#my fics; lip gallagher

[gallaghersgal]

𝐢 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 || 𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐫

pairing: lip gallagher x fem!reader

summary: just lip being a cute bf + debbie and ian being little shits

warnings: lowercase on purpose. poorly written tbh. swearing but y’all know how it is. heavily unedited. gen said yolo so i’m posting

A/N: i’ve been on hiatus for god knows how long but my roommate and i started watching shameless and i can’t get this mfer out of my head. things w school and life are hard rn so i just wrote this comfy cozy little thing in my notes app. yolo asf.

wordcount: probably like 500 or less idk i wrote it in my notes app at 1am

— — — — — — — — — — —

you’re nestled in lip’s arms, high up on his rickety top bunk. somewhere between finishing your nails and kissing until you could barely breathe, you had fallen asleep right against his chest.

you stirred now, your cozy world interrupted a squeaky little voice. “are you in love with her?” debbie questions.

lip shushes his sister, “be quiet, she’s sleeping.”

you were wide awake now, but much too comfortable to move and make that little fact known. plus, you wanted to hear his answer.

“i asked you a question dummy. are you in love with her?”

lip stutters, “i-i dunno. i really like her, okay?”

you’re satisfied with that answer. “in love” was a little too much too quick. but “really like” was something that made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“what d’ya like about her?” ian presses.

you can practically hear the gears turning in lip’s head as his siblings impatiently await a response.

“she’s- i dunno, she’s pretty?” lip replies. you hold back a scowl, annoyed at him for not having a better answer.

“yeah, great rack,” debbie comments.

“jesus, deb!” lip’s head falls back in frustration, one hand coming to cradle your head as not to wake you with the sudden motion.

“cut the shit lip,” ian interrupts. “tell us what you really think.”

you hold your breath as you wait for his response. his lips brush your hairline before he sighs. “she’s sweet, yeah? real kind.”

“a real woman of the people,” ian snorts, “princess diana type.” then “ow!” as you hear debbie shove him.

“and- and she’s real smart, too,” lip continues. “really, really fuckin’ smart. an’ she works hard. she just tires herself out sometimes.”

he strokes your hair gently, pressing a few more fleeting kisses to your forehead.

“you’re so whipped.”

you hear debbie shove her brother again, and this time ian fights back, the two making a ruckus as they push each other back and forth.

“come on guys, out. now.” lip orders his siblings around with that same stern voice you’ve heard plenty of times before.

debbie pouts. “but-“

“no buts. go on, she’s fuckin’ sleepin’ in here an’ you’re gonna wake her up. fuck off.”

“we were just-“

“fuck. off.”

“jesus,” you can practically hear ian roll his eyes. “alright, alright. we’re going.”

debbie yells for fiona as the two shuffle out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind them.

you smirk to yourself as lip groans above you, showing your cards. “you’re awake?”

you peer up at him through your lashes, a smirk planted on your lips that he’s just dying to kiss off. “can’t believe your little sister said i have a great rack,” you whisper.

lip laughs, loud and genuine. “yeah, she’s been stuffing fi’s old training bras. growin’ up an’ shit. i don’t like it.”

you’re quiet for a moment, admiring him. you know how important those kids are to him. he’d do just about anything for them, including the minor crimes you find him tangled up in on a weekly basis. he loves them like they’re his own kids, which honestly they kind of are. they may shove each other around, curse each other out, yell and scream at the top of their lungs, but at the end of the day lip has been more of a father to his siblings than frank ever was.

“you really meant all that?” you ask.

lip looks down at you, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. “yeah. yeah, i did. meant every word.”

you smile, leaning up to place a solid kiss on his lips. “for what it’s worth,” you murmur, “i really like you too.”

[buzzcutlip]

hiiii! can I get a request for lip with a shy!reader where they like know each other from school but it’s like later seasons lip like working at the shop or the construction job and she starts to develop a crush on him but he doesn’t think he’s good enough for her so he distances himself and dates other girls and she has to watch from the sidelines until a guy asks her out so she goes for it and lip gets jealous and realizes his feelings. i’m in an angsty pining jealousy mood but with a happy ending still if that makes sense! but honestly feel free to run with it if it’s something you’re interested in writing bc I love your writing! 💗💗

Hi anon! I love this prompt, thank you very much for sending it my way! <3

This is a very first time I'm writing something with our dear boy Lip Gallagher, and I hope I'm not messing it all up.

Lip Gallagher/Fem!Reader Mature 1561 words

You admired Lip Gallagher. He was smart, intelligent, witty, and—alive. Despite the , he made it to college. You didn’t know the details but heard people talking about those nasty Gallaghers. You saw him take his little brother, Liam, to classes, to your study group. The little boy living temporarily in a dormitory made you sick with worry, but it was obvious that Lip took great care of him. You mostly felt for Lip—that he, as young as he was, had to take on his parents' responsibilities. And still, he did so great at school and had two jobs on top of it. He went home for weekends to help around the house. But that life sucked him back in, never giving him a solid chance, as much as Lip fought for it. He left the school, left the crime scene behind, and left an empty space in your chest. You never told him how you felt. Never wanted to, anyway.

Occasionally, you still meet each other at parties he gets invited to—or invites himself to—and you chat easily, sharing a drink or two. You’re happy to see him, to hear about his crazy jobs. Sometimes he brings a girl along and you smile politely at her, shake her hand. The whole school knew about Amanda and Mrs. Robinson. Besides wanting to protect yourself, you don’t believe Lip could ever want more than friendship from you, which makes interacting with him easier. ‘Cause you’re not trying for anything with him. He’s just a good bad boy. Who cares if you’ve had a crush on him since day one?

So what you expect from Lip when you introduce him to your date, Jacob, at one of these lame parties is that he shakes his hand and says hi politely. Which doesn’t happen; he just grumbles something and leaves for the kitchen. You roll your eyes and tell Jacob not to mind. Inside, you’re a bit embarrassed and disappointed. Why? You’re not sure. Maybe because Jacob’s a bit boring and you still keep seeing him. Letting him kiss you and put his fingers in your pussy and never do anything back. Because he doesn’t attract you. “But he’s nice,” your friends say. You say, for Christ’s sake! He is nice but oh so boring. You don’t feel anything, but you don’t want to be alone anymore. And most importantly, you don’t want to think about Lip when you masturbate, when Jacob fingers you, when boys half-heartedly fucked you in the past.

But as much as you want to forget Lip, you see him again. It’s a bar this time. Filled to the brim with a Friday crowd.

“Hey,” someone says behind you, laying a hand on your shoulder, and you know it’s him before you turn around. You smile at him, sucking on a colorful paper straw.

“You still drink that? Rum and Coke?”

“Yeah,” you laugh shortly, looking at the dark brown drink in your hands. “Spiced rum!” you clarify.

Lip leans closer to you, the sudden proximity doing things to you, as always, and you have to bite your bottom lip.

“Is your boyfriend here?” he asks casually, but you noticed him scanning the crowd just a few seconds ago.

“Yeah… Jacob’s here—but he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve been just—seeing each other for a bit.” You don’t want to talk about Jacob with Lip and it’s clear in the way you talk. You’re more focused on your elbows touching on the bartop.

Lip just laughs shortly, doesn’t say anything. It irks you. You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lip shrugs, drumming his fingers on the wooden desk stained with beer and sweet, sticky liquor. He’s lost some of the baby fat in his face. You notice the sharpness of his cheekbones. He tilts his face downward as he blinks at you.

“You never had a boyfriend at school.” He probably wants to say "When I was at school" but that doesn’t interest you that much now.

“So what?” You grow even more irritated by his questions. Why does he care? You never discussed boyfriends, or his girlfriends, for that matter.

You turn your head away, grimacing, but Lip, on the other side, seems entertained. Intrigued.

“Nothing,” he says, smirking stupidly, and doesn’t stop looking at you. “You’re pretty when you pout.”

Your whole face flushes in an instant. Lip never talked like this to you. Never flirted. Of course, at the beginning, you had been disappointed, but you quickly decided that mutual respect for friendship is much better. Safer.

Unsure of what you’re going to say, you tilt your face back to him, but when you look at Lip, he’s not smirking anymore. He reaches for you, hand catching your burning face, his thumb sweeping over your cheek.

It takes you a moment to bat his hand away. “What’re you doing?” you ask, horrified. And shocked. Flustered with your shyness.

Lip shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mumbles while you’re looking around, all wild, to check for Jacob.

This time it’s Lip who frowns. “You said he was not your boyfriend.”

“Are you, like, jealous or something?” you say only to say SOMETHING, head shaking in disbelief. The silence that follows almost shocks you. You never thought about what you would do if Lip felt the same about you. Never dared to think about that scenario.

Scared to find out what you’ll find out, you peer at him. His face is serious, jaw tense.

“Oh my god, you—you’re jealous,” you whisper, hand going to your mouth to cover it. Your expression must be hilarious—eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief. Lip starts fidgeting with the paper coaster on the bar, eyes flicking all over the room.

Angry tears begin to cloud your vision. “You have no right to be jealous now,” you seethe. “Have you only noticed me now? When I’m seeing someone?” The hurt is unmistakable in your voice. You ball your hands into fists, blinking against the tears welling in your eyes. When Lip doesn’t say anything, you turn on your heel. If you don’t get some fresh air now, you’re going to suffocate.

Once outside, you find a quieter spot away from the smoking people, propping against a wooden table. When you look up you wish you could see stars in the night sky. But the light pollution’s making it impossible. Sighing, you wrap your arms around yourself to protect yourself from the chill. You’re glad that Jacob knows people here too, otherwise you would probably feel bad for leaving him.

Before you get a chance to really sort your feelings, you see Lip approaching you in your peripheral vision.

You sigh, defeated, making a point of not looking at him as he stops a mere foot from you. You’re terrible at confrontations.

“You mad?” Lip asks, and you can feel him studying your face. There’s a cigarette burning between his fingers.

You shake your head. No.

Next, Lip shrugs off his hoodie, cigarette held between his pouting lips, and drapes the garment, warmed by his own body heat, over your shoulders. “Here.”

Suddenly, you’re enveloped in Lip Gallagher. In the smell of tobacco, laundry detergent, and boy. You close your eyes tight against the feeling that’s surfacing from within you. It’s spreading like wildfire, and when Lip steps in front of you, reaching to move the zipper up, up, up, the heat reaches your face, pinks up your cheeks.

Lip leans into you, putting both your bodies into contact, thighs to chests. He slides one of his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, right where your hand’s hiding too, and twines your fingers together. Then he rubs his cheek against your own, as you meet in the middle, and your heart stops. You didn’t know Lip would be like this. That brash, cocky Lip Gallagher with a womanizer reputation treating you with such tenderness.

But you don’t want to end up as a notch on his bedpost.

“I don’t think I’m your type,” you say simply, looking at the ground, hoping that’s enough for him to let it go. To let you go. Even though deep down, it’s the last thing you wish for. You don’t want Lip to let you go. You want him to do the exact opposite.

Lip scoffs, closer to your ear than you expected, making you jump. “And what’s my type?”

“I mean—” you swallow hard, finding the courage to say the next words, as nonchalantly as possible, “I’m from a functional family. I don’t use drugs, I don’t deal drugs. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any personality disorders,” you list.

“Wow, so you’ve done research on me, huh?” Lip asks drily but he doesn’t move, stays close to you.

You decide to come out with the truth. “You know, I had a crush on you at school, and I think I was not as subtle as I thought I was. I mean, most of my friends knew about it.”

Licking his lips, he says,“I always thought you were cute. I was just—”

You're not letting him off that easy. “Busy fucking through the entire school?”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea to make a move.”

“Why do you think it’s a good idea now?”

“Because I can’t stay away from you anymore.”

[firendeavor]

Ambulance

Happy anniversary @galladrabbles! Thank you so much for the prompt wheel! Here's to another year :)

I'm also going to be rambling a lot in the tags for this one so see you down there!

---

Mickey’s no stranger to head wounds, but this one has him bleeding through two dish towels. It’s not exactly ideal. Luckily, he’s married to an ex first responder–and doubly luckily, they own an ambulance. 

Ian has all systems go, light and sound. Normally, Mickey would lambast him for bringing unnecessary attention, but as he woozily watches his husband tear through the parting crowd and flip off any motherfucker who’s too damn slow about it, he realizes that it's… kinda doing it for him, this whole unscrupulous EMT/doting husband thing.

“Think we can pull over a sec?” Mickey jokes, half serious.

[butchcarmy]

Did I see you say that you have? Lip fics??? GIMMIE

ALRIGHT MAN here’s some filth I had sitting in reserves just for you :)

tags: dirty talk, oral (f receiving), lip being mean, dom/sub dynamics, edging (sorta), gratuitous descriptions of oral as per usual🔞

Lip’s right where he wants to be—head in between their shaking legs.

They’re so wet that his chin is dripping with it. Not that Lip’s doing himself any favors. His face is buried in their pussy, lips and tongue molding into them without abandon. There’s something in him that’s feeling particularly hungry tonight.

Their gasps come out tight, constricted, moans small and strangled. Like they’re straining to hold on. It’s fun seeing them try to contain themselves and fail every single time.

When he pulls back, strings of connecting saliva drip and break. Lip takes a moment to admire his work, eyes following the gloss of spit and come smeared on their swollen pussy. He always makes sure to go the distance.

“Fuck, look at you. I know you’re enjoying this, baby. Even though you’re trying to hide it,” Lip adds quietly. He drags the tip of his finger through their seam, collecting slick. They’re impossibly soft and hot to the touch.

“I’m, I’m not trying to hide it,” they mumble between heavy breaths. Lip makes a mock contemplative noise at that.

“No, I think you are. You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?” Lip smiled wickedly. They inhale sharply when he pumps a finger into them, once, twice before pulling out. It comes out coated in wetness, and he pulls it into his mouth. “You know how easily I can make you come.”

When they don’t respond, instead just glaring at him, he takes his victory with peace.

He leans down and sucks their clit between his lips. Their quiet voice instantly snaps, and an sharp whine bursts from their lips. He can’t help the way his lips curl in a smile, pinched around their hard clit.

He aggressively yanks more moans from them, keeping that clit properly sucked. He swears they’re about to come until two hands yank him by the hair and pull him off. He poorly stifles a moan at the way he’s tugged.

“Stop,” they gasp, heaving for air. “P-Please… oh…”

“What’s wrong?” Lip asks instantly, switch flipped.

“Too close,” they admit instead, breathlessly. They’re throbbing in the open air, struggling not to come. “So close…”

“I thought you liked getting your needy little clit sucked off,” Lip whispers, egging them on. They make a strangled noise at that. His face is still close enough that his hot breath still fans over their pussy. “Don’t you wanna come for me?”

“Shut up, I’m gonna come if you keep talking,” they gasp, rushing the words out. He sees their clit twitch. Lip’s smile grows more mischievous. He loves having this much power over them, knowing that he’s the only one that could make them finish by just talking.

He blows lightly on their clit, and he watches it pulse. They make a protesting, barely contained noise at that. They really are so close, anything could tip them over. Their eyes are squeezed shut, head leaned back against the pillows. They’re trying so hard not to come.

Carefully, because Lip just can’t help it, he sneaks his hand between their legs and gently swipes his thumb over their hard clit. They let out a broken moan as soon as he touches them.

“Oh fuck—Lip—!”

That’s all it takes.

“Mm, that’s more like it,” Lip murmurs in delight.

With just one touch, they’re pushed over the edge. Quiet moans pour from their mouth as they come, little whines to match the repetitive pulsing of their pussy. Lip watches their cunt as they come. Watches the way their clit throbs heavily through their orgasm. The way their hole leaks.

Lip returns his thumb, rubbing slow circles against their clit. It twitches back up against the press of his finger. Their whines get louder now, unable to hold back from his touch. Seeing them unfurl like this for him…he’s so hard it’s almost painful.

He’s suddenly facing the issue of whether he wants to keep watching their pussy come or if he’d rather feel their contractions on this tongue. And as he’s thinking it through, the answer quickly becomes obvious.

He delves his tongue into their hole, rolling the flat of it over their entrance. They make a weak, punched out noise at that, and two hands quickly root themselves in his hair. His cock aches at it, so hard that he can’t not touch himself anymore.

He pulls himself back for just a moment, just to push two fingers into them to lube up his hand. The sound they make briefly makes him consider keeping his fingers inside, but he doesn’t. He’d rather keep his mouth there, and he needs his hand at the moment. His fingers come out covered thick in slick. He doesn’t even need the extra lubrication, not with the pre cum dribbling out of him, but it certainly helps.

It feels so fucking good to touch himself that he moans into their pussy, eye fluttering shut as he quickly works himself. Their hands are still tight in his hair, and he’s losing himself in their smell and taste.

He luxuriates in the feeling of their entrance clenching down on his tongue, the feeling of their slippery folds against his face. Between that and their sweet little moans, Lip can’t help but come.

He lets out a long, deep moan when he comes, cum shooting out of his cock and dribbling down his hand. He moans into their cunt, gasping against it.

[izzyspussy]

i once read or scrolled past or saw a post about an au where kash accidentally hits ian when he shoots at mickey, and i remember literally nothing about it but it's stuck in my head. so.

au where kash accidentally hits ian when he shoots at mickey. he calls 911 right away of course, and neighbors call too because of the gunshot. paramedics and cops arrive, and with ian out of it it's kash's word against mickey's. so obviously What Happened is that mickey was robbing the place - which he's been documented doing before via the cameras - and kash shot at him and mickey pushed ian into the line of fire. so they're arresting mickey and loading ian into the ambulance, and they're letting kash in with him.

mickey is fighting like hell. he's shouting at the paramedics that they can't let kash in the ambulance with ian because he shot him - and maybe from mickey's point of view it looked like an accident, but maybe it didn't. hey who knows, crimes of passion and all, maybe it really wasn't. so mickey is absolutely flipping shit. he's got two grown ass cops on him trying and failing to get him into a car even though he's already cuffed.

and lip just happens to be walking by. and mickey just happens to see him, and starts screaming his head off for him. and lip of course was already coming closer in worry since he knew ian was working today. mickey fights the cops harder and harder as lip gets closer, shouting to lip that kash shot Ian and shouting to the paramedics that lip is ian's brother. in the end, the paramedics kick kash out and let lip in for the sake of putting a stop to the hold up.

mickey keeps his fight up, getting knocked around, arms twisted, head slammed into the car door, punched, and everything, all the way up until the second lip gets in the ambulance with ian. he's asked if he's resisting arrest (tricked into confessing, oink oink you know how it is) and he says, "damn fucking right I'm resisting arrest, I didn't fucking do anything!"

maybe one cop is sympathetic or still thinks she has an honest job. she points out to mickey that they have kash's testimony, mickey at the scene, and months of evidence of previous acts of the same crime he's accused of now. she says in order to have any doubt that he's guilty, he needs to tell them what he was actually doing. he stands there for a moment, glaring up at her with his teeth grinding. and then he silently, stubbornly puts himself into the car. (and yes, of course this wounds the pathetic egos of the pigs. acting with his own autonomy rather than being forced by their power? how disrespectful!!)

at the station, mickey uses his one phone call to reach the gallagher house. the slightly less bastard cop is long gone now, leaving mickey with the proud boys (reference intentional lol). they deny him his call at first, but he makes enough of a racket about it they give in pretty quick for appearances sake. they tell him he only has three minutes.

mickey tells fiona in a rush (the bare bones of) what happened, what hospital was on the side of the ambulance, that lip is with ian. and he gets most of the way through begging her to let him know if ian is okay before the cops take the phone away from him. fiona hears him protesting he didn't get the time they promised before the line cuts off.

ian is fine of course. nothing important got hit, the bullet didn't fragment or get stuck. they're able to pull it out low risk, stitch him up, and he's home within the week (or uh... whatever amount of time he would be home in). there's a delay between that and when anyone thinks to let mickey know of course, none of the other gallaghers other than lip know he and ian even know each other, beyond knowing Of each other.

but eventually, lip goes to deliver the happy news to mickey in juvie. mickey gets brought out for visitation, has to be restrained briefly when he makes too sudden a move after seeing who it is. he stiffly tolerates some mild verbal abuse from the bull escorting him (the little piggies don't like him, and they oink oink amongst themselves; even if he wasn't uppity he's got that name on him, and you know what fascists say about apples and the trees they fall from).

mickey isn't even fully in his seat yet, phone barely to lip's ear, before he's demanding, "is he okay?"

lip lets a pause settle, not really out of cruelty or power tripping or any reluctance to tell mickey about ian - if he was he wouldn't have come at all - he's just... slowly figuring mickey out.

he says, "didn't realize you cared."

he also didn't expect mickey to react the way he does. he actually flinches a little bit - if blinking hard counts as a flinch, which in southside it does - when mickey slams his hand down on the little table holding up their partitioned off booth, demanding again, "is he fucking okay?" it would be a snarl or something similar, if mickey's voice didn't crack (juuuusst enough for lip to notice).

"jesus, yeah he's- he's fine," lip blurts, half in surprise half in (perhaps uncharacteristic) mercy. "didn't hit anything important, he's already home."

mickey visibly slumps in relief, practically collapsing onto the table, only held up by his own hand on his forehead to hide his eyes. his hitching gasp and shaky sigh, the slightly wet quality of his next breath, are all clearly audible through the shitty, muffled and crackly phone-to-phone line.

lip solves the mystery. if it was ever much of one.

"...you love him." it's not a question, but he's careful to keep his tone flat and his voice as low as possible. nonthreatening to mickey, hopefully (he's not looking to be smeared on the sidewalk when mickey gets out), and kept private from the other delinquents if unfortunately not the bulls (but maybe mickey will get lucky and they won't listen to the recording unless they find an excuse to).

mickey looks murderous at first. so murderous lip wants to lean back (he doesn't, of course, you never show your belly like that). but... maybe it's because ian got shot, or maybe it's something else, but after a moment mickey is just the same tired and scared kid trapped and abandoned in the gutter of the city as the rest of them.

he can't meet lip's eyes, but he doesn't deny it. doesn't threaten. he just pleads (or at least, he comes as close to pleading as an early seasons milkovich can get), "don't tell him."

"why?" lip asks. mickey rolls his eyes dramatically, ends it on another vicious glare.

"come on, ain't you s'posed to be the smart one?" he sneers. he thumbs at his lip, you know the way he does, looks away to the side again. "if he thinks for one second there's something- that we could- he's already getting fucking shot, and we're just- ...he'll get us both killed. or worse."

"what the fuck's worse than killed?" lip snorts, thinking it'll be something stupid, mickey's priorities all warped.

"pretend we're women," mickey says darkly. "you'll figure it out."

so... lip doesn't tell. it's an au where mickey realizes he's in love with ian, that they're in love with each other, years sooner. he's even admitted it, sort of. just... not in words, or even actions (yet) really. and it's an au where lip knows mickey and ian are in love before ian so much as thinks they could be someday - and keeps it from him.

i'm almost tempted to write it, but i doubt there would be a worthwhile return on that investment. not to mention i'd have to rewatch the show, and i'm pretty sure that qualifies clinically as self harm.

c'est la vie.

[alchely]

I wish at least one of Mickey's older brothers had been a more prominent character for a single (silly) reason.

Imagine Fiona hearing about all the "fucking fantastic" sex the Milkoviches are having with her brothers and later on with her sister (she's still there when it happens,shut up,this is an au) and she just decides to "try them out" for herself once. Idk it's probably a throwaway one-night stand or something,but there's a scene of her stumbling away from the encounter dazed as hell from how good it was lol.

And it's just...the Milkovich and the Gallaghers are really compatible ok?

[iandarling]

Lip Gallagher was five when his dad first taught him how to pickpocket

He learned how to steal wallets and watches on the L, how to outrun the mall cops, and avoid the (few working) security cameras

Lip Gallagher can tell the real deal from a knockoff at first glance- the stitching on a bag, the specific colour on a watch, and the feel of the leather on a wallet.

He would jump the turnstiles, move carefully about the train, get off and on again on random stops, never staying long in one place at a time.

Lip is no idiot, he knows his size and blond hair makes him look more innocent and gullible. He doesn’t look threatening, meaning he can stand and sit closer to people than necessary, without raising eyebrows

At age 9 he had already established a routine. After school he would get on the L, not caring about the direction or route - he would get off at the next stop anyway. He would sit next to a white collar man, usually in a nice suit, with a fancy watch or heavy wallet.

Small nimble fingers are difficult to spot when you’re busy reading the newspaper. The watch is one gone in less than ten seconds. Lip gets off at the next stop. The man won’t notice it’s missing ‘til he gets home.

Frank once showed him which Pawn Shops will accept items no questions asked. Lip hands the owner the watch and he’s offered 300 dollars. They both know the watch is worth 500. Neither of them mention it.

Lip hands Fiona the money, she doesn’t ask where it came from. It means she can afford diapers and formula this month. Ian needs a new jacket and the heating was turned off last week.

He doesn’t think it’s wrong; after all, the men he steals from are already rich and can easily replace the wallet or watch they lost. However he does however feels a little guilty when he steals from women; mostly because he has seen first hand from Fiona the amount of stress she is under just existing as a woman in the world…Still, if their wallet is poking out of their handbag or jacket, he will take it.

As he grows older Lip moves on to more complex and rewarding scams. High risk = high reward. He ends up in a few scrapes with the law, but overall he gets away with it. Besides, Fiona is old enough to get real jobs now. But even though they don’t rely on him pickpocketing anymore, he still does it.

A credit card here, and a loose 20 there; it adds up. At the mall, the library, and even at school he will strike if the opportunity arises. After all;

“When you’re poor, the only way to make money is to steal it or scam it”

[deathclassic]

Commission I did for @ms-moonlight-inn for their amazing fic ‘Lips Like Sugar’

Make sure to read the fic on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45278026

[gallaghersgal]

frat boy lip seeing someone else flirting with you and he gets MAD jealous—especially if it’s someone from his fraternity

god is real and my prayers have been answered. i love frat boys. it's an unhealthy addiction, really. anyway heres a blurb bc i love this so much!!

you were all dolled up. your showiest top in your favorite shade, a tiny black skirt on your hips. you paired that ensemble with platform sneakers and your staple jewelry. your hair was perfectly curled, half back in two braided pigtails, with stray curls framing your face. your lipstick complimented your skin perfectly, and your eyes were lined in the same shade as your top. you looked hot.

you looked hot, and lip was ignoring you.

you justify it to yourself, he's busy working the bar, dispensing out beers to the brothers in his frat, and pouring shots and cups of punch for every blonde bitch that was already far too gone.

you rolled your eyes, turning back to the pledge in front of you. he had some dumbass ballcap backward on his head and a tee unbuttoned down to his chest. what was his name? john? or, josh maybe? josh sounded right. he was flirting his ass off with you, and making the situation even more unbearable by telling you repeatedly how "nobody has to know baby," and "gallagher won't mind sharin' will he?"

you were disgusted. you would've slipped away from his slimy ass about four songs ago if it weren't for the fact you were boxed in by drunk girls to one side and a grinding couple on the other. you nod with a tight-lipped smile as josh tells you about his parents lake house, his slurred words going in one ear and right out the other. before you know what's happening there's a hand on his shoulder and lip is barking an order at him.

"hey pledge! your turn on bar, get ya ass over there. now."

"yeah yeah, whatever. asshole." josh replies with a roll of his eyes. he goes to leave but lip stands in his way.

"what did'ya just fuckin say to me?”

you see the color drain from josh's stupid, smug face and he forces down a gulp. "y-yes sir," he stammers out.

"that's what i thought." lip says. he lets a beat pass before he ticks his head towards the bar. "no drinkin' back there either!"

you cross your arms, glaring at him for a split second before lip's hands are on your hips and your back hits the wall. he kisses you stupid, all teeth and tongue and desire. he presses into you in an almost needy fashion, with one hand squeezing the meat of your ass.

"my girl," he growls in your ear as he pulls away.

you laugh breathlessly. "well, that pledge over there seems to be under a different impression. kept tellin' me you wouldn't mind sharin' me." you tell him, watching his face contort into an incredulous smirk.

"oh yeah?" he asks, twirling the two of you around until your back is to his chest and he's against the wall. he sways your hips to the beat of the music, lips caressing your ear so you can hear him over the bass. "well, don't you worry y'pretty head, okay? i am not fuckin' sharin' you. an' that asshole has no fuckin' chance of becoming a brother here. i saw the way he was bein' with you."

you smile to yourself, moving against him with more freedom. "y'were lookin' at me?" you ask.

you feel him nod, fingers digging possessively into your hips. "all fuckin' night. couldn't take my eyes off ya."

[buzzcutlip]

( this is carmenberzattosgf on my main!!)

Time for a horny request 🚶‍♀️I’ve been thinking HEAVILY on a fwb situation with lip while in college 🧎🏼‍♀️ and when he hears you went out with some frat bro he gets so jealous and it’s a “I can fuck you better than him” type of situation

You know I love Lip! This one is for you, Olive 💌

Lip Gallagher x Fem!Reader Explicit 800+ words

Never in a million years would you guess that Lip Gallagher is into you. He’s annoying, cocky, loud, and probably a borderline alcoholic and criminal—exactly the type of guy your parents warned you about. That’s why you find him so attractive. Secretly.

He likes the bad boy reputation, and you know him well enough to know that it’s mostly an act. You’ve had a soft spot for each other ever since the first year. He would help you with trigonometry, and in return, you would pick him up when drunk in faraway bars. The friends-with-benefits situation is another level to your friendship.

Lip’s room is dark when you stumble in, and he instantly pushes you toward the bed, tackling you down into the sheets. They smell and feel fresh.

Your puffer jacket disappears with remarkable speed, as well as your cardigan. Lip’s quick and efficient when he’s getting you out of your clothes, like always. He just seems a tad more frantic tonight.

“Hey,” you try to slow him down when he’s attempting to get his hand in your panties without unbuttoning your skinny jeans. “What’s gotten into you?”

Lip only looks up when you tug at the collar of his shirt.

“The captain of the lacrosse team, really?” he says, and suddenly everything makes sense.

You throw your head back as you laugh. “I didn’t know we were exclusive.”

Lip bites at your bare neck, hard and mean, and you frown. “Yeah—but I’m still the best.”

You roll your eyes and pout, staying quiet as Lip gets up and switches the light on. Even if you wanted to be shy, there’s no option like that with Lip—he wants to see you and everything when you fuck.

---

The third time Lip tries to kiss you, your hand springs up, getting a good grip on his chin. “No kissing,” you hiss, eyes narrowed.

Lip has his long fingers inside you, reaching for your G-spot for the past twenty minutes, teasing you meanly. Every time he brushes the spongy bit of flesh, you tense, feeling like you might come at that moment. Or pee yourself; the sensations are so similar yet different that you can hardly tell them apart. But Lip withdraws his fingers, leaving you empty and wanting. Because Lip promised he would fuck you so good that you will never want anyone else. His words, not yours.

“If you want to occupy my mouth, then let me blow you,” you say crudely, knowing it won’t shock someone like Lip Gallagher.

“This is about you,” he reminds you seriously, then smirks.

It’s always like that with Lip—an easy banter, joking and silliness until it turns to desperation and passion and need. You never catch the exact moment of the transition.

Lip takes his sticky fingers out and pushes your top up, revealing your belly and bra.

“Did he take the time to touch you like this? To touch your tits?” Fuck. You arch into his mouth as soon as Lip pulls your snug sports bra above your breasts, freeing them. He knows how sensitive they are, how crazy you get when he pays attention to them.

You moan in approval as he starts licking the soft flesh, pulling on one of your nipples with those wet fingers. Wet from you.

“If—if this is about me—” you get out, voice breathy and hoarse, “—would you please fuck me already?”

Lip keeps massaging your tits, kissing and biting all over them, and grinds his groin against yours. He’s still wearing his jeans and the denim drags roughly against your naked center. You’re not very far away from begging.

“Does it feel good, baby?” Lip taunts you from somewhere between your knees, obviously needing to dominate the moment. You must be louder than you thought. Usually, with Lip, you try to stay pretty quiet. The grip you have on his hair tightens minutely, and Lip groans.

It’s not often that you fuck missionary—your aversion, not his. The problem—the good problem—with Lip is that his dick is the perfect shape for your vagina, or something, and when you have sex face to face, laying down, the head of his cock hits perfectly the right places within you. So usually, when you don’t want to come in the first three minutes, you have to really concentrate.

He doesn’t let you have your way tonight. “I wanna see you.”

You try to wriggle from underneath him, but Lip holds you fast. “Lip,” you grunt, pouting.

“I wanna see your face when you come. When I make you come.”

You blush, hard. You’re not surprised to hear Lip’s dirty talk. You’re surprised that it affects you this much. Maybe there's more at stake here than just another night of physical connection.

“I’ll make it so good,” he babbles while putting a condom on.

And he does. Makes it so, so good.

[iangallagherisadeadman]

post-s11 Tami definitely gets tired of Lip and leaves him.

yes, I do like them as a couple, I think it is an interesting dynamic and that Tami is good for him honestly, even though they lived completely different lives and crash so many times because of it throughout the last seasons.

fact is Lip won't ever change and will keep making the same kind of mistakes and she will get fed up with it eventually. they'll go different ways, maybe keep a somewhat friendly relationship, and she will get a new partner and Lip will have a Sean kind of relationship with Fred: that kid is the most important thing in his whole life and he's constantly hunted by the fear of drinking again and hurting Fred.

[butchcarmy]

ALEXITHYMIA CH 1: onions, weed, and pizza

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

Summary: Carmy can’t put into words how he feels about his roommate. It’s only been a couple months, but here he is looking forward to going home and sharing a smoke with them. That’s all it is, though. There are no underlying feelings, none at all, even if everyone around him has something to say about it. 

Or: Carmy is repressed as ever, but through the combined power of vulnerability, weed, and the horny, Carmy too can find love. 

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, cursing, yearning, repression, SO MUCH REPRESSION, angst, mental illness, canon-typical imagery, unresolved tension, for now, virgin carmy, use of weed, alcohol, all that good stuff, carmy character study, eventual smut, gender neutral reader, nonbinary reader, up to you

A/N: HI I've never posted fic on tumblr before but i deeply love Carmy...please enjoy!!!

CHAPTER 1: onions, weed, and pizza

It always stays the same. 

This is the thought that Carmy has when he wakes up, gasping for a chance to just catch his breath and keep it. It’s a kitchen knife twisting like a lock and key in his chest. It fits just right, as all awful and familiar things seem to do.

No matter how many times he wakes up, he’s never anywhere different. That drowning feeling suffocates him in his sleep and follows dutifully into his waking hours. He can’t remember when that haunting started, only that it’s always been with him.

He hates feeling like a drifter, like he’s lost (even though he is both of those things), so he picks a goal and runs after it like a monster. He’s an animal, hunting and working and bleeding until he fucking makes it work , because that’s who he is, and that’s who he’s always been. He can’t not make it work. Because if he can’t do it, then…then what was it all for? 

What is he even for?

These are the thrilling thoughts that serve as the background music to the swirl of his cheap morning coffee, oils rotating in a slow circle. He thinks about getting a nicer brand next time he goes grocery shopping. But that would mean change. That would mean less money on the restaurant, too.

Yeah, so it tastes like shit, but it doesn’t matter. Even if it mattered once. Less and less matters to him these days.

Mornings in Chicago are not technically quiet by definition, but when compared to other times of day, they are. Especially when most of his day is spent in the kitchen wringing out his throat. It isn’t bad to have a quiet morning by normal means, but for him…

The quiet is dangerous.

It’s not silent, but it’s not enough. There’s distant beeping of impatient cars. The whirring sound of the old AC unit. He tries to listen to them, but his rampant thoughts nonetheless rise above them all, buzzing everywhere with nowhere to land. 

A brief analysis of his thoughts reads as such:

Beef sandwiches eggs flour shipment Michael cigarettes smoking sore throat late shipment so tired not sleeping Michael Sugar Mom coffee tastes bad it’s too early my stomach hurts Michael fucking hates you Michael Michael Michael Michael Michael you piece of shit you fucking ki—

“Mornin’, Carmy.”

Until his roommate wakes up, that is. 

When he moved back to Chicago, there was a fact, plain, simple, and unchanging. He wasn’t gonna make rent on his own, not with the restaurant. Not with everything. So maybe he didn’t need to deal with a new roommate, but it’s not like there was a choice. It seemed bearable, survivable enough.

He keeps waiting for the thing that’ll make him grit his teeth, make him regret not getting a place on his own, but it never comes. They’re easy to live with. It’s so easy, as a matter of fact, that it feels strange. The difficulty that he was so certainly expecting just isn’t there. 

If anything, he looks forward to being at home. For someone who lives at work, that feeling is completely foreign.  

They don’t steal his food (not that there’s much). Instead, they cook him food, leaving heated leftovers on the stove on late nights. In Carmy’s case, that’s most nights. They don’t bring over obnoxious company and keep him up with the noise. Rather, he basks in their company, and they make a ruckus between their laughter. Their presence doesn’t stifle him, it soothes him, just like the candle they leave lit in the kitchen for him when he comes home.  They’re not just easy to live with, they’re good to live with, and that’s…

That’s been a hard adjustment, Carmy would say. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s not sure what to do with himself.

On those late nights, they’re usually fast asleep by the time he’s home. But as he sits and eats the leftovers they’ve kept for him, he wants to say something. Something about how a long time ago, there was once a Carmy who cooked for himself, who looked after himself, but that he’s not that Carmy anymore. That it doesn’t matter that he’s a five star chef and they’re just some guy in the kitchen, as they would put it, because he’s…

He’s grateful. Incredibly so.

And yet, the words will never come out. He feels the words tingling on his lips, but it feels scary. He can thank them as many times as he likes (which he does) but it will never capture what he’s really trying to say when he says thank you . There’s too many words, and it just can’t…it just can’t—

It always stays the same. 

“You’re up early,” he says to them when they enter the room. It’s a rare sight to see them up at the early hours he frequents. He sees the morning drowsiness in their mussed hair and big t-shirt stained with hair dye. They yawn back at him, nose scrunching.

Cute , he thinks, and he stamps it down as soon as it flashes through his mind. 

“Randomly woke up.” They fall into the empty seat next to him on the couch, and they rub at the crust around their eyes. “About to head off to work?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replies. There’s a certain sentiment that lies on the tip of his tongue, something about how he wishes he could have a slow morning with them instead. Of course, he can’t voice it. He can’t even come close.

“The plague of the working man,” they sigh. “Well, I got an idea that might cheer you up.”

“...And that would be?”

“Let me paint you a beautiful picture,” they start. They clear their throat and gesture widely with their hands. He notices their chipped nail polish, the writing callus on their middle finger. “Imagine this—you come home from work, tired. You need to relax —something you need to do more often,” they add with a pointed look.  No comment. “And I have dinner ready. Some sort of soup, pasta maybe. I need to check the fridge.” They pause with a yawn. “And before we eat, we smoke a big, fat joint.”

He snorts as they finish, unable to hold back a laugh. 

“That’s a nice picture,” he admits. He doesn’t remember when he started smiling. “Y’know, I was wondering when the joint was gonna pop in.” 

“You fucking know me, man,” they reply, blooming with his interest, his smile. Not that he can perceive that. “So? Thoughts? Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“Right, right,” he echoes faintly. His mind is already sorting through the pile of tasks on the schedule. “Well, I gotta go over this new recipe with Marcus, today,” he mutters, partially under his breath. “But before that, ingredient orders. And those invoices before the end of the day—and that, that toilet guy was supposed to come today…I think?”

“Dude, I do like, one task, and the day’s over for me,” they say sympathetically, and the look on their face is so serious that Carmy struggles to hide his smile. “You’re crazy.”

“I, I’ve seen you do tasks,” he argues. 

“Name one,” they argue back.

“You did two loads of laundry and did the dishes all before lunch time once,” he says, the memory clear and instant. “And when I woke up, you were vacuuming the whole place.” The immediacy surprises him, and it seems to surprise them, too. 

“Damn, I said name one , but I guess I’m just that good!” They laugh, a breathy, exasperated sort of thing. “Well, point taken. Anyway, it sounds like you’re not gonna be home early tonight.” 

“It is a Friday,” he says, “but…”

“But.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he sighs, and shame melts over him like butter on a stainless steel pain. This isn’t anything new. 

“I know, I know,” they say, gracious as ever. “It’s okay. Such is the life of a business owner, yeah?” He searches for some thinly veiled shred of disappointment, frustration in their expression, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he lets them down, the explosion he’s waiting for never comes. They remain patient, collected through it all. 

Says more about him than them, he supposes. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “such is the life.” 

“C’est la fucking vie,” they say, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

It can feel strange to laugh. He worries that the lightness in his chest will expand like a balloon, and he’ll float away. It’s uncontrollable, foreign. It should be scary, how his emotions lead him when he’s around them, not the other way around, but it’s not. 

It’s not scary to loosen up around them, and that’s the scary part. There are no words to describe why. All he can see is that the fear exists, stubborn and persistent. That fear is what makes him snap out of it, makes him look at the clock. He holds back a sigh. 

“Time to go,” he mutters, and they nod.

“And time for me to go back to bed.” They salute him. “Best of luck with your day, brave soldier. And just shoot me a text if you do end up coming back early, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll try. And, thanks. You, you too,” he gets out. He stands up, readjusting the waistband of his pants. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“See you,” they say through a yawn, waving at him from where they’re lying down. They’ve taken his spot, sprawled across the couch, tangled hair flayed out on the pillows. 

Cute , he thinks again, and hearing the thought in his brain makes him wanna panic. 

He doesn’t wanna panic, doesn’t wanna think about it at all, so he nods, shuts the door, and heads out to work with a cigarette hastily lit in his mouth. 

By the time it’s Carmy’s lunch break, he swears his vocal cords must have snapped by how tight he was wringing them. 

The soreness has never stopped him from lighting a cig, though. As he stands outside in the back, finally forced to go on his 30, he smokes rather than eating. There’s a sandwich in his pocket, one that was bearing the brunt of test ingredients. He can feel the aluminum wrapping at his fingertips. 

Eventually, he does eat, though, because he sees the way his hands are shaking when he flicks his lighter. He doesn’t wanna shake when he uses a knife, so he eats. He tastes it, but he doesn’t really taste it.

In truth, he wasn’t even planning on taking his lunch break at all. Most days, he forgets about it. The kitchen’s always busy, there’s always something missing, there’s always something that hasn’t been prepped that’s ruining everything, the lights in the hallways keep flickering because they need to fixed, Fak’s supposed to fix them, but he can’t, because Richie’s still out getting the replacement bulbs, the pile of papers on his desk are bigger than he remembers, he doesn’t have enough fucking time—

But then he’s in the middle of chopping an onion, and the cutting board slips. The half-chopped onion and its sliced offspring scatter on the floor with the cutting board. The sound of its fall draws Sydney in like a whip. 

“You okay? Need a bandaid?” Sydney’s already kneeling by him, helping him pick the onions off the floor. 

“I, I’m fine, didn’t drop the knife,” he explains, and it feels like an ocean current is rushing by his ears. “Fucking, I just—such a stupid fucking—” He sucks in a breath and goes silent. 

His entire body feels tight, wound like a spring. He can barely fucking breathe. 

“Hey.” Carmy turns his intense stare from the onions to Sydney, and when he sees her searching expression, he remembers himself. “Maybe you should go take your lunch break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats, and he feels like he’s heard this before. From someone else. He can’t remember. Who was it? “The onions—we’re behind on onions—”

“I can handle onions for 30 minutes,” she interrupts, decisive and firm. “Seriously.”

Carmy’s about to say something, but then he’s looking at the onion half in his hand. His hand is shaking. 

“Okay,” he sighs after a beat. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. For fucking up.”

“It happens. We all have our moments.” She shrugs. When he keeps standing there, she makes this shoo-ing motion with her hand. “Go on. Take your 30!”

So here he is, taking his lunch break a whole hour later than he’s supposed to. Although it’s better than most days where he doesn’t take it at all.

She wouldn’t have had to tell you to take a break if you didn’t fuck it all up, he thinks to himself, eyebrows knitted together. When the last time I’ve fucked up something so fucking easy?

He thinks about his dream from last night. A familiar sight of red fire and flames up to the ceiling, crackling so loud it sounded like screaming. The only good part is that when he woke up, he wasn’t at the stove burning his place down. It hasn’t happened at this apartment yet. Carmy hopes it never happens. 

Just get it together, he thinks. He aggressively taps the ash out onto the decrepit ash tray they have in the back. It’s full. You’re supposed to be at this shit. So just be good.

“Cousin.” Carmy snaps his head up, and Richie’s at the door, stepping out. His presence yanks him out of his inner whirlpool, a quickly descending spiral. “Gimme one.”

Wordlessly, Carmy hands him a cigarette. Richie plucks it out of his hand like a flower.

“You had a lighter, but no cigarette?” Carmy comments, squinting at Richie pulling a busted up red lighter from his jean pocket. 

“Shut up,” Richie mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. “Got the wrong damn light bulbs,” he explains unprompted. 

“Alright,” Carmy sighs. He has so little energy that the frustration bypasses him completely, diving instantly into deflated acceptance. “Just return ‘em.”

“Can’t,” Richie says, and when Carmy gives him a look, he elaborates, “no receipt.” 

“ Dude .” Carmy opens his mouth, but then he shuts it again. It’s just not worth it. “Thanks anyway, cousin. We’ll get it done.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, you asshole. I didn’t do shit.” Richie nudges him, but like before, it’s not an angry thing. “Also, toilet guy’s not comin’ today.”

“The fuck? Why ?”

“Canceled,” he replies simply. 

“Fucking hell,” Carmy mutters under his breath. “Did he say when he could reschedule?”

“Not yet.”

“Great.”

“Yep.” Richie tilts his head up, blowing out a slow stream of gray cigarette smoke. “Might as well wait for Fak to get his ass back in town at this rate.”

“I guess.” Carmy sighs. He thinks about all the things he still needs to do. “I dropped this onion I was chopping, earlier,” he mentions out of nowhere. 

“Okay.” Richie gives him a look. “And? You bitches chop those things up faster than I could cut one in half.” 

“I dropped it on the floor,” Carmy tries again, but Richie’s expression remains unchanged. “I never do shit like that.”

“Well, cousin, you did.” Carmy feels something in him deflate. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nevermind,” he replies, because he’s a coward. “Just—just forget it.”

Silence. The spark of a lighter. 

“I’m gonna leave early,” Richie says, like he can just do that. Which…he can, Carmy supposes. “If no one’s gonna show up, what’s the point?” He slaps Carmy’s back, and Carmy doesn’t watch him as he heads back inside. 

Guess all I need to do later is get rid of those papers on the desk , Carmy thinks to himself, idly moving the shortening cigarette between his lips. Then that’ll be it, I guess.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gone home early. It’s hard to even imagine what he does on days like those. Sleeping, probably.  There’s nothing much else for him to do, not with how tired he is—

Shoot me a text, okay?  

He hears them in the back of his head all of a sudden, and he remembers. 

Oh, he remembers, hands moving to take out his phone. Almost forgot.

“Sorry to bother you, chef.” Carmy’s not sure how he didn’t hear the door opening. Marcus’ head pops out, nose covered in flour. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna need more flour for tomorrow.”

“Order’s not gonna come for a couple days. I thought we had an extra bag left,” Carmy tries, but the guilty look on Marcus’ face explains it all. 

“Dropped it,” Marcus grimaces, and Carmy’s already fucking over it. 

“We’re all fucking up today, chef,” Carmy replies, and the day goes on. 

. . . . .

It’s a strange, delightful miracle, but he manages to get out of the restaurant before the sun sets.

Considering their collective track record, the fact everyone was able to leave early was cosmic intervention. It helps that the toilet guy didn’t come, in an unfortunate way, but still. Standing outside of the restaurant in the evening like this feels…weird. 

It’s not that Carmy’s complaining about a nice thing, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to have anything good today.

Shower, dinner, and weed, he thinks absentmindedly on the way home. He juggles the three around in his brain. Just the thought of it feels like relaxing. A little.

With company , his brain helpfully adds, and his stomach squirms. 

Self control, he thinks. He needs more self-control. He can’t just keep thinking of them so indulgently. He’s not allowed to think of them that way, because it’s not fair to them. Even if no matter how many times he chastises himself, it never works. Even if they remain in his brain like sun-spots in his vision. Even if it’s not his fault that he just can’t help it.

The thing is, though, it always is. Even when it’s not his fault, it actually is. Always.

You dropped that fucking onion , his brain helpfully adds for no particular reason. Fucking loser.

Fuck off , he thinks back as he approaches his front door. Predictably, it does not stop.

Just as his fingers search for his keys in all of his pockets, he hears something that makes him pause, hands stopped on his waist. It’s music, distant and muffled. They’re probably listening to music in the kitchen. He stands, trying to place the song, but he doesn’t recognize it. 

He does recognize the voice that’s singing over the music, though.

Oh, he realizes. That’s them.

The way their voice clumsily layers over the music shouldn’t make him pause like this. He shouldn’t be doing this, standing in the doorway and listening rather than opening the door. The keys are in his hand. This, this is a breach of privacy, he tells himself, feeling a little dizzy with distress, he just needs to just—

There’s an abrupt, loud clang, and he shoves the door open.

Concern is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there. The source of the noise lays face-down on the floor—a pan sitting in what seems to be tomato sauce. The matter next to it is what makes the words evaporate from his lips, like they were never there at all. 

They’re kneeled down next to the pan, paper towels in hand, but all they’re wearing is an apron. 

His mind blanks. He thinks he stops breathing. He’s never seen so much of their skin at once. He needs to look away, he thinks, but his eyes keep traveling, traveling, and traveling. It just happens so quickly. He doesn’t mean to look, he doesn’t, but they’re right there and he can see right down their—

“No, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were coming back early!” They exclaim, quickly crossing their arms over their chest, and that’s what makes him tear his eyes away. 

“I—I thought I texted you,” he says quickly, hot face turned to the side, “on my lunch—...“ He stops there, the memory reconstructing itself. 

He forgot.

“It’s fine, I just feel bad about dinner, and, uh—okay, I’m just gonna change real quick, and then I’ll clean this up,” they reply, words rushing out. In the corner of his vision, he sees their bare legs dart to their room.

It seems wrong to just stand here staring at the tomato sauce slowly expand outwards on the floor, so he cleans it up. A couple paper towels later, he’s gotten most of it, and they’ve returned with a change of clothes.

“Sorry,” Carmy starts right as they also go “I’m sorry”. He pauses, meeting their eyes. It’s a lot easier now that they’re wearing leggings and a t-shirt as opposed to, well, nothing. Not to say he doesn’t appreciate the leggings. 

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” they sigh. “I don’t—I don’t usually walk around the place naked, I just—I didn’t think you’d be back—“

“I should’ve texted,” he interrupts. He struggles to not think about them walking around the living room naked. “I forgot. But it, it’s fine. You’re fine. Really. Sorry for not texting.”

“Okay. Cool.” They exhale, a tired noise. “And it’s okay. It happens.” They look at the floor and make a sound of surprise. “Did you clean this up?” The look they give him has far too much gratitude, and it feels like a searing hot iron.

“Yeah, uh.” His hands are moving like he’s trying to explain something, but no words crop up. “Felt weird not to.”

“Well.” They smile, grateful. “Thank you. That was gonna be dinner, but…” They trail off, looking at the floor with a sour expression. “I fucked up.”

“It’s just that sort of day today,” Carmy mutters.

“Shitty day for you, too?” 

“Yeah. Lots of shit went wrong.” Especially me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “You?”

“Gotcha.” They shrug. “As for me—yeah. Really not my best day. It was just, uh, some family shit. You know how it is.”

Carmy makes a sound of acknowledgement. “That sucks.” He doesn’t know much about their family other than that they’re fairly shitty. It’s the same the other way around, too. 

“It’s whatever,” they say, even though it really isn’t, and he knows it. They look at the floor one more time before looking up at him. “Do you just wanna order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carmy replies, his words coming out much more despondent than expected. 

They settle on some pepperoni pizza from a place down the street. It’s a tried and true method—they deliver, it’s cheap, it’s oily, it’s cheesy, it’s good. Just talking about it makes Carmy taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

“You can go and shower if you want. I’ll get the door when pizza comes,” they offer. They’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up. 

“Okay, thanks.” Carmy pauses then, gears turning. He’s vaguely worried his memory is going to shit. “Did—did I just say I was gonna shower?” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t, you just always shower when you get home from work, right?” They say it like it’s the weather, like it’s familiar, and that’s when Carmy realizes because it is. After several months of living together, of course they’ve picked up on his habits. It doesn’t need to be a thing. There’s no reason for it to be a thing.

“I do,” Carmy replies faintly, and for some reason, that’s all he can say. 

“Thought so.” They look at him for just a moment, but it makes him feel like his body’s gone transparent. “I notice these things, you know.”

“Yeah.” Carmy looks at them when they turn back to the dishes, back facing him. “You do.” 

He tells himself he’s not gonna think any harder about any of it. He’s not gonna think about the singing, the apron, the way they just notice these things, but then he does. 

He’s in the shower, and he thinks about everything.

The water pressure is pathetic, but the warmth still feels nice. Between that and the sound of the running shower, it’s usually enough to quiet his thoughts. This time, though, it doesn’t. To his credit, he does try to think about anything else. 

He thinks about work, because he always does. He thinks about flour, about onions, about knives. He thinks about the shampoo lathered in his hair. He thinks about those lightbulbs they still need to get. He thinks about food. He thinks about them. He thinks about pizza. He thinks about the way they sing when no one’s around. He thinks about the way they know him. 

He thinks about them, knees on the floor only in a—

He thinks of bashing his head into the tile wall until he explodes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers to himself, rivulets of hot water trailing down his forehead and dripping off his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The soreness is still present in his body, but that never quite goes away. He does feel a bit better now that he doesn’t have sweaty, sticky skin, though. It gets even better when he puts on a clean white t-shirt and his favorite sweatpants. It’s a nice surprise from his past self who did his laundry for him. 

This amount of niceness is okay. This is what he’s used to—a shower and comfortable clothes when he’s home from work. That’s enough.

He steps out into the kitchen with a damp towel on his head. He finds them sitting by their one shitty window that opens, pizza box in front of them and joint lit. It casts an orange glow to mix with the golden light from the window. 

“Hey, pizza’s here!” They slap their hand on the greasy cardboard box. “Just got this joint started for us, too.”

“So you weren’t gonna smoke it all on your own?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but he does. He slips into the seat across them, arms resting on the table they placed by the window. 

“I couldn’t smoke this whole thing even if I wanted to,” they protest. “Besides, joints are made for sharing. Here—now you get to take it. Isn’t that nice?” With their elbow propped up on the pizza box, they hold up the joint to him. The lit end of it sizzles a bright orange, emitting a thin trail of smoke up to the ceiling. 

“That is very, very nice,” Carmy agrees, taking it carefully from their fingers. Their face spreads into that contagious grin of theirs, and he’s far from immune. Sometimes he smiles so much around them that his face hurts, rusty and unused. 

Sure, he can blame that on the weed, but if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), that’s a complete lie. Obviously the weed lessens the tension, the stress that winds him up tight. It’s not just the weed that gets him to relax, though. 

It’s them. There’s something disarming about their presence, something that makes him loose-lipped around them. Even when he’s sober, he finds himself feeling comfortable. He’s not quite sure how that happened, or if that’s ever happened. He supposes that isn’t a bad thing. Just something he’s noticed. 

He wonders if they’ve noticed. 

“You like the new rolling papers?” They tuck their knees under their chin, propping their feet up on the chair. 

“Hm.” Carmy lowers the joint from his mouth to give it a good look. He rotates it around in his fingers. “Strawberry?”

“Yeah, it’s strawberry,” they confirm, poorly hiding the excitement in their demeanor. Not that they were trying to. “Can you taste it?” 

He pulls from the joint, the edges of the paper sizzling red with the weed. It’s an even burn this time. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth after he exhales a cloud of smoke. 

“Still no,” he decides after a beat, and they sigh. 

“I don’t know why I ever get my hopes up.”

“I do taste something else in this, though.” He takes another hit, stews on it. “Lavender?”

“Shoulda known you would’ve gotten it on your first tray. Yeah, it’s lavender. I found some lying around.”

“You made this one pretty nice,” he observes, eyes tracing the shape of the joint. “Between the lavender and the new papers, I mean.”

“Well, y’know.” The smile on their face is small and shy. “I don’t smoke joints often, so I wanted to make it nice, and I, uh…”

They’re paused for so long that Carmy interjects. 

“And?”

“And I—want that joint,” they finally say, outstretching their hand. Carmy has a strong feeling that they weren’t originally going to say that, but he hands over the joint nonetheless.

“Strain?” He asks curiously. He can feel the body high creeping up his shoulders, fluid and light.

“The strain that gets you high,” they reply with a grin.

“Oh, thank god,” Carmy sighs in relief, and the way that makes them laugh… It makes his chest tight. 

“To actually answer your question, though—I dunno.” He likes watching the smoke drift from the tip of the joint as they talk, thin gray wisps in the air. “I think it’s a hybrid? Not sure if it’s more one way or not, though…”

“As long as it’s not the weed that puts you to bed.”

“Um…well, if you smoke enough of it, it can.”

They sit together like this for a while, just sitting and taking turns with the joint. It’s an easy, fluid exchange, flowing between them like smoke. No matter how much they both try to blow it out the window, it always comes back in. The smell of weed is strong in the air, earthy and pungent.  

Although he would never describe himself as a talkative person, sitting stoned across from them makes the words come out. Sometimes, he thinks he likes himself better when he’s high—his mind isn’t running circles around itself, and the soreness of his body just floats away. He feels more like a human than a poor imitation of one like he usually does. 

This weed smells kinda good, he thinks, and when they laugh, nose scrunched up, he realizes he said that out loud. 

“That’s literally what I’ve been saying,” they agree, a bright grin lingering on their face. “That’s how you know you’re a fuckin’ stoner!” 

“Feels weird to call myself a stoner,” he muses. He plucks the joint from their outstretched hand. It definitely looks shorter from when they started a moment ago. “But I guess…”

“If you like the smell of weed, you’re too far gone,” they say with a grave expression. “It’s so fucking over for you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, equally as serious, and then they’re both bursting out into laughter. He likes the sound of their laugh—it’s unabashed, fills up the space. 

“Dude, I’m high,” they whisper after they both calm down, like it’s some sort of secret, and Carmy can’t stop himself from laughing all over again. “Oh my god. Are you high?”

“I—I think I might fucking be,” he gets out between laughs, and that sparks them straight into another cackle of laughter. He’s not supposed to be able to make others laugh, he doesn’t even make himself laugh—but then he’ll say something, and they’re lit up with laughter. 

“We need to eat this pizza now, ” they yell, projecting over their combined noise. They flip the pizza box open, and it smacks Carmy right in the face. 

“Oh,” he reacts mildly.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you punched me in the face,” he reasons, but their guilty expression persists. “It didn’t hurt, it’s just cardboard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m high,” they sigh apologetically. 

“I know,” he replies with a little smile. His eyes drift down to the pepperoni pizza sitting before them, glorious in its perverse amount of oil. “So, we’re gonna eat this, right?”

“Oh my god, yes we are,” they gasp, and the moment is forgotten. 

When he tears off a pizza slice, the cheese stretches in thin, gooey strings. They grab the slice adjacent to it to snap the strings in half, but they’re both leaned back in their chairs, pizzas in hand, and the cheese is still connected. 

“This doesn’t seem right,” Carmy mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “We should’ve just cut it.”

“How could we have predicted this?” They pull their pizza further back, and the string still doesn’t break. “Wow. I’m honestly impressed. I don’t think it’s ever been this insane before.”

“I think we’d remember.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking and not just running his finger across the string to break it. 

“I think we would, too.” They snort, shaking their head. “This—this is some spaghetti type shit.”

“What? Spaghetti?” He’s genuinely perplexed.

“I—I mean like—that fucking disney movie. With the dogs.” They pause for a moment, mouth silently moving. “Fucking—lady and the, the truck—”

“Uh.” He has to hold back a laugh. “...The lady and the tramp?”

“ Holyshittheladyandthetramp ,” they blurt out in a rush, and the cheese string finally snaps in half. “…Well, I guess it’s not exactly like the lady and the tramp, then.” They take a large bite of their pizza, and it reminds Carmy exactly how hungry he is. 

“You mean lady and the truck,” he corrects, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. Especially not with how good this hot pizza is, delightfully salty and greasy in his mouth. 

“Shut up, I was trying,” they grunt through a mouthful of food. 

“How exactly is this like the lady and the tramp, again? Or, uh, not like it?” 

“Well, it was just like it, but then the string broke.” Somehow, they’re already halfway through their slice. “Could’ve been a beautiful spaghetti moment.”

“Spaghetti moment,” he echoes under his breath, holding back a laugh. “Remind me how that scene goes?”

They go quiet for a moment. It’s like he can see the gears turning in his head. If he’s being honest, he already remembers how that scene goes, but…he wants to hear them say it. He needs to hear them say it. 

“Uh, well, they’re…eating spaghetti. The titular lady and tramp.”  Their eyes are fidgety, flickering back and forth between their pizza and the window. “And they’re sharing the plate, the two of them. They’re eating together, and, um…” 

“...And?” 

They meet his eyes, mouth hanging open, and then they close it. 

“Um, I don’t remember, actually,” they say, shaking their head and blinking. He sees it for the blatant lie that it is, and yet. “Do, do you remember?”

As he stares back at them, unable to look away, he wonders. He wonders about what this really means. About if this really means anything at all, about if he’s going to find out if it does. 

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, cowardly, and neither of them say anything else.

Out of the two of them, they’ve always been better with recovering from awkward moments, so they do. They start talking about something else, and the world keeps turning. But in the back of his head, Carmy remains in that moment, unwilling to let it go. 

Why did you say that you didn’t remember? He wants to say. Why didn’t I say that I remembered how it went? Because I remember. They kiss—they fucking kiss. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what I wanted to hear?

But because he’s Carmy, he doesn’t say anything. He just eats.

He’s so hungry that the pizza disappears in minutes. It’s delicious, but he’s so high he’s not completely sure he can taste it. Somehow, it remains the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

The rest of the night is a blur. He remembers getting onto the couch at some point. They both decide on a random movie he doesn’t catch the name of. They finish off the joint on the couch together, sinking into its cushions. It burns hot in his throat as it reaches the end. 

And as it turns out, the weed he smoked is the one that puts him to bed. 

“...Ca…Car…” Someone’s calling him. “...Carmy, c’mon. You’re gonna complain about your neck tomorrow if you keep sleeping here.”

“Mhm,” he replies helpfully. He turns his head into the cushion. His body feels like an abstract blob, perfectly molded into the couch cushions.

“Okay, you made a good point. But. ” They laugh quietly, under their breath. “Movie’s been over for like 20 minutes now.”

“Mhm,” he repeats, nearly inaudible. He doesn’t wanna get up. Whenever he falls asleep, it always feels like he’s never gotten an hour of sleep in his life. There’s nothing he needs to think about, worry about. He’s warm and comfortable, and he doesn’t feel like letting that go just yet.

Everything goes silent again for a moment, save for the cars on the road. He begins to drift away again, slipping back into his dreamless sleep. 

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s like a smoking brand on his skin. His eyes fly open and he jolts awake, jerking upright. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologize, fretful. Between the dark of night and haze of sleep, they look pretty different. The blue light from the television is streaked across the blurry planes of their face.

“It’s fine,” he replies, drowsy. Speaking feels…heavy. Begrudgingly, he adjusts to sit up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Weed,” they say with a shrug. 

“How, how long was I—?” He cuts himself off with a yawn, wide with condensation in the corners of his eyes. 

“Only like, 30 minutes.” They yawn back. Typical infectious yawning. “End of the movie sucked anyway.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What was the ending?”

“Love interest died,” they state plainly. “He told her about how he felt, got rejected, and then she died in a car accident. Pretty tragic.”

“Huh.” Carmy makes a face. “That does suck.”

“Yeah, a bit.” They’re idly fiddling with the remote, scrolling through Netflix without reading anything. “I feel like the movie was trying to say something profound about the unpredictability of life or something, but the writing was shit.”

“I guess it’d be too perfect if they got together,” he muses.

“I guess,” they echo. They turn off the tv, and the room goes dark. The only light is from the yellow street lamp right outside their window, wonderful in its inconvenient placement. It illuminates the shape of the back and leaves their face in shadow. “I think I remember how that scene went,” they say suddenly. 

“Oh.” Carmy’s heart feels stuck in his throat. “And how does it go?”

“Well, they’re—both eating spaghetti. Like I said.” They’re not facing him, leaving their face shrouded in shadow. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the shake in their voice or not. It’s beyond him why there would be any shakiness at all. “They somehow get the same noodle, so they, uh, kiss.”

“They kiss,” he repeats for some unknown reason.

“Yeah.” They let out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound like they actually find this funny. He wishes he could see the look on their face. 

“I don’t think pasta works like that,” he hears himself murmur faintly. For some reason, he can’t help but think that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s already said it. Maybe it’s the same reason as to why his heart is beating so urgently. 

“No, I, I don’t think so either,” they mumble. He refuses to place the way they’re feeling. 

I can’t fucking do this.

The thought resounds like a gong, hit with a mallet right next to his ear. 

“It’s late, I gotta head to bed.” It feels like someone else is speaking for him, moving his body for him. He can’t stop them. When he stands up, he avoids their face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Another thought resounds. He doesn’t respond.

“Right, I—didn’t even notice the time.” He pretends he doesn’t hear the strain in their voice. No, he didn’t word that right—there is no strain in their voice. “G’night.”

"Night,” he murmurs back.

This is enough, he tells himself as he falls into bed. His sheets are tangled. This is enough , he repeats, and it’s not because he’s scared, afraid, anxious, or any other stupid synonym. It’s because he believes it, needs to believe it. 

He tells himself, this is enough , even though he wonders, what is supposed to be enough? He doesn’t listen. He stamps down the protests, the thoughts that are out of line. The high usually helps with that, but it’s worn off, now just leaving him in a weary, sleepy state of things. 

This is enough, he thinks, and he falls asleep looking at their shrouded face behind his eyelids.

[izzyspussy]

[MENTION OF SUICIDAL IDEATION, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE]

i also think it could be fun and funky fresh if ian was gone a little longer and mickey eventually couldn't fucking take it anymore and came out at the alibi on his own and like. okay he's fighting back against terry like on the fucking principle of the thing, and a little bit because he really does want to get at least a few good fucking hits in - god he's so fucking angry and he's so fucking angry about being so fucking angry and - but on the other hand. he's by himself, he's like a third of terry's size and only half as vicious, and most importantly he lowkey kind of wants to die at this point anyway.

so. mickey comes out half because he just fucking can't stay in anymore and half for fucking spite - the latter being the main reason he does it publicly. this way terry can't keep it quiet that he's got a queer son. cause you know, unfortunately for terry, a dead fag is still a fag. so fucking there.

terry charges him of course just like in canon, and like in canon (iirc) mickey gets in the first hit. maybe even the first couple. but it's not seconds before terry has mickey down and spitting blood onto the floor. and once mickey's down... well he doesn't stop fighting entirely. he doesn't give up and he doesn't fucking tap out, and he won't let anyone else claim they taught him that, that's all him, it's his fucking nature. but he maybe starts phoning it in a little bit.

and it's. i mean it's brutal. the bar is quiet, because no matter how accustomed to this sort of violence you (think you) are there will always be at least a moment of frozen horror, and it's only worse when there's such a clear imbalance, when you know the guy on the ground is just a kid, when you know the guy kicking him is his dad. so everyone can hear the dull, concussive whap of the back of terry's hand across mickey's face, can almost feel the way it snaps mickey's head to the side so hard he stumbles with the momentum. et cetera.

and it's... it's lip who breaks the dam. he's pissed about it, he doesn't want to be doing this, mickey is the last fucking person he wants to stick his fucking neck out for, but ian fucking loves him. loves him loves him, the real fucking deal, and that makes mickey a piece of him whether anybody fucking likes it or not. and lip will always stick his neck out for ian.

so he curses mickey's name black and blue, and he bitches about how he can't believe he's doing this, and he threatens that he'll never forgive either of them, and he grabs a chair and he swings it right into terry's face.

mickey looks up at him from the floor, bloodied mouth hanging open. bro is flabbergasted dot jpg.

"i draw the line at giving you a hand up," lip says, and that kicks the whole fucking bar into gear.

mandy jumps onto terry's back, screaming like a fucking banshee and wrapping her skinny arms around his neck as tight as she fucking can, probably bites him too by the way he yells. terry's few buddies/sycophants/goons leap up to take his side, only to realize they are wildly outnumbered when the milkovich brothers and uncles take mickey and mandy's. kev calls the police, even though it makes him throw up in his mouth a little. some unaligned bar patrons flee, and most of the upstairs girls do too. some patrons start fighting each other, since there's a fight and all. some settle in for the show, and some just plain don't fucking care.

and mickey gets himself up off the ground, insert non-diagetic punk remix of i'm still standing by elton john here, and wipes his mouth with his hand. he surges forward to twist terry's arm behind his back when he rips mandy off his back, before he can throw her to the ground. she slaps their father in the face with her fingers curled, leaving four bleeding scratches across his cheek. mickey hears lip cuss again, impressed, before the back of terry's head breaks his nose.

and even as blood splurts down his face mickey wonders, dazed and almost giddy with the possibility, if lip backing him up means ian still cares about him. at least a little.

[alchely]

Finally finished Redheaded Stepchildren by ZebraWallpaper, what a masterful story, amazing writing.

Summary: Debbie and Lip's relationship with Ian as seen through their POV after the ending of season 4.

Took a long ass break at the beginning of the second part of the series cause Lip and Fiona are... something in this fic but I decided to get over it and just finish it.

Some things to say about this fic:

It feels dark, like S4 kind of "oh you've hit rock bottom? Let me get a shovel" kinda dark, especially in Lip's POV.

It was written before S5 even aired and yet it somehow predicted character arcs from S5,S6,S7 and beyond with an accuracy that borders on prophetic lol, a mindfuck to read.

If you like Lip, like...really like Lip you will not have a good time with him in this fic.

His opinions of Mickey and Ian's situation in this story is out of this world cruel and while it makes for one of the most cathartic beatdowns I've ever had the privilege of reading, it still means you have to get through all the buildup to it as well.

[crestfallercanyon]

Fic: here's to hoping i'm not what kills you Fandom: Shameless (US)  Length: 13,380 Rating: Mature Status: Completed   Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich; Mickey Milkovich & The Gallaghers Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Angst and Humor, Hospitals, Lip and Mickey have some fun hating each other, established but hidden relationship (the Gallaghers suspect though), late season 3/early season 4ish

Summary: 

Mickey’s never seen Ian go down like that before. Ian can take a punch, has had plenty of black eyes — hell, Mickey’s punched Ian plenty of times himself — and Ian should be getting up. He knows Ian should be alright, if not even more pissed off. But Ian doesn’t move. He collapsed like he was shot in the head. Looking at the stocky guy who hit Ian, Mickey tries to figure out what happened when something drops out of the guy's hand: A piece of broken sidewalk, the tan concrete bleeding red. The guy bashed Ian’s head with a rock. Mickey jumps to his feet. “Hey!” ______ After a confrontation gone bad, Mickey and the Gallaghers get Ian to the hospital. And look, Mickey always knew that if the Gallaghers had a will they'd find a way, but being roped into their schemes himself wasn't something he'd planned on signing on for. All the Gallaghers need to know is Mickey's helping out because he's not pure fucking evil. They don't need to know Mickey was scared shitless when Ian got knocked unconscious, Jesus, he can barely admit that to himself. Once Mickey knows Ian's not dead and not dying, he's out of there. Except he can't bring himself to leave.

Read here on ao3. To go to my profile, here. 

[x-fizzyp0p-x]

i love getting absolutely random, niche ideas for fics that no one would probably read.

i was thinking about how different everything would be if douglas just raised adam, bree, chase and daniel as, well, just... kids. and i happen to also watch a lot of Shameless (US) and i started thinking...

chase and lip kinda have the same energy. just a little bit. but just enough.

so now i have yet another idea that i feel the need to write out. :)