before he tapped on Toto’s shoulder. Immediately, Toto turned around to meet Kimi’s worried eyes.

“Kimi, is there something wrong?” Toto asked, sensing Kimi’s anxiousness, but chalking it up to the upcoming race. “Is it the race?”

“No…I mean, kind of?” Kimi answered but immediately contradicted himself. It was much more different talking to Toto about you than about racing. Despite knowing that both of your parents are aware of your relationship, he tried his best to only talk to Toto about racing whenever they were on the track. This was a first for Kimi, and he just did not know how he wanted to go about asking. Finally, after receiving multiple uneasy looks from Susie and Toto, Kimi took a deep breath before just deciding to go for it. “Do you know where she is? She’s not answering my texts or calls, and I’m getting worried.”

“Oh, Kimi, she’s sick,” Susie jumped in. She knew exactly who he wanted to know about, so she showed him a text from you that said you took some medicine and would try to sleep it off. “She’s been sick almost all week. I thought she told you.”

“Oh, have she sent any updates recently? Do you know how she’s feeling?” Kimi rushed. Looking back, he realized that every time he texted you, it would have been late back at home, so it made sense that you did not respond. Plus, to add the sickness on top of it? He felt like shit for not catching it earlier.

“That was the last text I received,” Susie said, sadly. Toto stepped away as he got a call, leaving Kimi and Susie to talk while Jack was distracted by Mick. “It was sent a few hours ago, so she might be awake now. You could call her?”

“No need,” Toto said as he walked back over, holding out the phone to Kimi. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

Hesitantly, Kimi took the phone and saw your name as the caller ID. He looked back up at Toto and Susie as they turned their backs to him and walked toward the pit wall to give him a little privacy. Immediately, Kimi raised the phone to his ear, “Amore (love)? How are you feeling? I heard you were sick. Are you staying hydrated?”

He gets cut off hearing you giggle lightly before descending into a light coughing fit. He smiled lightly for a second before growing concerned once again when he heard you cough. “Slow down, liebe (love). I am feeling better, just a few coughs here and there.”

“That didn’t sound like ‘a few coughs here and there,’” He mocked lightheartedly but in all seriousness. 

“That’s because you triggered it,” you laughed again. This time, able to hold back the coughs, just needing to clear your throat before you talk again. “I promise, I’m doing better. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“As long as you’re feeling better,” He sighed, knowing you’re alright now. Off to the side, he sees his race engineer looking for him, so he realizes that he needs to wrap up the call with you to race. “Keep resting, amore. I have to go race now, but I’ll call you after, I promise.”

“I’ll be watching, liebe,” you smiled to yourself, and Kimi could hear it too. “Good luck, Kimi. Give the phone back to my dad, please?”

With that, he walked up to Toto again to hand him the phone before disappearing with his engineer. Toto raised the phone, chuckling lightly at Kimi’s rush as he greeted his daughter. 

“Can I be on the first flight out? I feel better.”

~~

Kimi had a horrible sprint race. He was already starting in 10th because he was on pole for the feature race, but he became collateral damage in a fight between a couple of cars further back. It was the last lap too! They were all outside the points, so there really was no point in racing that hard. However, that’s what happened. 

He did his best to hide his disappointment as he walked past the engineers to the driver’s room he shared with Ollie, who was already there because of a tire blowout from one of the earlier laps. Kimi started changing out of his race suit and into his normal clothes, just wanting to sleep the race off. 

“Your phone went off a few minutes ago,” Ollie said, breaking the silence and catching Kimi’s attention as he threw a Mercedes shirt over his head. “And don’t blame yourself. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plus, it’s not like this race mattered. You already won the championship, we won the team championship, and you have a seat for next year.”

“Thanks, Ollie, but that’s not the point,” Was he lying? Partly, but there was some truth. He was upset at the race result, but he was also still slightly bummed that you were not there. Thinking of you, he wanted to call you.

Kimi looked through his bag for his phone, finding it with no problems. He noticed the number of notifications, but the only one that mattered to him was the one from you. It was a few minutes prior and it read, “I’m so sorry liebe! That crash was nasty, I hope you’re okay. I just took more medicine, so I might be asleep by the time you finish post-race media. I’ll call you when I wake up. Ich liebe dich (I love you).”

He sent a quick response, telling you he was alright and he loved you. Then, he went about the rest of his day. And the rest of his night. And the next morning. At that point, he started getting nervous again since you were not responding again. What kind of medicine were you taking that knocked you out for 12 hours, he thought. 

He wanted to go back to your parents again, but the feature race prep was different compared to the sprint. He did not have the same break he did with the sprint. Ever since he got to the track, he was warming up and prepping for the final race. He was nervous given the result the day before. He did not want to end the season on a double DNF, especially when he was going to get an F1 seat the following season in a Mercedes. He had to score well in the race.

If he had found a way to get to the Mercedes garage, he would have seen you sitting with your brother while your parents had a last-minute meeting. And if Kimi had been in any other starting position, he would have seen you walk into the Prema garage with Jack. Pole position was different though because they needed to do more interviews and promo pictures. If Kimi could have seen around his car from his grid box, he would have seen you sitting on the pit wall.

The race started without a hitch, Kimi was back in his groove, and it was clear to see that he was confident in his moves again. Sure, he was not fighting anyone for position, but there were a couple of times when he had to defend. He did so perfectly, and it made people wonder if the sprint race was just a one-off day for him. It was all worth it when he crossed the finish line first again.

The team immediately ran to Parc Ferme to wait for the cars as they scored a Prema 1-2. Kimi pulled into the first spot, Ollie into the second, and Victor in the third. Ollie and Victor jumped out of their cars immediately, running to their teams, but Kimi took a minute. This win should have felt good, especially after the disaster that was the sprint race, but it didn’t.

It was fun to win, but he was going to have to jump out of the car and celebrate with his team. Just his team. This is the first race you were not going to be there celebrating with him, and he would rather delay the inevitable. 

You could feel his hesitance to get out of the car, so you handed Jack over to your parents as you pulled up your mask and pushed through the people to get to the gate. You got there relatively easily considering you went through the Prema team, and they knew you would be the first person he’d want to see.

Kimi finally climbed out and stood on top of his car, posing for the camera momentarily. Then, his attention shifted to his team, and he froze. You were there! He’d recognize those eyes anywhere! Of course, you made it. He jumped off of the car and flung himself over the barrier to wrap you in his arms.

“You made it. I can’t believe you made it,” He whispered over and over, not even bothering to question if you could hear him through his helmet. That’s when he remembered, so he pulled back to take his helmet and balaclava off as well as his gloves. He put the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature, causing you to laugh. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m seeing if you’ve got a fever.”

“I’m all good, my fever broke yesterday,” You consoled as you pulled his hand off of your forehead to hold it as you kissed his cheek through your mask. “I’m all good. The mask is just a precaution.”

“Screw precaution, I wanna kiss you,” Kimi whined as he pulled the mask down to give you a long kiss. Despite not actually hearing it, the team all started clapping and F1 TV definitely got a good shot of you two. When he pulled away, he put the mask back on for you as he leaned his head against yours. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“You couldn’t keep me away even if you tried,” You whispered back, leaning up to bump your nose against his, “I’ll always find a way to be here for you.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[russellsppttemplates]

mick smut (if you’re open to it): you complain that your neck and shoulders are sore when you come home from work and mick offers to give you a massage. that doesn’t last long before you’re both in bed and well …

Note: I've only posted two big pieces with smut in them, and while I love reading it, I don't think I'm that good at writing it. Still, a blurb seems less daunting to post! Also, I have the worst shoulder/neck pain right now so...

Cw: reader has muscle pains, smut

The minute you got home, Mick could tell something was bothering you, "what's the matter, liebling?", he wondered, kissing your lips as Angie sat by your feet, waiting for your usual greeting, "my neck and shoulders hurt", you groaned, letting him take you in his embrace and rest there for a bit, "Oh, Angie, baby, mama will pet you, just-", you hissed, touching her snout briefly, "That's as much as I can right now, babygirl", you pouted.

"Go and have a warm shower, okay? I'll finish dinner and I'll be upstairs when you finish to give you a massage, how does that sound?", he added as you nodded.

When the shower stopped running, Mick cleaned his hands on the kitchen towell and headed to your shared bedroom, finding you in your towell, "I have this cream here, it's supposed to help", you showed him the pot as he gestured for you to lay down chest facing the mattress.

"I'm going to this on your back to make you feel better, okay? If I hurt you, let me know, liebling", he said sweetly before you nodded, pushing the towell away from your back so he could give you a massage, "I'm sorry you feel like this", he said sincerely, kissing your bare skin as he followed along with his hands, rubbing in the product as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

The sweet lingering touches turned into more as he started kissing around your shoulders and neck, his teeth nibbling on your earlobe, "we can try another ways to release endorphins and soothe the pain", he checked with you before flipping you over.

Arranging the pillows how he knew you would be the most comfortable, “if anything I do hurts you, let me know, okay?" he checked over once again as you pulled on his t-shirt, "take this off", you whispered, enjoying the show as he undressed all in one go.

He knelt on the mattress, his lips kissing from yout lips to your chest, his hands on your chest as his thumb grazed your boobs, making you take one of the hands you had in his hair and place it on your boob, "it feels really good here, it's a good distraction", you muttered as he squeezed, taking from the way you whined pleasurably that it was feeling good for you.

"All good?", he checked in, his hand going to the spot between your legs that ached to be touched, his fingers circling your clit has he groaned, feeling the wetness that had gathered there. You whimpered at the feeling of his fingers, testing how you should move your body to meet his movements, "don't worry, liebling, I'm going use my fingers here", he said as his thumb circled your entrance, your faint mutter of an affirmative answer urging him on, "you're doing so well for me, so so so good", he praised when he felt your hand looking for his, lacing your fingers together in his as his other hand continued its ministrations, adding a second finger when he saw how well you were responding to his touches, your moans and leg squirms indicating that you were close, "you can come whenever you want to, darling", he said, unlacing your fingers and going back to your nipples, hoping the extra stimulation would bring you over the edge.

"Mick, I'm going to cum", the words tumbled from you as you did, your eyes closed as your expression looked like pure bliss to your husband. When you opened your eyes, heat rose to your cheeks as you realised you came in a very short amount of time while Mick was still fully dressed, your eyes landing on his penis before he supported his weight on his arms on the mattress on either side of you to kiss your forehead.

"It doesn't hurt that much, if you're willing to do most of the work, I'll be fine", you giggled, pulling his hips to meet yours, his arms supporting his body on either side of yours so he could finally slide inside you, his thrusts building their speed as Mick held you closely to his body, kissing your lips and mumbling praises to eachother, “I love you”, he muttered into the skin, "you're always so good to me", you groaned back as you felt his high coming soon.

Moving his hand to your clit, Mick circled the bundle of nerves to get you there too, feeling your walls squeeze him as he muttered announcement that he was close, the both of you cumming as his hand moved to caress your tummy.

A few minutes after, Mick scooted away from you so he could face you, "Did it help in anything?", he said as he caressed your cheeks, his lips going straight to your lips to steal a peck, "I feel really good, better than any painkiller", you giggled as you snuggled further into his chest, "thank you handsome".

[unknownperson246]

Daddy Wants You Slut Chapter 7: False Alarm

words: 590

warnings: *angst* *fluff* *mentions of drugs* *blood* *pregnancy*

You slip in and out of consciousness in the car while Vince is driving you to the hospital. Everything looks so hazy and blurry. You could feel the baby kicking you nonstop. Tommy was in the seat next to you while Nikki was holding you and supporting your body.  Mick was in the front seat as he kept looking back at you making sure you were okay. 

“Nikki” You start to whimper while you slip in and out of consciousness. Nikki is in his world right now. He is super high from the heroin he shot up in his veins. As soon as you get to the hospital Vince carries you out of the car and the doctors put a stretcher out so they can take you to a hospital room. Once the doctor examines you and confirms that your water breaking was a false alarm. The Doctor tells everyone that you should be fine and that you just need a couple of hours to rest and recover from the stress that went through. The doctor explained that it was not a sign of miscarriage. They explained you can bleed sometimes when you're pregnant. After a couple of hours, Nikki comes in and visits you. He isn't high anymore. You notice the blood dripping from Nikki's arm. 

“Nikki, did you shoot up again?” You ask worriedly.

“Yeah, I did,” He says while avoiding eye contact with you.

“Nikki please stop the drugs,” You say.

“Listen Nikki im sorry that I told you to quit the band and asked for us to go home. It was selfish of me I never should have said that” You say apologetically.

“No it's fine you were thinking about all three of us you weren't being selfish. You were right. How about after this tour I stop touring for a while at least until the baby is old enough to understand that this is what I do for a living?” Nikki says.

“That's a good idea, Nikki,” You say smiling

“But you're still going to be there for the baby?” You ask

“Hell yeah,” He says while holding your belly.

Suddenly Nikki remembers something.

“I just remembered we don't know the gender of the baby. I was so busy I forgot to attend the appointments with you” Nikki says.

“Nikki I didn't go to any appointments without you” You confess.

“I don't know the gender either” You respond.

“The doctor said he has to do an ultrasound anyway maybe we can get him to tell us the gender of our baby,” You say smiling.

The doctor comes in. 

“Okay, it's time for the ultrasound,” He says smiling.

While doing the ultrasound Nikki asks if they could know the gender of the baby. 

“It's a boy,” the doctor says smiling. 

Nikki's face lights up.

“It's a boy” Nikki whispers softly as he holds your hand.

The doctor tells you the due date of your son. 

“It looks like the due date is on April 15th.” the doctor says. He gives you a napkin so you can clean the gel off. You put your hospital gown down after you clean the gel off.

The doctor leaves your hospital room. Nikki explained that he canceled the next six concerts so he could take care of you. After a couple of hours, the doctor said that you were good to go. You and Nikki return to your hotel room after today's fiasco. You lay down and invite Nikki on the bed. You both fall asleep in each other's arms.

[sugakookie78]

Were you jealous?

This story may be a bit weird because it was originally written in a different setting, but I wanted to make it work.

Pairing: Mick Schumacher x Reader

I walk into the meeting room, grateful that I knew some of the people in the meeting. One of my best friends, who I also have a crush on, Mick, and another one of our friends George.

I sit in the first empty seat that I see, next to George. Unfortunately, Mick was sitting on the other side of the table. I wave and smile at him and he slightly waves back before the meeting starts.

As the meeting went on, people were pairing off with their neighbors to talk about new ideas. I was working with George and we were having fun, laughing and joking with each other.

A few minutes pass and George says, "Mick is glaring daggers at us. He's probably jealous, you know."

"Yeah, sure. And pigs fly," I comment back, thinking he was just making fun of my crush on Mick.

He responds with, "I'm serious. Everyone but you two can tell you like each other. Maybe you should just talk to him during lunch."

"Ok," I sigh before we continue to work on new ideas.

Throughout the rest of the meeting, I would periodically look over at Mick and I would see him glaring at either George or I.

Once the meeting ended and by the time George and I had packed all our stuff up, Mick had already left the room to get lunch. George, Mick, and I did have plans to get lunch together so, George and I also go in the general direction of the lunch room. I go to find a table while George goes to get something from his driver room before joining Mick and I.

I shiver a bit as I enter the room. I was wearing short sleeves and shorts, knowing that it was warm enough outside and not realizing it would be this cold inside.

I walk over to the table where I already see Mick sitting and I slide into the seat next to him.

"Hey. What's wrong?" I say, seeing as he looked a bit down in the dumps.

"Nothing, don't worry," he responds, looking up from his lunch to see me shivering a bit. "Do you have a sweatshirt? Is your boyfriend going to give you his?" It felt like there was added venom to the word 'boyfriend'.

"Boyfriend?" I question.

He responds with, "George" making it sound like it was obvious the whole time.

"Oh," I say, very surprised, "We are not dating. Not even close."

"Oh, ok," he looks down a moment before pulling his sweatshirt out of his bag and handing it to me. "Here. You can wear this."

I take it before something dawned on me. "Were you jealous?" I ask.

He blushes and looks away but responds with "no..."

He looks back at me, who is staring at him expectantly. He continues with, "Maybe, yeah. I thought you were dating him and didn't want to break you guys up. I didn't think I had a chance."

Before I answer, I quickly throw on his hoodie, inhaling his cologne as it goes over my head. "Well there is no reason to be jealous, because I like you too," I say before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

When I'm done, George comes over to the table. He looks over at the scene in front of him, Mick's cheeks pink with blush and me with Mick's sweatshirt on.

"Did you two finally get together?" he asks before sitting down next to Mick.

I look over and smile at Mick, who is blushing even harder now, and say "yes."

[maochira]

reader and lorenzo comfort dad!snuffy in his moment of intense sadness, please👉👈

Hsfskjdfjkshfks😭😭😭

Masterlist - (new) taglist sign-up

Tags: gn!Snuffy's child!reader, single dad!Snuffy, reader is a child around elementary school age + Lorenzo is their brother figure, angst, hurt/comfort, Snuffy misses Mick, mentions of Mick's death

Although Snuffy is in a very good position in life and everything has been going well recently, Mick's death still affects him nearly every day. On most days, he can deal with it just fine. But on some days the pain takes over.

Neither you nor Lorenzo ever got to meet Mick, but your father has told you countless stories about him and still mentions him all the time. From all the things you've been told, sometimes you feel like you've known Mick personally.

On days like today, especially in a rather stressful time, Snuffy tends to struggle more with his emotions. At your age, you don't truly understand what your father is going through, but you know he's in pain and you want to make him feel better. And so does Lorenzo.

Usually, Snuffy tries to hide how bad he feels to prevent you or Lorenzo from feeling responsible for his emotions. But there's always something that lets you know your father's actual feelings.

"Papa?" You ask while repeatedly knocking at the door to his bedroom. Snuffy has been hiding there for the past hour.

He's hesitant, but decides to open the door for you. "Do you need anything?" It's easy to tell from both his voice and his face that he was crying just until a few moments ago.

Without saying a word, you grab your father's hand and slowly drag him along towards the living room, where Lorenzo currently is.

Right now, there are no words that need to be said. You and Lorenzo already know what Snuffy is feeling down about, so your plan is to make him feel better by comforting him.

"Why did you drag me here...?" Snuffy asks while he kneels down to your height. "Papa isn't feeling well right now."

"I know..." You respond, then pull him into a hug, which Snuffy immediately reciprocates.

"We can't let you be all alone when you're feeling like this, you know?" Lorenzo sighs and joins the hug.

For a moment, Snuffy thinks about telling you how he doesn't want you and Lorenzo to worry so much. But he realizes he should instead give in to the comfort you're offering - as long as you and Lorenzo don't feel like your father's feelings are your responsibility.

now there you are, the three of you staying in that hug for minutes because no one knows if it's the right moment to let go yet. And in all honesty, neither of you wants to ever let go - especially your father.

[ohblackdiamond]

bite the hand that bleeds (ace/paul, pg-13)

Summary: Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

Paul gets an unexpected art collector at a gallery show, and ends up entertaining his old bandmate for tea.

Notes: Part of a fic swap with @elrohare (prompt: afternoon tea). Please check out her lovely Whenever You're Ready (I'm Here) for a beautiful take on the same setting.

“Come now, gentlemen Your love is all I crave You'll still be in the circus When I'm laughing, laughing in my grave” -“Memo from Turner,” Mick Jagger

Forty meet and greets, that’s the evening’s agenda, with room for maybe five or six impulse buyers at the tail end.  Christian, Wentworth’s president, sends him a hard copy the morning of, with notes, though he usually only glances over it. He only really keeps an eye out for the special requests, so he can remember they’re coming up– maybe someone with cancer, or a whole family wanting a picture with him, or a video message to a kid barely out of basic training and stationed overseas– but the bulk, the very bulk of the meet and greets are simple, easy to handle. A couple signatures, a couple pictures, and a smile, and they’re mostly on their way. It takes so little to make them happy, so little. The kids never really changed– they just went from piggybanks to 401ks. 

Forty meet and greets. He likes doing these much better than the ones for KISS. He likes not sharing attention with Gene.  Most especially, even now, he likes the girls, not for anything carnal, but just that small, secret pleasure of still being wanted at the tender age of seventy-two.

He scans through the list, though he never remembers the names, just some of the faces. The names give their age  away anyway, Generation X’s finest crop of Lisas and Erics and– hm, a Paul, too. A Paul Daniel. 

It’s just coincidence. He sets his agenda down on his hotel bedside table and tries to think no more about it. He’s got four hours to kill before he needs to get down there, anyway. Maybe he’ll order something on his phone. He taps the screen, checking his messages first. One from Erin he’ll answer later. One from Gene from about a week ago he still has no intention of answering.  The phone vibrates in his hand as he’s just about to set it aside– a call, not a text. Christian.

“Hello?”

“I hate to bother you, Paul, but it’s about the event,” Christian says. He sounds a little scattered. Paul resists the urge to snap back at him– of course it’s about the event– letting him go on. Sometimes it’s hard to summon up the energy to respond much. Sometimes, even four months out from his last show, it still hurts to talk. “One of the people on the guest list.”

“If you’re thinking there’ll be some trouble, then you can handle it.”

“It’s not the usual trouble.” After ten or more years of this, Christian ought to know the usual trouble well enough by now. The stalker types, the seriously unhinged ones that believe that buying a painting entitles them to his true friendship, or more. The expectant ones, the oversharing, desperate ones, the nuts that have to be escorted out.  Usually the high price of admission keeps them away, and usually, Paul doesn’t get told they even tried to make an appearance. He has people for that. He should have people for that. “All I can say is that I’m sorry.  We had one of our new consultants– she just started two weeks ago, and she– well, you know how it is, she’s only twenty-four, she had no idea–”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you had a buyer you may not want.”

“Please don’t tell me Eddie Trunk got his fat ass over to D.C.”

Christian actually manages a snort, but the next words make the breath catch in Paul’s throat. 

“No. It’s Ace Frehley.”

– 

Paul tells Christian he’ll call him back when he ought to tell him to issue Ace a refund.

He hasn’t seen Ace in six years now. Oh, he’s seen Ace– in a parade of humiliating Tiktoks and Youtube shorts, slurring interviews, horrific concerts– but he hasn’t seen Ace. He’s heard from Ace– the occasional, completely unanswered text– but the last time he listened to him on the phone was months back. Ace’s Hail Mary, his final, desperate attempt to get let onstage for MSG. Ace had fumbled it. Ace fumbled everything. 

Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again. 

“Have you contacted him? When did this happen?”

“Not since the purchase. That was two days ago.”

“And no one checked until now?  You had Ace Frehley buy a painting and nobody noticed for two days?”

“It was on his girlfriend’s credit card.”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Cancel it. Refund it. That’s what he should be saying. “He does that shit to people. Uses them for whatever favors he can. Uses them all up.”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paul exhales.

If it was refunded, Ace would go to the press. Ace would tell every damn news website in the world that Paul Stanley wouldn’t sell him a painting. He’d get all sorts of publicity. The avatars had gotten bad press, not that Paul gave much of a shit anymore, but if Ace capped it all off, had someone else spin it just right… fuck. It could go so well for him. Ace could play it off like a spat-upon peace offering, and he, Paul, would come off like a bitter asshole, denying him not just the band, but five minutes of his time. He couldn’t win. He wouldn’t be able to win. 

“Call him up. Tell him he’s not coming to the gallery.” 

“All right.”

“But tell him he can meet me in an hour in Entyse.” Paul doesn’t even question if they’ll get him on the line. Or if Ace’ll show. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Okay. Paul, again, all I can do is apologize–”

“What for? I was headed there anyway.”

He hangs up. His phone’s buzzing within ten minutes, texts, this time, and then a call, but he doesn’t so much as glance at the screen. He knows who they’re from. 

– 

Paul walks into Entyse without a reservation and gets seated immediately. It’s not much of a power play; there’s not been any satisfaction on his part in things like that for, oh, forty-five years now. Especially not when Entyse is just the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant, and he only had to head downstairs from his suite. 

They offer him the menus, but all he takes is a Coke and a water. He’d half-expected Ace to get there before him, half-wanted to see him wandering in, all stupid bravado, looking around for the front of house, aware that he’d cheated himself out of every rockstar perk Paul’s going to have the rest of his life. But five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Paul’s just about to get up– he can feel a couple eyes on him at this point, wondering, probably, why he’s alone, with a solid half of them not knowing who he is, probably more– and then he sees Ace out of the corner of his eye, getting led to his table like a pensioner to his nursing home bed. 

That’s not fair. It’s not, unfortunately, even true. Ace is walking about as well as he ever did, which isn’t well at all, struggling against his own instinct to pigeon-toe. He looks fine. He’s lost some weight over the last couple years. He’s in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cheap Hello Kitty button-down. And sunglasses, which he yanks off as soon as he sits down, pushing them aside on the table. 

“Hey, Paul,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s not the start he wants. The waiter’s given Ace the drink menu– Ace flips it over immediately and hands it back– and goes into the lunch options, but Ace interrupts him.

“How about tea?”

“The afternoon tea, sir?”

Ace points over to the table across from theirs, where six or seven teenage girls in puffy pastel atrocities are giggling over some tiered tea trays.

“Yeah, what they’ve got.”

The waiter seems completely unruffled. Paul narrows his eyes, looking at Ace– specifically, he’s looking for Ace’s phone– but if he’s got it on him, it must be in his pocket. The waiter pulls out the afternoon tea menus. 

“We have two options for tea.  The afternoon tea, and the royal tea. Your selections of sandwiches and sweets are completely customizable. The royal tea does include a glass of rose wine and–”

“Paulie, he’s trying to upsell you,” Ace says with a snort. 

“I don’t remember saying I would pay.”

“You invited me. And I did buy your painting. That’s how it works, right?” Ace turns to the waiter after a quick glance at the menu. “Gimme the afternoon tea. Uh. Darjeeling. Don’t gimme any of the cream puffs or mousse, all right? Just, uh, substitute in more of the scones.”

“And you, sir?”

Paul had been about to get a salad just to spite him, just to show how little time he wants  to spend entertaining him here. Afternoon tea– God, it’s comical. Ridiculous. His youngest had that at her birthday party about three years ago. What the hell is Ace doing? What’s he trying to accomplish?

He doesn’t know. 

“I’ll take the upsell. And jasmine tea. No substitutes on any of the stuff on the tray.”

The waiter nods, heading off at that brisk pace. Ace pushes his hair back behind his ear, and smiles. 

“You got a good crowd coming?”

“Yeah. It’s a good crowd.”

“’S good. I used to sell my art, too.” Ace is so matter-of-fact that Paul can almost feel his own blood pressure start to rise. He can’t ever outright call out arch meanings with Ace, the way he can with Gene, for all he’s sure they’re there. Ace doesn’t have those tells that Gene does. “It was all on the computer. I used to really like to tinker with it. Now all you gotta do is click and put a filter on it.”

“Not very tactile.”

“Nah. I got settings on my– on my webcam now, for when I do interviews. Barely even gotta put on any makeup with how well that filters out all the imperfections.” Ace peers at him. “I could show you sometime. I guess now that KISS is done you–”

“Cut the crap, Ace, and tell me what you want.”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap.”

“What’d you get the upsell for, Paul? Since when do you gotta have a drink to deal with me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just grabs his Coke and takes a long swig. He used to be able to do Gene this way. Silent treatment him for hours and hours. This last tour– the last tour– it had gotten unbearable for both of them. Each show another nail in the coffin, a relief as much as it was an agony. Another shaving down of whatever was left of their friendship. 

He hadn’t even seen Gene since the last show. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. 

Ace takes a couple sips of his water. He’s not looking at Paul. His gaze is towards those teenage girls. 

“My fiancee’s got a girl about that age,” he says quietly. “She’s got a friend that dresses kinda like that, real frilly. She brought her over to the house once. Call themselves Lolitas or something. I don’t get it.”

“It’s Japanese.” Two words more than he’d meant to give him. 

“Oh.” Ace nods, glancing briefly at his own shirt. “I’d like to get back over there someday. I dunno that I will.”

Probably not. Ace can’t afford to tour outside of the States. Paul tries to swallow his next comment, but he doesn’t manage.

“I’m not touring again, Ace.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not helping you tour.”

“I’m not asking for that, either.”

“Then what are you–”

The waiter reemerges, first with their teas and then, immediately afterward, with the trays, laden with tiny sandwiches and sweets. Ace’s grin only widens, and he immediately snatches the smoked salmon sandwich from his tea tray and sticks the entire thing in his mouth. One bite. 

“Fuck, that was good. Are you still on the vegetarian bit? Can I have yours?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul takes his own salmon sandwich from his tray just to spite him, eating it more slowly. But three bites and it’s just as gone as Ace’s. Pretty good. It occurs to him, briefly, that Ace probably thinks Olive Garden is fine dining at this point in his life. It would be sad if he hadn’t done it to himself.

Ace moves onto the quiche. This one, he cuts up into raggedy thirds, stabbing each with his fork. 

“Caramelized onions on top. Y’know, my manager, he’s something of a chef, but–”

“Tell me what you want, Ace.” 

Ace pulls out his phone. Paul stiffens before he realizes Ace is just checking his texts.

“You never answered me. I didn’t think you would.” He lifts his eyes from the phone, setting it down on the table, face up. Ace’s got the font set as large as he can get it. Same as him. “What I want is company, Paulie. I want your company so damn bad I’ll pay you for it.”

“Like hell. You want an in.” The salmon feels like it’s about to come back up in his throat. “You want me to endorse you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You want a photo with me. Maybe a soundbyte for Youtube.” Paul forces himself to exhale. “Your album barely sold. KISS is gone and you’re still out there in the clubs. So you want a little more buzz. Maybe I’d help you get ten more butts in the seats at those fucking dive bars you play–”

“I’m not at fucking dive bars.”

“When was the last time you sold out an arena? I’ll wait. No. I know.”

Ace’s mouth is pinched, face just a little flushed. He eats the pieces of his quiche in rapid succession, then starts savagely on the remaining sandwiches, just grabbing them off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth. Then he starts on the tea, taking a quick swallow without the cream and sugars Paul remembers him always adding in. 

“Same as the last time you didn’t sound like shit.” He grabs the tongs, dropping in three sugars, then the cream, stirring them, eyes full on Paul’s face, daring him to get up, daring him to leave. “Gene told me what happened to you, back when we toured Australia together. I know all about that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You ruined yourself and then you blamed him with it. And he believes it, too. That’s the funny thing.” A swallow. “He was about in tears when he told me. Gene’s a snake, but he’s better than either of us. All he hasn’t sold off yet is his conscience.” 

The tea trays never looked so comical. Silver tiers, pastel sweets, bright-colored sandwiches. He’s focusing on them because there’s nothing else to focus on. Only that Ace wants him to go. Ace wants him to go so that he can feel like he’s won. But Ace hasn’t won anything. His whole life he’s given up everything he ever had like a goddamn fool, then begged the whole world for their scraps. He can’t get front row. He can’t get the Ritz Carlton. He’s lucky he got fifteen minutes of Paul’s time. 

“Gene’s a liar.”

“Not about that.” Another swallow of tea. Paul expects another sharp accusation, but Ace just swaps tactics like credit cards from a billfold. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just like it doesn’t matter what I play like when I go out there. You… you and Gene took me to see James Brown, for my birthday that time. I remember seeing that old man out there, seeing them put all the capes on him, I thought, they should put him to bed, don’t put him out there, he’s a-a fucking dinosaur, now– but they did. ’Cause he didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he could do was sing all the old songs. Put on the capes. Be a joke.”

“You’re the only joke here.”

“We both are.” Ace keeps eating. Almost all the sandwiches are gone from his tray. He’s onto the scones. “I don’t want an in, Paul. I just want someone I can talk to.”

“Talk to Gene.”

“I can’t.”

“Talk to Peter.”

“He won’t.”

“Why me?”

Ace finishes off the scone. There’s a little butter smeared across his lip.

“You know why.”

It’s the music business. The music business. I don’t owe you friendship. I don’t owe you anything. Doc’s adage, the one he’s scrawled on one of his paintings, there in the gallery, burns somewhere in his heart: quality time remaining. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. Like someone’s subtracting his last breaths down. Quality time remaining and in just a couple hours, he’ll be spending that time doing those forty meet and greets for fans that want a moment and a picture and a couple autographs. Fans that only know him from the magazines and interviews and two hours at a time in a couple hundred concerts, but think of him like a brother, like a lover, like a demigod. Ace doesn’t know him, he wants to insist, but that’s a lie. Ace knew him when he was no one. 

Ace knew him when the Hotel Diplomat was the best they could manage. When they hauled their gear in a milk truck. When the KISS t-shirts were iron-ons they cut out themselves. When Bill was signing them onto Casablanca. When every show was a rush of adrenaline, instead of a slog. When it didn’t hurt, when he could bounce back from anything, just anything–

(when)

(when)

Long skinny legs spread across a cheap yellow duvet. A girl’s head between them. The room assignments had swapped; Peter was rooming with his wife, and Ace, Ace was lying there, getting head from that girl as Paul stepped out from the shower. 

(you want in on this, paul? and his finger crooked, beckoning lazily)

(and he did. and he did. that was the first sidle into something new, something filthy. he had taken the girl from behind while she sucked off ace, but it was only after she left that it really mattered. it was only after that that they’d fooled around together, feigning drunk after only three beers apiece.)

(you want in on this, paul?)

Those same legs in faded jeans, close to fifteen years later. No girl this time but the hotel might as well have been the same. Ace’s fortunes had declined even worse than KISS.’ And yet he’d had enough reason to spend the night with him, after the Limelight show, without a girl there for that edge of rockstar excess.

Another ten years. Another scattered handful of moments. Ace high on pills.  Paul edging on the verge of divorce. The disgust had started to fester long before then, disgust and awareness. Ace was throwing it all away again, casual and careless. Ace wasn’t what he wanted, in or out of bed, and he never had been. He was still just some crude kid from the Bronx that played guitar better than him, that crashed cars, that drank himself to stupors, only then he was nearly fifty instead of twenty-five.

He couldn’t change. Just kept making the same mistakes. Just kept playing the same old chords, the same chords anyone could play. He’d proved that afterwards, hadn’t he? He’d proved that. The fans had taken Tommy for twenty years. Ace had never been special at all. 

Paul tries to think that. Tries to assure himself of that. But looking Ace in the face stops him cold. There’s defeat there, sure. But there’s a spark in those dark, hooded eyes, too. There’s a spark that no stupid tea outing and no amount of barbs from him could ever manage to completely extinguish.

It’s a spark he remembers, and for the barest sliver of time, it’s just enough to almost make him look young.

“Maybe I’m better off trying them. Gene’s not so sore at me anymore.” Ace lifts a macaron from his tray. “He’s still the one paying his old band.”

“I know.”

“Peter’ll let it all go if I visit him.”

“He would.”

“It’s just you I wanted, that’s all.” Ace gets up, having to lean against the table in order to stand. He reaches for his Gucci purse, hooking it to his shoulder. “It’s always been you.”

“Ace–”

“Don’t let them get too weird with you at the event. Pretend you can’t hear ’em.” Ace’s words are only a little dry as he crunches the macaron, then reaches for the remaining scones, wrapping them in a napkin. Paul’s stomach starts to twist. All the fight seems out of him, all the acidity, all the hope. In tearing Paul up, he tore himself up, too. Mutually-assured destruction. “Your girl that sold me the painting, she said–”

“Which one did you buy?”

He says it suddenly, barely realizing it’s out of his mouth until Ace answers.

“What?”

“Which one?”

“The, uh, one of the abstracts.”

“Which one?”

“The blue and purple. Anyway, she said–”

“Sit down.”

“Paul–”

“Finish off the food. I will, too.”

“I’m not–”

(i want) 

“You’re coming with me.”

“Paul, c’mon, I know you don’t wanna, not after–”

“I do.”

A couple of old men drinking tea in the Ritz Carlton. A couple of young men under the covers of a Motel Six. Age shattering vocals, crippling fingers. Bitterness seeping in from every raw deal and every undercut and every canceled show, a lifetime of old pains without a salve. And yet, as Ace sits back down, easing into his chair, reaching for the strawberry on top of the tea tray, Paul finds himself almost ready to let it all go.

[hawkstincan]

got myself thinking. what if Tom Barnaby lived in central city? near Allen's. and got on scene among first responders. he works ccpd, he talks with Barry and Henry and surprisingly believes them. yeah, he never believed in the supernatural, but he believed in evidence before his eyes. which was not contradicting anything he was told. it tracks if you accept superspeed as a possibility. 

he's not allowed to lead the investigation. he's friends with the suspect and hence conflict of interest. at least he's allowed to foster Barry. the detective on the job goes with ‘husband did it’ and is not open to anything else. 

Barry's not happy with it but he knows there's nothing he can do for now. at least he gets all the visitation hours he wants. Henry tried to get him to stop, but was suddenly confronted by both Barry and Tom. 

Tom hates not knowing what happened for sure as much as knowing that an innocent man is in prison. he helps Barry with looking for unexplained as much as he can. he keeps his ear out for every rumor. 

and with midsomer murders dynamics? of course it was Tom who put Lewis in jail. and he looked after Len and Lisa ever since. Lisa participated in olympics (because it's nice and happy au), Len ended up in a police academy of all places. Tom chuckles every time Len makes a constipated face while wearing a uniform. 

Len meets Mick and gets his first almost criminal stray to help. he had good example after all 

Barry meets with Len by accident (which is hilarious to literally every one after they learn about it). they got on like a house on fire, it felt like they knew each other already 

and when Barry tries to introduce his boyfriend Tom laughs "should have seen this coming" then laughs some more and explains. Barry and Len will never live this down. 

and then lightning happens. and Tom is suspicious of Wells the moment he sees the guy. something is wrong about him. 

investigation it is

[safetycar-restart]

In the d/s au mick runs into his horrible Dom from haas and he freaks out but it’s a race weekend and he doesn’t want to be a burden so he tries to hide it and he gets really upset and maybe Lewis or George find him? And they comfort him and get him to Toto who calls you and then you all look after him for the night and baby him until he feels better x

Oh no poor micky!!! This idea is so good though, cause I definitely think he would try to hide it.

For the first couple races, you and Toto watch Mick like a hawk. Even before Toto joins the dynamic he makes sure to keep a close eye on Mick. Because he just cares so much for him and feels so protective of him.

And for the first few races, his old Dom from Haas doesn’t come near him. Mercedes and Haas are on opposites of the pit lane anyway, so they don’t cross paths at all.

But it’s actually the addition of Toto that makes his old Dom show their face again? Even though you don’t announce anything, and technically you’re just Mick’s professional Dom at this point too, it’s just so obvious that something has changed to make Mick so happy? Hes walking around the paddock with a smile on his face, his entire being radiating happy sub.

That’s what makes his old Dom show their face. Mick has never looked that happy before, and they have to know why.

When they approach Mick, he’s walking on his own. It’s been long enough and he’s feeling secure enough that he can just walk around on his own now.

And then suddenly he’s face to face with his old Dom. He looks around, trying to find someone he trusts near but there’s no one. His Dom asks him what’s changed, why he’s so obnoxiously happy and Mick just shrinks.

The Haas Dom asks again, and then starts berating Mick for not responding. Poor Mick has no idea what to do. He wants you and Toto. But neither of you are here, and he’s so scared.

He wants to run away, but he can’t? He can’t make himself move. It’s like his back at Haas, having to listen to everything this Dom says.

He gets away because another team Dom walks past and asks a question to the Haas Dom, distracting them for long enough for Mick to run away.

Originally, he wants to go straight to you and Toto. But then he reaches Toto and sees how he’s looking at data and talking to bono and suddenly he just gets so scared that he might be a burden? It’s a race weekend. Toto has other things to focus on, and you should be focusing on your subs that are actually driving.

He needs to cope on his own.

Except he can’t? He can’t cope on his own? Because it’s like all the progress he’s made has gone out the window and all he can do is desperately fight to put one foot in front of the other.

At first you and Toto domt notice, because you’re both so busy prepping for the race.

But then Lewis and George notice? Maybe they wanted to go ask Mick to join them for lunch, but then they find Mick just sitting on the floor in the corner of the meeting room, his head in his hands as he cries.

George instantly runs out to go find you or Toto, and Lewis stays with Mick but Mick won’t tell him anything. The moment Toto arrives, Mick is up and into Toto’s arms.

Toto just holds him, rubbing his back and hoping you’ll get there soon.

Mick only says what’s happened once you get there. He can’t make himself speak with just Toto. But when you join and you wrap an arm around him and wipe his tears away, then he can speak.

Needless to say, Toto makes sure that the Haas Dom never comes near Mick again. Ever.

But also, Mick gets a stern talking to because he should have come to you or Toto. The fact that it was a race weekend didn’t matter. He’s always going to be top priority.

For the next few days, Toto is SO protective of Mick, always keeping him close and never letting him out of his sight.

[rosyjuly]

@kritischetheologie tagged me for the 20 questions for writers game, thank you c!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

twenty!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

76,628. it's kinda insane that i wrote 51k under just six months last year.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

currently only writing for f1, but i've published works for star wars, peaky blinders, the old guard and batman. on another account that has been liquidated many years ago i had footy rpf and teen wolf fics.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

carry each other (hal jordan/bruce wayne), worked the blade (seb/mick), to the finnish line (seb/charles/kimi), spoils of war (seb/mick) and a favour returned (seb/lewis).

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i do, unless it only says "please write more of this", because i don't have anything polite to reply. but i love getting replies from authors too, so only fair to return the favor. there are definitely times when i just re-read a bunch of comments and they can really help to lift my mood or feel better about my writing.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

lmao that would be the prince au break up sex fic, someday to say out loud. making george ask alex to tell him he loves him even if it isn't true and ensuring that he can't and won't believe him... partly why it's hard for me to go back to writing prince au is because it was very easy for me to project my unmedicated depression onto george, and (thank god) i'm not in that place anymore.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

mmhh my star wars fic maybe? i'm not overly fond of happy endings, the best i deal out is a hopeful but kinda open ending. out of my f1 fic it's a favour returned, i guess -- there's some talk about longer term commitment and trying and failing to say that they like like each other, or consolation prize, where mick admits twice that he's been thinking about seb.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not in the classical sense i guess or not that i've seen.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

boy do i. i mostly write smut and use it as a catalyst to nudge a relationship to another level. i don't really get the what kind? question. what kinds are there? wholegrain?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

haven't written one yet, but i've been toying with the idea of an f1 and the expendables crossover.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

if i had a nickel for every time someone pulled entire lines from a fic of mine and barely paraphrased them, i would have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

on my old ao3 account, yes! i haven't been approached on the new one and i don't think i'd give permission now.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

prince au aka the myth of devotion with gabby @prettydangrotten. sorry to be sappy on main but galex truly one of the best things on the internet that's happened to me just for the friends i've made because of them :)))

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

all time? propably stiles/derek or eames/arthur from inception. also it was sterek that first got me to tumblr, back in like 2012 or something.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

ugh right now it feels like i'll never finish anything again. but i have a long star wars wip that's like 75% done but i haven't touched for three years. there's a roc sebmick fic i started and i actually know how it should go from start to finish, but i've been struggling with writing this year, so, i don't know.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i've been told the internal struggle/tension that narrator is facing is pretty tight and i do agree :) i also think the porn i write is nicely physical and pretty hot.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

longfic. like. i wish i could do it -- i had a 54k wip on my old ao3 account -- but i don't have the energy or the commitment. this is also why i struggle with WTB and SOW -- i want to write more to both but i feel like they are snappy and valuable as they are and i'm worried i'll ruin that if i add more.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

english isn't my first langauge so all dialogue is in another language in fic for me. i'm not super fond of adding another language on top pf that.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

teen wolf!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

spoils of war or prince au. prince au has probably the most of me and gabby is incredible and one of the best writers and kindest persons i know and i feel incredibly fortunate to have created something with her. spoils of war was a challenge on a lot of fronts but i'm proud of the storyline and it has some of the best lines i have ever written i think. and it got @antimonyandthyme and me very close :))

aaaand i'm gonna tag @prettydangrotten @des-iderate @grideon @antimonyandthyme and @husbono.

[diabolimeservavit666]

Honestly, I wasn't surprised. I was hurt but I knew it was coming. (Ranting Again)

Why? Because if she's willing to do this than why wouldn't she do that? As Mick said "the code is what makes a young boy kill his best friend". Except it extends much further than that. As proven:

Now, tell me (I dare you), that these scenes are not the axact same occurrence, just years later. Why do you think that Ketch is so reluctant to admit that he cares about someone? Because he knows this corrupt sadistic bitch would make him kill them. She doesn't like her Hunters getting too close to anyone. And, especially, doesn't want them to see the error of her ways. Not that TFW is much better because, frankly they aren't. In comparison (AKA to Mick and Ketch) they'd seem damn near like saints but we're not talking about that, are we? Not only was Mick slipping from her iron grasp, so was Ketch. So, she felt the need to correct them. It's no different. And if the fantheory is right about a Mick x Ketch relationship in there later years of Kendricks is correct, I'm surprised she didn't do it sooner. Because I know she's the reason they broke up. Fuck her. Miss against happiness and anything decent. She took away Mick's childhood friend, Ketch's twin, and then she wanted one to kill the other. Reasons like this is why I hate her.

There should be a support group for the British Men of Letters because of the shit she put them through and made them commit. And don't even try to say she wasn't forcing there hand. There's only one way out and that's death. Also, did you ever think the reason why Ketch went along with it is because he knew Toni and Mick (his ex-lover and best friend) were safer dead than alive.

Which goes to show the truth about Dr. Hess and the fact that she had that whole thing planned before she ever contacted Mick to return to HQ. Ketch said he didn't do it and he doesn't straight up lie (only withholds information, not exactly the same thing). So, she made it look like Ketch had texted him, knowing far well that Mick (the caring soul that he is) would respond almost immediately, thinking Ketch was hurt or something. He did seem genuinely concerned and you know it. I wanted Ketch to kill her. Not then (that would make everything worse for them), but later. Like when Jody killed her. Ketch had every right and Jody didn't even know her. And then Team Free Will treating Ketch like he's a worse dick than they are when he was the only one who gave a genuine fuck about Mick. Might I remind you that it's Sam who sent him to his death? Which put Ketch in the worst situation possible. He had two choices: kill his best friend to save him from the code or let Dr. Hess do whatever she wants to him and knowing her, she'd make Ketch do whatever she decided on. He did the right thing. He saved him from the code by obeying the code. It was his only option that would save Mick and not make him just as sadistic as Dr. Hess. Sam nor Cas will never have the capability to care about Mick the way Ketch did and still does. Evidence? Tell me that this does not look familiar?

Can't get a good view of the suit but you can claerly see who he modeled it after. So, please, Ketch haters, tell me I'm wrong.

[crimsun-n-clover]

dalia chronicles update

shits getting wild man

i did one of those “like this and i’ll introduce you” story games and originally she didn’t but then later she went through all the other introductions and i guess decided yeah i can use the attention

and i’m happy to oblige obviously

so this is the template

so i put that shes my friend, we’re not very close, she reminds me of ed from ofmd (total copout, he’s her favorite), the song was femme fatale by the velvet underground (don’t think about that one too hard!!), and then it gets worse. for the memory, i brought up a joke she made once and then TOTALLY FUCKING FABRICATED a story in which mickey was harassing me over the pretty girl on my phone because she saw me going through her stories. yes, mickey does harass me about her, but that’s because i’m being FUCKING INSANE. so yeah. kinda comes off as flattery, but i wanted to call her pretty without having to call her pretty. and i said i liked how creative and interesting she is, and that i like talking to her.

she responds “thank you this made my day!!” and i was a giggly fuckin ehehe nooo really?? mess.

later that day she posts on her note “running away to the ocean” and i was like fuck yeah i love doing that highly recommend. she tells me that she lives by the harbor in toronto and she’s gonna apply to work on the cargo ships. i was like holy shit that’s awesome!! if you end up in orlando you should tell me and we could do something like an ofmd watch party!! which was also a copout. like. massive fuckin copout. just wanted to test the waters a bit, i think we may be both a bit flighty.

and then. she drops the absolute fucking BOMB “that would be awesome, i have a place in florida”

you. y. you. you have. a fucking WHAT

oh my god. i’m so fucked. this was more fun and silly when it was like ohhh i have a harmless little stupid crush! i’m a bit sweet on this artist girl i know! but now. oh god. oh fuck. son of a bitch.

i’m speechless. this girl who is SO my type and maybe into me is within reach now, but not easy enough to get to that it’ll bore me or freak me out.

i’m being ridiculous but i’m just so interested in her. she posts about her room and shows me trinkets and stuff and it’s like. i wanna lay on your bed and listen to your weird folk music while you tell me the story behind every single fucking thing on your walls.

maggie has been making fun of me because yk. if i like a girl she has to be a little fucked up. a little off. and this girl is a fucking boat nerd with an ego than can suffocate a city. maggie has only been comforted by the knowledge that she does roller derby and archery and is a lifeguard and all that shit.

this just feels. i don’t know. don’t wanna say fate because that’s fucking stupid.

but that does remind me

earlier today i was on the phone with john and he mentioned mickey and i was like no way!! she asked about you this morning!

and then matchmaking has ensued.

j and mick are the same fucking person. they’re both my adopted kid siblings, just one of them lives out of the country. they’re both little alcoholic guitar freaks with a weird sense of humor that come to me for problems they reallyyy shouldn’t come to me for.

i tell john that mickey asked about him and he loses his shit. posts some bait on his story and they get talking. i’m playing both sides, while j is telling me he’s in love and mick is saying that john is lowkey fine. they’re both wayyy into each other. john has been up my ass about “stevie you better come to the wedding” and i’m happy to give him a win after getting his heart broken like four times recently. like. enough to call me for a drunken cry sesh. i’m worried about him but i don’t see anything too bad coming out of this besides mickey being all “nooo omg i can’ttt i need him to be here if i’m gonna say anything” while j is begging me to report back on if she’s into him.

mickey was asking me about how i met him n stuff and i said i saw him posting kickass guitar stuff and followed him for that and then i posted a megadeth meme while saying “no one else will find this funny” and he says “I DO” and suddenly he’s my brother. and he even looks like me. he convinced our friend we were related when he met her. (said friend and her bf broke up today)

so mickey says him and i are platonic soulmates bound by fate or something with the coincidences that led to him and i being close.

back to j and i’s friend who broke up with her bf. he was a dick to her about the way she looks but he was really sweet when it came to getting her things n stuff. her and i met in a weird flirty way and she said the other day that it wasn’t platonic for her and i was like. me too bestie. and she said something about “if we’re ever both single…” and i was like yeah lmao! because i’d hook up with her. j clocked me on that. dunno how. we were on the phone today and he goes “would you hook up with her be honest” and i had to explain to him that yeah absolutely but i have no romantic intent toward her? she’s my friend and i adore her but she’s also gorgeous and i’d go down on her if she asked. we just wouldn’t make a good stable healthy couple. we’re both fucking HEATHENS.

so yeah shits wild rn

[arrowflier]

can you write “Hit my husband again and I’ll fucking kill you” but this time Mickey says it 😯 always wondered how he respond to a lip and ian show down

The house was quiet when Mickey woke up from his accidental afternoon nap. He sighed into the pillow, stretching an arm over the space where Ian would normally lie.

It was cold. Of course it was—it was the middle of the fuckin’ day. Ian was probably still at work, at that dead-end job that barely even made a dent in the bills.

That made Mickey sigh for a different reason.

He was thinking about just staying there, going back to sleep until Ian got home. Ian would accuse him of sleeping all day anyway; he might as well make it true.

Then a crash sounded through the house, the outer wall vibrating against Mickey’s extended leg, and raised voices rose up through the floor vent.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Mickey heard Lip shout as he rolled off the bed and scrambled for the closed accordion door.

He ripped it open, stumbled out into the hallway, caught himself on the wall when another thud sounded from below.

“Was thinking I didn’t want to be little bitch like you,” Ian’s voice echoed up the stairs, gravely and rough.

There was a clatter, like dishes falling, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Well, Mickey thought absently. Guess Ian was home after all.

He hurried to the stairs, tripped over the first one, and kept going. When he got to the landing, he stopped, watching the carnage that was Ian and Lip Gallagher trying to pummel each other in the middle of the family kitchen.

Ian was winning, that was for damn sure. He had Lip in a headlock, using his height to his advantage, while his brother flailed. It didn’t last long, though, Ian’s arms loosening when he caught sight of Mickey with wide eyes, and Lip finally got in a solid hit to Ian’s gut.

Ian went down. Lip followed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mickey yelled out, rushing down the steps as soon as Ian fell. “The fuck is goin’ on down here?”

Neither Ian nor Lip responded, too busy grappling on the floor to spare him a glance. Ian kneed Lip in the groin—Lip pulled Ian’s hair. Ian hooked a leg around Lip’s and flipped them, pinning his older brother to the floor—Lip headbutted him, scrambling out from underneath.

Mickey was there when he stood, shoving Lip into the corner of the counter to get to Ian’s side. He reached down to grasp Ian’s arm, help him up, but his husband slapped his hand away, too preoccupied with a freshly bloodied nose to notice whose it was.

“Ian, hey!” Mickey yelped, shaking his hand out. “What are you hitting me for?”

“He does that,” Lip spit out off to the side, cradling his ribs as he leaned against the cabinets. “Likes to take shit out on people that are trying to help him.”

Oh, hell no.

Mickey left Ian there on the floor, holding his nose and staring up at Mickey apologetically, and marched the two steps over to Lip. He stood close, toe to toe, and leaned in even closer.

“The fuck you just say about him?” he hissed in Lip’s bruised face.

Lip blinked.

“He just quit his job, Mickey, he tell you that?” Lip asked. “He tell you he threw away the only good thing this family has right now?”

Mickey paused. Cut his eyes down to Ian without moving out of Lip’s space.

“That true?” he asked, and Ian didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Mickey turned back to Lip.

“So he quit that stupid-ass job,” he said. “You started a fight over that?”

“We need the money, Mickey!” Lip cried. “Not like you’re helping out, and we can’t all live off stolen cereal all the time!”

“Yeah? Our contributions not enough for you, college?” Mickey asked. “How’s your job doin’ right now?”

“Mickey,” Ian said from the floor, quiet.

“Not now, Ian,” Mickey responded. “I’m taking care of something.”

He let his voice drop, pushing forward enough that Lip should be able to feel the heat of his breath, the heat behind his words.

“You don’t get to put that shit on Ian,” he growled. “Or on me. You’re a grown ass man, start acting like it.”

“He started it,” Lip said. “Threw a damn bowl at me when I told him he needed to go beg for that job back.”

“Don’t care who hit who first,” Mickey said flatly, not pulling back. “Or why. You hit my husband again at all, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Lip swallowed, audibly. His eyes flitted off to the side.

“Whatever,” he said, feigning disinterest, and shoved at Mickey’s chest.

Mickey let him, falling back a step so Lip could move away from the counter. He watched as Lip left, not bothering to stop and help Ian, just going straight out the back door and letting it slam shut.

Mickey waited a breath, watching, but the door stayed closed. Then he went to Ian, and helped him up properly this time.

“You good?” Mickey asked. He didn’t specify as to what.

“Yeah,” Ian said on a sigh. “I’m good, Mick.”

“You sure?”

Ian offered a half-grimace, half-smile. “I’m sure. Families fight, Mickey, it’s nothing new.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, you think I don’t know that, wise guy?”

Ian’s smile turned real.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Mickey told him, then, “I’m kinda proud of you, you know.”

“For quitting that job?” Ian asked. “I know you hated it.”

“No,” Mickey answered. “For beating the shit out of Lip.”

He waited as Ian laughed, watching the way it brought life back into his pained eyes.

“Now come on,” he said as the laughter began to fade. “There’s a warm spot on the bed callin’ your name, man, go get in it.”

Ian skated a hand over Mickey’s hip as he obediently moved toward the stairs.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked, and Mickey nodded.

They would talk about it later, he was sure. About the job, about Lip, about the future. About why Ian felt the need to fight his brother in the middle of the house, in the middle of the day, over something he would have agreed with about just hours ago.

But that could wait.

“Sure, Ian,” he said. “Let’s go enjoy our fucking extended honeymoon.”

[restapesta]

23. Don’t you get it? You’re the only one I can be honest with.

Mickey takes being alone with Ian for granted. He really does.

It's quite sad he only realizes that when he's not alone with his ginger life companion—specifically when he's stuck in a moving car with him and fucking Phillip, feeling like a pussy for not having the guts to just open the door and jump out.

Did Ian put child's lock on his door, what the fuck?

He can't do this. It's a fifteen-minute ride to the Gallagher house and Mickey won't be able to survive it. No fucking way. Why did Ian have to say yes to picking Lip up from work? Did he know what hell he would be putting his poor husband through, huh?

If college bitch says something about his shitty delivery job one more time, he swears to God—

"And you know what the best part about this shitty delivery job is?" No. Please, God, make him stop. "Bathroom? Doesn't even fucking exist,"

If Mickey had a gun, he'd stuff it in his mouth.

From the corner of his eye, Mickey sees Ian's gripping the wheel slightly tighter, his knuckles turning white, his tongue bitten between his slightly clenched teeth. Sadly, only Mickey can see him be so frustrated from the passenger seat. He wishes Lip would lean over from the back and see how fucking annoying he really is with his constant babbling.

Maybe it's good he didn't bring a gun with him—Ian looks like he'd wanna stuff it in his mouth, too.

Does he have child's lock on?

"Anyways," Lip breathes out and Mickey focuses on the buzzing of the AC so he wouldn't have to endure the brainwashing his brother-in-law's—why him?—voice is doing.

Ian seems to be thinking the same thing, his eyes rolling discreetly to the back of his head, staying there for a moment or two.

Mickey's torn between telling him to keep his eyes on the goddamn road or just letting him crash their new car into a pole. At least then they wouldn't have to listen to the yapping that's filling every nook and cranny of the fresh interior.

Their car had never seemed so small. Since when is Mickey so claustrophobic? There used to be so much room.

Oh right, Lip's ego is taking up most of it. How could Mickey forget?

"Oh, yeah," He says suddenly, and Ian and Mickey share a look. What now? Will he ever stop? "I meant to ask you about your meds, Ian. You told me you were visiting your doctor or some shit like that."

Mickey reclines back in his seat, lips pursing as he waits for Ian to fill Lip in on the new prescription and its side effects, and whatever other shit Mickey's already got written down in the notes on his phone from when Ian told him in detail about it.

He had been pretty down when he came home from seeing his doctors, listing off all of the shit he was worried about with the new therapy and adjusting to it. He even had a couple of sleepless nights that resulted in him seeking out different pharmacies to buy sleeping pills, which ultimately led to a night of sleepless vomiting because the cocktail of pills didn't really bode well for Ian's stomach.

Mickey doesn't mind reliving it. Doesn't mind listening to his husband talk about the things important to him and things that Mickey should know about.

And, truthfully, Mickey's already come face to face with the fact that he likes knowing about all of Ian's shit—they're already living, sleeping, and working together, so the prospect of knowing that new meds give Ian diarrhea if they're taken on an empty stomach doesn't really seem like a TMI-type of thing to know.

When Ian's related, nothing and everything is pretty much TMI.

"Oh," Ian responds after a moment of silence. His eyes aren't focused when Mickey turns to look at him. It seems as if he's racking his brain around for the proper words, yet can't seem to find them. Eventually, he just lets out, "Everything's the same. Nothing new."

Mickey knows that's not true.

"Didn't you say you were being put on some new shit?" Lip's confused. Mickey is too.

Ian was put on new shit. Shit that landed him with a week of goddamn exhaustion and a fucked-up stomach.

"No. It's the same."

"Oh," Lip mutters. "Okay then."

And he continues to go into another monologue about why being a delivery boy is such a shitty job to have with a mind of his.

Mickey stares at Ian's side profile for as long as it takes him to turn around and meet his eye. It takes him long—in fact, Mickey's pretty sure Ian won't be turning around any time soon.

Why would he lie? Why would he hide the fact he did change his meds when it's really not that big of a deal?

Mickey's even more confused by it because Ian had ranted about his doctor's appointment the day of it, nearly talking Mickey's ear off. He had been annoyed, relieved, and worried, all at the same time, and the entire Tuesday was just spent with them talking about bipolar like the mundane thing it was.

So, why wouldn't Ian just want to retell that shit again? It wasn't as if he didn't still have frustrations over it. Not like he wouldn't fucking jump on the chance to talk about his biggest concerns the second the opportunity presented itself.

Why then?

Lip's still talking and Ian's still not looking at him.

Mickey places a gentle hand on his thigh, trying to get his attention. In response to Mickey's thumb running over his husband's jeans, Ian just places a hand on top of his, picking it up and raising it to his mouth until the rough skin meets the smoothness of his lips. When he finally looks at him, there's a plead in his eye. An answer to Mickey's unasked question.

Later.

"Ugh, can you guys not do that here? Since when did you become that couple?"

They both ignore the dumbass in the backseat of their car. Ian turns to look ahead, and he pushes his foot down visibly on the gas pedal, and Mickey knows that the time until they're able to drop Lip off is cutting shorter.

"You guys are really annoying with that mind-reading shit, you know that?"

Mickey breathes in deeply.

Five more minutes. Just five more minutes and they'll be alone.

Ian's hand doesn't disentangle from his, but Mickey does move them so they're laying on top of his leg, palms pressed tightly together. He squeezes at it once.

Ian squeezes back.

There's a faint mumble from the back.

"I fucking hate being the third wheel."

Mickey barely stops himself from jumping into Ian's lap, just in spite.

Instead, with his free hand, he just flips him off.

---

They're driving to their place when Mickey finally asks the question. They've been alone for a couple of minutes now, after a prolonged—much to both their dismays—goodbye to Lip in front of the Gallagher house. As soon as it was appropriate to, Ian peeled out of the driveway, putting as much distance between him and his family—his annoying-ass brother—as he possibly could in a record time.

At first, Mickey fiddled with the radio until he landed on some radio station that played pop-shit music, lowering the volume until the Taylor Swift song—he hates that he knows it—was just a hum filling the silence. Ian isn't speaking, but he doesn't seem tense.

He seems just as always, shoulders even further relaxed—slumped, actually, because he has the posture of a question mark—now that Lip is out of the car and in the hands of the others to deal with.

"So," Mickey starts casually when his weirdo of a partner starts singing lowly to Lover on the radio. It's a song they only listen to when they're feeling sappier than usual, but Ian tends to always be sappy, so none of this sweet singing shit was a surprise for Mickey. The lyrics coming out of Ian's mouth still make his chest swell pleasantly, despite him barely holding himself back from rolling his eyes. "What was that?"

"Hm?" Ian's eyes momentarily move to eye Mickey. They go back almost immediately. "What was what?"

"What was that thing with Lip?" The question isn't meant to be judgmental nor accusing. Mickey really is just curious.

It wasn't him whom Ian had lied to. But why did he lie in the first place?

Ian shrugs, lowering the volume with the switch on the wheel even further until they can barely hear the soft voice.

"I just didn't feel like telling him." Is the simple reply.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Ian."

"Mickey—"

"Come on, man, don't give me that bullshit."

"I'm not—I don't," He exhales roughly as if finally forcing himself to admit to something he doesn't want to admit to. "I don't like anybody knowing about it. It's nobody's business but my own."

Mickey makes a face, still confused as fuck. He gets the reasoning behind the words, but it's just not clicking in his brain. Maybe Lip really did brainwash it. "You say you don't like anybody knowing, but you told me."

Ian glances away from the road and sends Mickey the type of look that says he thinks what Mickey just said was the dumbest thing possible. It's incredulous.

"You're not anybody, Mick."

And that's sweet and all, but—

"Lip's not anybody either."

Ian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, dramatically exasperated. "Don't you get it, Mickey? You're the only one I can be honest with. Completely transparent."

Mickey doesn't know why he's still pushing, but fuck, there's no way. "You can be transparent with Lip. He'll hear you out, give you advice. Won't judge you." Why is he defending Lip again? "I'm not the only one who understands."

"Yeah, but you're the only one who isn't annoying about it. If I wanted Lip to know, I would've called him straight away. But instead, I talked to you. Mickey, you're a dumbass if you don't see that you're the only one I want to tell."

Well fuck.

Mickey blinks. He actually is a dumbass, but that's already been genetically proven. This is something else.

Mickey feels Ian's words deep in his chest. His heart jumps to his throat—it's one of the best things Ian could've said to him. It doesn't feel fucking real.

"Really?" He asks pathetically. It's not like Ian would lie; he's always had a knack for saying everything that's on his mind. Mickey loves that about him right now. It's just that—Mickey? He wants to tell Mickey about it and nobody else?

Ian smiles at him. "Really, babe," Mickey blushes as the nickname. "You know just how many questions to ask. When to listen and when to talk. When to give me advice and when to tell me to get out of my own head." Ian's eyebrows furrow. "Lip doesn't know how to do that. Not like you—"

No. Mickey will not cry. No. It's just eyeball sweat.

"—With you, I know that I can say whatever is on my mind and won't feel like shit about it. It's fucking liberating, having somebody like that."

Mickey breathes in deeply. Fuck Ian for using his words like this and making his heart squeeze impossibly. Why is he so fucking perfect all the fucking time?

How did Mickey get so fucking lucky?

"Yeah," He responds dumbly, out of breath—because it legit is logged up in his throat at the moment. He clears it. "I guess that's what best friends are for."

And the grin Ian sends him in response to the sheepishly-said sentence is enough to make butterflies explode inside Mickey's belly—ugh, no, he's supposed to be past that stage, for fuck's sake.

Ian's still grinning as Mickey's whole face probably turns the shade of Ian's favorite vegetable—maybe that's why Ian likes it when Mickey blushes—and he has to avert his gaze so he doesn't go even redder than Ian's hair.

"Best friends? I feel honored, Mick."

"Shut up."

"No, for real."

"Shut up."

Ian laughs and spares Mickey the embarrassment by raising the volume up on the radio, the song now booming loudly through the space.

Ian glances over at Mickey right as he starts singing it joyfully, a wide smile on his face. This is the Ian Mickey knows and loves—happy Ian.

Mickey's favorite Ian after the horny one.

Mickey's chest swells with pride. He ended up with Ian. The Ian who loves him unconditionally; who knows just the right to say and when to say it; who just told him Mickey's the only one he can be real with.

I can only be honest with you, too. He wants to tell him. I only am honest with you.

Instead of saying the words, he starts singing himself, and the screeching voices of two men stupidly in love are seeping out of the slightly opened windows, the wind whooshing them away.

I can only do this with you, Mickey thinks. I'm only this free with you.

Judging by the way Ian's smiling, Mickey guesses he's thinking the same thing, too.

"Darling, you're my, my, my, my lover."

[brattyfics]

Like That

Pairing: Rio x Black!Reader

Summary: You and Rio get to know each other better. Loosely based on ‘Like That’ by Doja Cat. 

Warnings: Smut.

Word Count: 3.5K

Installments: Say So | Like That | Talk Dirty

And baby, I want it, and I'll just be honest 'Cause I just can't front when I look at you

About six weeks have passed since Rio declared himself your man, and you quickly learned he took the title very seriously.

He was busier than usual with ‘flipping his game,’ and you were busy preparing to transition your shop, but you saw each other often despite time constraints. You agreed date nights at least once a week were a must, but when you couldn’t see each other, Rio made sure to end nights with a phone call. Virtually falling asleep next to him gave you butterflies, reminding you just how exciting new relationships could be. It took prodding, but he told you made-up bedtime stories and the boring details of his day. In return, you shared things about yourself— childhood memories, the crazy things your mom did to embarrass you. He was sweet and attentive, and you found it refreshing to be with someone who was just as infatuated with you.

On your second date, he took you to his favorite restaurant, a fancy sushi place with expensive rolls. He taught you to hold chopsticks the wrong way the way he did and even fed you across the small table, a couple of unfortunate rolls falling apart due to his prodding. You tried your best to hide your amusement at the pensive look on his face. For whatever reason, Rio thought of himself as a sushi connoisseur, but it was clear to you that he was still learning.

“You’re no better than me!” He admonished when he noticed the way you held your chopsticks. Like his technique, it was incorrect, but it worked for you— sort of. “I never said I was.” You couldn’t keep the amusement off your face any longer. “You’re the one who comes here weekly. I thought you were a professional, and we’re in the same boat.” He folded his arms on top of the table as he insisted you were wrong, but secretly he found your teasing endearing. Later that night, he called and gave you a cheesy line about loving to see you smile.

The following week, you had lunch at a mom-and-pop soul food restaurant that served the best cornbread and peach cobbler in the city. The owners, an adorable older couple, Donna and Gene, and servers alike stopped by your table to meet Rio. Donna gushed over Rio, showering him with compliments and extra cornbread. “Girl, he is cute!” She told you, failing miserably at whispering. He smirked as you rolled your eyes, but he handled the attention well, being friendly and personable even when Gene kept going on and on about changes to the menu, one chef to another.

A few days later, he called you up randomly and asked you to get ready and ride with him somewhere. “What should I wear?” You asked, hoping for a hint. You could hear him smile as he said, “It doesn’t even matter, ma. You always look good.” The occasion had turned out to be ‘Foodtruck Friday.’ Barbecue, kebab, taco, ice cream, and other miscellaneous food trucks were parked in a spacious lot in Downtown Detroit. You settled at a picnic table and shared several plates of food as you discussed the possibility of your own mobile ‘Mad Batter’ shop somewhere down the line. It got you thinking about the future.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” You asked the dreaded question in between bites of a colorful Korean fusion taco. He stiffened as he considered the answer. “What is this, a job interview?” Sometimes you saw peeks of bossman Rio rather than the Christopher Castillo you were getting to know. It happened seemingly out of nowhere when you asked questions he felt were invasive.

You looked up from the panko-fried shrimp, red cabbage, shredded carrots, and tasty orange sauce wrapped up in a flour tortilla with a frown. You had two choices: respond in the way he had or make light of the situation. So, you said, “Kinda. You’re auditioning for a spot on my roster, so...”

He stopped chewing the half-eaten dumpling and swallowed hard. “That’s not funny.”

“You better start taking the interviewing part of the audition more seriously then.” You wiped your fingers on a napkin, and he gathered your hand in his own, wearing a look you couldn’t decipher. “You got it, ma.”

You played a game of mini-golf at the local arcade. Rio stood tall behind you, holding you by your hips as he corrected your stance. You purposefully arched your back, brushing against him just slightly. “Like this?” You looked over your shoulder with the most innocent look you could muster, but his eyes were glued to your ass. “Yeah, just like that.” He answered in a low tone without looking up. You giggled as you took your swing, adding a wiggle for his benefit. You pretended to care about the ball as it glided across the bright green tarp towards the hole. “How was that?” You chirped, looking down the lane.

“I can’t even lie. I don’t care about the game right now. I just wanna watch you.” Your aim was terrible, and the ball never went in the hole without several attempts, but he insisted you finish playing the course. You teased him about it for days after despite his claim that he actually enjoyed the game because it was one of Marcus’ favorites.

“Stop lying! You just wanted an excuse to openly watch my ass.”

“Why you always gotta call me out?”

You shopped a cozy health and wellness store with hundreds of cool little trinkets for sale. Neither of you had been there before, so you took your time exploring, stealing unexpected kisses from the other. Rio took full advantage of the size of the store, pulling you by the hand and holding you close to his side.

He frowned at the large collection of shiny crystals. “A rock, really? What does anybody need with a rock?”

“It’s not a rock!” You hissed, head whipping around as you hoped the owner didn’t hear him.

“What is it then? It looks like a rock to me.” He picked one up, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s a crystal!”

“What’s the difference?”

“It has healing properties...” Rio snorted but strung his arm across your shoulder and listened intently as you read the info cards to him. When it was all said and done, he bought an aventurine stone to apologize to the owner for prosperity, well-being, and good luck.

The next day, he disappeared with no warning. You had been worried sick until Mick let you know he was busy handling something. It would have only taken a minute to tell you that, so you were (understandably) pissed. He showed up at the shop several days later like nothing had ever happened. “What’s up, mama?” The greeting that usually melted you grated on your nerves. All of your feelings about the situation bubbled up to the surface. It was hard to find the right words— you were still getting to know each other, so how mad could you be? At the same time, how little did he think of you to not say anything? Finally, you settled on, “I can’t do the disappearing act.”

Rio wasn’t used to answering to anyone, not even his child’s mother, about his whereabouts, but he put his palms up in surrender when he saw the serious expression you wore.

“You’re right, mama. That’s my bad. It won’t happen again.”

And it hadn’t.

But knowing ahead of time only made it a tiny bit easier, especially when he didn’t have a set return date. You were going on day seven (the longest you had gone without seeing him since you started dating) when he called to say he made it home and wanted to see you. Your heavy heart swelled with relief. You missed him way more than you probably should have, so you insisted on a night in at your place, wanting him to feel relaxed and at home instead of on guard somewhere public.

It had been a long six weeks without sex while he romanced you with delicious food and beautiful words. It wasn’t an easy task, but you knew as soon as sex was thrown in the mix, you would be done for, either destined to be his or ruined by him. It was a scary thought, but distance had indeed made the heart grow fonder, and you cared about him enough to take a chance.

He was set to arrive within the hour, but you were still unsure of what to wear, frantically rummaging through the dresser for something cute and comfortable. You let out a frustrated groan when your phone started to ring, thinking Rio might have come early, but when you look down at your phone, you see your best friend’s name and face. You swipe quickly, accepting the FaceTime call. “Hey, girl!”

“Hey, stranger!” You pick up the phone, so you can look at her. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She replies with just as much sass. “I haven’t talked to you in what— two weeks?”

“We talk—“

“—text.”

“Okay, fine. Text. We text every day. What are you talking about?”

“That’s not the same.” She insists even as you remind her of the ridiculous amount of time you spend trading memes and food pictures with her.

“Anyway, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to decide what I’m going to wear between this, this, or this.” You move the camera around, showing her the different options. A black-and-white tank and short set with ‘Being cute is not a crime’ in a cute font. A fuzzy grey sweatsuit set with hearts, or a simple cream hoodie with matching shorts.

“Um, what’s the occasion?” You giggle at the look on her face, knowing she thinks none of the above are appropriate for wearing outside of the house.

“Movie night in.”

“You need help picking an outfit for movie night with yourself?” Her face scrunches up in confusion. “Wait, is it movie night with yourself?” You try to be casual about it, shrugging your shoulders in response. As usual, she sees through your bullshit and goes straight into an interrogation. “Oh, bitch. You been holding out on me!” She asks you five questions in a row without stopping to breathe before settling on one. “Who?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip. “...Rio.”

“Rio?” She frowns. “Like the guy we work for, Rio? With the eyebrows and the neck tattoo, Rio?”

“Yes, that Rio.”

“Wow.” You wince but decide it’s best to get it over with. “What? I know you, so I know there’s more where that came from.”

“I don’t know what to say! From what I can tell, he’s a decent dude, I guess, but you know what he does. You definitely know what we do for him! You don’t think that could be a problem?”

“It’s messy, for sure, and I can admit that, but I’ve been thinking about getting out anyway...” She nods. “Then, I guess there’s nothing else for me to say about that. You’re both grown, and you know what you’re doing.” She was your best friend, which meant she’d always give her honest opinion, but wouldn’t berate you about your choices. Just like that, you return to your regular discussion topics, everything from warehouse gossip (yes, even in the business of crime, there’s a rumor mill) to new music releases. Before you knew it, forty minutes had passed, and Rio was calling your phone. You promised to call her more often before hanging up.

You sing your ‘hello’ into the phone, hoping Rio can’t detect the shakiness in your voice as you clumsily pull on your bottoms.

“Hey, mama. You about ready? I know you’re sensitive about your space and all that.” He was referring to the fact that he had never been past the doorway of your home. Your home was your sacred place, so you were extra careful about who came in and what energy they brought. It was always nerve-wracking to let somebody into the space that you cherished so much.

“Yeah.” He picks up on the hesitancy in your voice. “Are you sure?” You nod your head as if he can see you before telling him yes with a giggle. “Alright, well, I’m outside. Can I come in?” You bite your lip, butterflies fluttering in your tummy. “Yeah, I’ll come unlock the door.” He whispers his thanks, and you take a moment to force yourself to relax. When you meet him at the door, you do so with an open mind and heart, taking in his appearance with a goofy grin on your face. As usual, he’s dressed in all black, wearing a well-fitted t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s casual but still so high quality and attractive.

“Hi.” You breathe out like a dork when you realize you’re staring. It helps that he seems just as mesmerized, stepping forward to envelop you in a tight, warm hug. He sways you from side to side before pulling back, his hands resting heavily on the top of your ass. He settles for a quick peck on the lips because he has something to say. “You’re as pretty as ever, darlin’.” He says earnestly, shaking his head as he steps back to look you over once more.

“Kiss me again.” His hands cup your ass as you devour each other in the open doorway. You forget your surroundings. “Damn, ma. Can I at least get inside before you jump my bones? I don’t mind giving your neighbors a show if that’s your thing, but…” You turn to hide your embarrassment, leaving him to close the door behind you as you gesture around the room as if you’re in an episode of MTV Cribs. “... here’s the living room. The kitchen’s through the arch. The bathroom’s over there...” He follows you with his red as you point.

“And the bedroom?”

You snort. “The tour stops here for now. Sit down.” Your tone leaves no room for argument. He settles into the soft couch while you grab the snack tray from the kitchen. Homemade popcorn, chocolate-covered pretzels, and dried fruit gummies are on the menu.

“All this for me?” His arms snake around your waist so that you can curl up into his side. “What we watching?” You grab the remote. “I saw a trailer this week that caught my attention. I’ll play it for you.” He didn’t care what you watched as long as he got to be close to you, so it didn’t take long for you to get the movie started. He stole glances at you when his knuckles brushed against your bare knees under the blanket. You’re embarrassed at how wet the small action makes you, so you stretch out across the couch and place your bare feet in his lap, silently planning your revenge. The movie may as well not be playing because you couldn’t be less interested in the plot as you lightly stroke him through his sweatpants with the balls of your feet.

“Ma...” He warns, watching you in the low lighting. He’s come to learn you like to tease, but he doesn’t think he can take it, not tonight. “Hmm?” You hum innocently, loving the strained look on your face. He doesn’t move even as you sit up on your haunches and kiss him. It’s slow and long in the best way. He pulls you to sit in his lap. His hands roam your body as you grind down onto him, relishing in the feeling of the soft skin on your tummy. He sighs into your mouth as one hand finds your bare breasts.

He pulls away to talk shit. “No bra? You just knew I was gonna put out, huh?” He pushes the cotton material up so he can see you properly. “Perfect.” He murmurs into your skin. You let him kiss and lick and suck on your nipples until the pressure you feel below is too much to handle. You’re a quivering mess when he finally helps you pull the cotton material up and over your head. It lands on top of the television behind you, but neither of you notice.

You nudge him until he removes his own shirt, and then he lifts his hips to help you when you begin tugging on his sweats. They puddle at his feet while you spread your legs wide, desperate to get your hands on him. “I could cry right now.” You admit honestly when you finally see him, biting your lip. He arches a brow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, darlin’?” His hips jerk when you take him into your hands, the cold temperature surprising him.

“It’s definitely a good thing.” You whisper excitedly, staring with wonder as he hardens in your hands. He barks out a laugh, stunned by your ability to make him laugh, even with his dick in your hands. “That’s really nice, ma. I feel real special.” Your eyes meet, and silent promises of all the filthy things you’re going to do to each other are exchanged. “You should. I’m about to change your life.” He throbs in your hands, loving that you find small ways to challenge him.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed.” He wraps his arms around you in preparation to get up, but you stop him with a shake of your head. “I don’t wanna.”

“No? What you wanna do then?”

You answer him by slipping to your knees. You spit on his dick, stroking him up and down slowly. He watches you closely as you lower your mouth, wrapping your lips around the tip. It takes a lot of restraint, but he lets you do your thing, slowly working him deeper into your throat. He closes his eyes as he concentrates on lasting, but he can’t turn his ears off, the obscene smacks painting a vivid picture for him. When you swipe your tongue across his balls, he moves to stop you, grabbing your shoulders. Fire dances in your eyes as you realize you got him where you want him. “I don’t wanna.” You repeat.

“You are a brat.”

You release him with a pop. “The biggest.” You admit, swallowing him once more. He groans, thinking he can’t believe you’re the same sweet girl who bakes in a frilly pink apron and begs him to tell her bedtime stories.

“I want you to fuck me now.” He stops you before you can bend over the couch. “Slow down. I want you on your back, darlin.”

You throw his earlier words back at him. “That’s nice. I feel really special.”

“You should.” He mocks you, instructing you to hold your legs wide. He wastes no time licking and sucking you as enthusiastically as you had done him. “You’re so pretty. I could eat this pretty pussy forever.” He compliments as you squirm in his hold. “You’d let me, huh?” You shake your head frantically. “No! You’d drive..me crazy!” Payback is a mother, especially when Rio’s the one dishing it out. “Wait, wait—“You whimper, clawing at his shoulders.

“What?” He cajoles. He almost wants to laugh at the distressed look on your face. “I want you.” You pout, trying to sweet-talk him.

“You have me.”

“Not like this. Inside.”

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Mhm.” You swallow, watching as he fumbles around with his pants searching for a condom. He opens the golden foil packet with expert fingers, positioning himself in between your spread legs. “You don’t have any pointers for me now?” He drags his tip up and down your slit, slowly pushing his way further. Teasing. You shake your head. “No. Just fuck me.”

“That ain’t polite. You gotta say please, mama.” You scowled, but he didn’t budge. “Please.” You pleaded with the sweetest tone you could muster, sighing as he gave in. You cursed at the stretch, him at the way you squeezed him. “You feel…” He couldn’t find the words, so he buried his face in your neck, trying to gain some composure. You caressed the back of his neck sweetly. “You feel good too, baby.”

His hips stuttered forward, and you gasped as he worked himself deeper. You grasp his shoulders tightly, your nails embedding themselves into the soft skin.

“Yes!” You squeal.

“Like that?” He grits out, struggling to keep his rhythm.

“Yes, just like that!” You cry, moaning as he pounds up into you. His lips find yours again, and it’s bliss. Then before you can stop yourself, you’re calling him Daddy like it’s his given name. He groans into your sweaty neck like he’s in pain.

“You’re so nasty.” Overwhelmed and breathless, you whine your protest, “You’re nasty. Look at what you’re doing to me.” His eyes shift to where you’re connected. You’re creaming all over him and leaking down onto the couch, but you can’t bring yourself to care about anything other than coming. You do just that, mewling as you make an even bigger mess between your legs. He whispers filthy things into your ear as he finishes, grunting at the way you seem to be sucking him in even deeper.

“That was—“

“—unreal.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you can bring yourself to move. Your sweat-covered skin sticks together. You swipe your hand against your forehead while he pants.

“I wanted to ride you at least once tonight, but after that, I’ll be lucky to make it to bed.”

GENERAL TAGLIST

@woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @ourlittlesecretsoveragain @everyhowlmarksthedead @yourwonkywriter @trulysuccubus @sparklemichele @luckyharley1903

RIO TAGLIST

@xsweetdellzx​

[abundanceofnots]

The door to the darkened alley next to the Alibi Room opens behind him, letting out a jumble of voices and loud music. Mickey expected Ian to find him there sooner or later. That’s why he’s so surprised to see that it’s not his husband pushing the heavy door open with his hip, his hands occupied by holding two glasses of beer, but Tami, his—

Well, whatever they are to each other.

Strangers, mostly. Both holding the title of Gallagher family appendages—the husband and the baby mama—who occasionally shared a laugh over some Gallagher bullshit. But that has always been as far as their relationship went.

“Occupied,” he informs her curtly before he takes another drag of his cigarette.

Tami smiles, undeterred.

“I was actually looking for you,” she explains as she lets the door close behind her, cutting the sounds from the inside to mere thumps again.

“Look, if you’re already tired of your baby daddy’s dick, I can’t say I blame ya, but you’ll have to find someone else because, on principle, I don’t fuck Lip’s sloppy seconds—”

Tami makes a face. “Jesus fuck. Is that really the only reason you can think of why I might want to see you?”

His eyes dart around her head of hair as he tries to look at anywhere but her, suddenly feeling very tense.

“Yeah?”

“Well, fuck you, too. No, here, listen.” She passes him one of the beers. “I saw the way you looked back in there and thought you might wanna talk.”

Mickey’s felt sick all evening. Ever since their big announcement when Ian threw his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, squeezed him tight, and gave him that blinding grin before he told everyone the good news.

There was clapping and noise, so much fucking noise. People were reaching out their hands to tap him on the shoulder or shake his hand, and it made Mickey feel like those hands were all grasping his throat while his blood was pumping in his ears.

His plan was to spend the rest of the party here, where he could breathe again, chain-smoking his way through the ordeal. He thinks he’ll be sick if he drinks anything right now, but he takes the glass from Tami anyway.

“About?” he shoots back noncommittally.

“Why you’re scared.”

On instinct, Mickey scoffs out a laugh. “Fuck off, I ain’t scared.”

“Right,” Tami replies, giving him a pointed look over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip. “That why you’re hiding out here during your own party?”

“Just needed to—” Groaning in exasperation, Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and composes himself. “I just needed a second away from everyone congratulatin’ me. Or callin’ me daddy Milkovich. Or fuckin’ Kermit asking if I was gonna be the mom or the dad—” He cuts himself off again, measuring Tami with a hard stare. “What’s it to you, anyway?

She responds with a sincere smile.

“Believe it or not, I was scared of having a baby, too.”

Mickey’s brows furrow in confusion. “That why you decided to have another?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not scared anymore.”

“Sounds fuckin’ stupid.”

“Maybe,” Tami admits with half a shrug.

They spend the next few minutes in silence, Tami drinking her beer and Mickey finishing his smoke, his own beer left untouched.

“But you’re a chick, you know, so it’s different,” Mickey states resolutely after he lights another cigarette, confident he’s found an argument she couldn’t dispute. “You have, like, all those motherly instincts and shit. I don’t.”

For some reason, she snorts and shakes her head. Then, her expression softens again, and she says, “I have it on good authority that there’s one little boy who basically worships the ground you walk on.”

“He’s five. Fuck does he know,” he retorts back derisively, immediately chastising himself because Freddie knew a lot, in fact. Most importantly, how to get underneath Mickey’s skin.

Not that he didn’t love and pester Ian just as much, obviously. Everyone loved Ian, the charming motherfucker. But Mickey and the kid had a special bond, much to Lip’s irritation.

Freddie was one of the main reasons Mickey decided that he was ready to have kids all those months ago. He isn’t so sure of it now, though.

He takes another drag and lets the smoke out through his nose.

“I never thought I’d be this,” he explains ambiguously, not just meaning being a guy who gives enough shit to smoke outside a bar. “Always knew how to survive. I was good at that. I was gonna see forty, most of it behind bars, maybe fifty, if I was lucky enough and didn’t lose a fuckin’ limb at some shitty construction job. And then, one day, I wake up to a tire iron to my spine—”

“If that’s a metaphor, I don’t follow.”

“—and next thing I know, I have a whole ass husband, a fuckin’ condo on the West Side like some yuppie, and I catch myself sayin’ things like, fuck it, let’s have a kid. What’s wrong with me? I can’t fuckin’ do this, can I?”

The truth he’ll never admit to anyone, probably, is that Tami’s right. He is scared. Fucking terrified, really. Because there’s a kid who will have him for a dad, and Mickey feels sorry for it.

The poor bastard isn’t even a proper baby yet. It’s just a sonogram stuck to their fridge. A baby-like matter that Ian’s app insists is the size of cauliflower now. When Mickey finally managed to spot one in Whole Foods, he found himself apologizing to it for some bizarre reason.

He doesn’t want to be like his dad. He wants to do this right, but he doesn’t know if he knows how.

“The most important thing?” Tami breaks the silence then, reading Mickey’s reaction correctly even when he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t bail on this kid. Or Ian, because he’ll need you to be there just as much.”

Mickey bites his cheek and nods. There’s a chance he’d say more, ask Tami for advice even, maybe, if, at that very second, Ian didn’t come out to join them, bursting out of the alleyway door as if summoned.

“There’s the pops-to-be!” he cheers a little too loudly with a smile that splits his whole face. He stumbles forward on clumsy feet and envelops Mickey tightly in his arms. “I was looking for you.”

“Fuckin’ octopus-man,” Mickey laughs, careful not to let the drunk idiot spill his beer. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Just a couple beers,” Ian answers as he nuzzles into Mickey’s neck.

“Such a fuckin’ lightweight.”

Humming his agreement, Ian snags Mickey’s glass and knocks down most of its contents in one go. He belches before saying in a low voice, “I was planning on dragging your ass to the bathroom later and having my way with you, but since we’re already here, alone...”

He already has his free hand palming at Mickey’s dick over his jeans when Tami makes a sound behind him, something between a snort and a cough.

Ian’s eyes take a minute to properly zero in on her.

“Tami! Hey!” he greets her with exaggerated excitement. “You’re here, too. Why are you here, too? Something wrong?”

Tami looks pointedly at Mickey. “Wanna tell him, or should I?”

He seriously considers being honest for a second, but his next words are out before he can stop them.

“Your brother’s girlfriend was tryna jump me.”

Tami almost chokes on the incredulous huff of laughter she lets out. She finishes her beer and shakes her head, staring Mickey down.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, Mickey, I swear to God. Forget I ever said anything,” she barks at him as she goes for the door.

“Hey, Tami,” Mickey stops her last minute. “Thanks, or whatever.”

Tami rolls her eyes. Still, just before she slips back inside, she throws a quick smile over her shoulder.

“Did you just thank her for trying to fuck you?” Ian inquires stupidly when the door closes behind her.

“Sure,” Mickey sounds off without further explanation.

He turns back to his husband and lightly pats his cheek, letting his hand slide all the way down to his junk in hopes of pointing his attention in the right direction again. “So, about those plans you had—“

But all of a sudden, Ian’s white as a sheet, giving him a look of absolute horror.

“What?” Mickey asks, mirroring his look.

“Think I’m gonna puke.”

“’ Course you are,” Mickey has enough time to groan before Ian bends in half and proceeds to throw up on the sidewalk.

Mickey takes a few steps away, trying to give Ian some privacy, but he’s stopped by a hand clutching his wrist and pulling him back.

“I’m so sorry, Mick,” Ian says in between spits as his hand slides down to hold Mickey’s awkwardly.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Mickey tells him gently—just as gently as he strokes his back in big circles. “I’m here.”