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iris-writesx · 11 months

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Little Fucker | Gallavich

ian and mickey wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of an intruder in their kitchen, but it not what it seems — idk what this is but hey my first full gallavich fic, whoop whoop. honestly this is just a rambled mess of fluff. i’m still trying to get my characterisation for these boys down, so feedback would be greatly appreciated :)

2k words — mention of past trauma, though this is all fluffy and domestic. mickey and ian are married

fic requests are open for gallavich, please send any and all into my asks. reblogs and feedback would also make me super happy <3

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Mickey had always been a light sleeper. Just the feeling of Ian’s weight leaving the mattress in the morning was enough to stir him from his sleep, blinking groggily up at his husband as he got ready for the day. He supposed it was due to his upbringing, being awoken by Terry yelling or things being thrown at him throughout his childhood. He distinctly remembers one night when he was ten being woken by the shattering of glass, and later realised that the bottle Terry had thrown in his drunk stupor had missed and smashed the window instead. That whole winter he had slept with two jumpers on to stop the winter air blowing into his room from freezing him to death.

So he was a light sleeper. Which is why the crash that came from their kitchen was enough to force Mickey out of his sleep, his eyes wide as he immediately rose up into a sitting position. He sat frozen, listening for anything else, before another crash followed, something smashing against their tiled kitchen floor.

Ian was blissfully asleep beside him, and it took Mickey four shoves against his husband’s arm before he even began to stir.

“What?” He groaned, not even turning to look at him, eyes still closed.

“Get up.”

“Fuck off,” Ian grumbled, rolling over to face away from Mickey, and huffing out of his nose he grabbed onto Ian’s forearm and shook it a bit roughly until he had annoyed him enough to roll back over to face him. “Holy fuck, what do you want?”

Mickey glared down at his husband, offended by the immediate annoyance… as if he wouldn’t act the same if awoken in the middle of the night. “Someone’s in the fuckin’ kitchen, asshole.”

That definitely got Ian’s attention. Mickey observed as his eyebrows immediately scrunched, lips turning downwards as he also sat up, eyes shifting past Mickey to stare at their closed bedroom door, as if he could see through it.

Ever since Mickey had been sleeping in the same bed as Ian — since he finally started accepting just how much he needed Ian, since the nights where he was supposed to be on Ian’s bedroom floor were spent up against him in his bed — he had always put himself between Ian and the door. Maybe it was the assumption that there would always be danger, like he was living at home and there was always a chance of Terry barrelling through the door to hit him. But Mickey knew that he’d always want Ian further into the room than himself. Realistically, he knew that probably nothing was ever going to happen — a little ironic after he had been woken up by the sound of an intruder in their kitchen — but just in case, he would always put himself into the line of danger first.

Ian was still staring at the door. His hand had unconsciously reached out to grip onto Mickey’s leg, a light squeeze against the plush of his thigh. “I can’t hear anything, Mick.”

“You think I’m fuckin’ making it up?”

Ian turned to scowl at him. “That’s not what I said. I’m j’st saying that it doesn’t sound like anybody’s there.”

“I know what I heard, asshole-“

Another smash came from the kitchen, and instead of jumping like Ian did, Mickey couldn’t help the smug smile that formed over his mouth. “Told you, bitch.”

Ian rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, instead he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned down, grabbing a shirt from the floor and quickly throwing it on. Mickey, who cared much less about looking decent in front of a fucking burglar, instead leaned down to grab the gun that he kept tucked under his side of the bed just in case. He rounded the bed and forcefully shoved Ian beside him, reaching out with his free hand to open the doorknob. “Stay behind me.”

Ian didn’t argue, so he pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway, his gun raised out in front of him. Within all of the domestic bliss that he and Ian had been living in for some time now, it had actually been a while since he’d held a gun — the last time was probably when he had put it under his side of the bed. The weight of it felt heavy in his hand, the metal cold against his skin — he never thought that he would be in a place where the feeling of a gun in his hand was weird to him.

With Ian still behind him they got to the kitchen, and whilst there was no intruder to be seen, there was glass and porcelain smashed all over their floor. He glanced up at the counter and noticed that there were still a few plates and a glass that had been left to clean up in the morning, and he was guessing that the ones now in pieces on the floor came from that stack of washing up.

“Aw man,” Mickey grumbled, nudging a larger piece of black porcelain with his toe. “My favourite fuckin’ mug.”

“Mick look-”

“Yeah I know, man, I can see it.”

“No,” Ian huffed, and poked one of his shoulder blades. “On the table.”

Mickey turned his head, and just blinked when he saw the little orange cat sat on their kitchen table, staring back at them with its huge bug eyes. It reminded him of one of the little street cats from back home that Mandy used to insist on feeding when she was just a kid. “What the fuck is that thing doing in here?”

“Must’ve come in through the window,” Ian nudged him again, and Mickey glanced up at the open window above the counter. “Poor guy must’ve knocked all the glasses over on his way in.”

“Poor guy? It broke our shit.”

“Yeah well I told you to close the windows at night.”

Mickey turned to shoot Ian a glare, as if to say it wasn’t his fault that the little fucker got into their home, but Ian slipped past him and sidestepped all of the glass over towards the table, where he reached down to scratch said little fucker on the top of its head.

“I’ll clean up then, yeah?” He huffed, putting the gun in the waistband of his boxers for now as he carefully dodged any glass on the floor to grab the broom they kept stood by the fridge, and started to sweep all of the shards into a pile. When he glanced up at Ian he was still fussing over the cat, and he just rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. “Aye, some fuckin’ help would be nice.”

“He hasn’t got a collar,” Ian had that dumb puppy dog pout on his lips as he turned back to his husband, and in one motion he scooped the cat up into his arms, cradling the thing against his chest. “And he’s really small. I think he’s a stray, Mick.”

“Oh yeah? Too bad, it broke my mug, piece of shit.”

Ian glared, dipping his head down to kiss the cat on its peanut head. “We should let him stay for the night.”

“Why should we do that?” Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning the broom against the counter once he had all of the shards in a pile, and instead grabbed the dustpan to collect it all to toss into the bin.

“‘Cause it’s cold out.”

“Thing’s got fur, ain’t it?” Ian was still glaring when he looked back up and he just groaned, wiping a hand over his face as he let the now empty dustpan clatter down against their counter. “Christ, you really wanna keep it here for the night?”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “Not just for the night-“

“Ain’t fuckin’ happening, Gallagher.”

Ian sighed, putting the cat down on the table gently before he moved over to him, that fucking stupid pout back on his face as he took Mickey’s shoulders in his hands with a light squeeze. “He’s just a small thing, Mick, he won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s been here for five fuckin’ seconds and smashed half of our cups.”

Ian squeezed his shoulders a little firmer, tilting his head at him. “Please?” His hands left his shoulders and went down to his hips, tugging him close enough for them to be pretty much flush against each other, before his lips quirked upwards playfully. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me, Mister Gallagher?”

He groaned, because his husband was so fucking lame sometimes, but looped his arms over his shoulders regardless. Mickey would never be able to resist giving Ian what he wanted to make him happy and Ian fucking knew that, but it didn’t stop him from giving his husband the worst scowl he could muster as Ian squeezed his hips again.

Fucker.

“One night, man,” Mickey told him, his façade dissipating a little as Ian gave him a little kiss, just a light press of their lips. “I’m fuckin’ serious, tomorrow night that scraggly fuck is going back to the streets, ‘kay?”

Mickey knew that the cat wouldn’t be going anywhere, Ian knew that the cat wouldn’t be going anywhere, which is probably why he had that dumb smile of his on his face as he leaned in to kiss Mickey again, for longer that time, making him all melty and fucking weak like Ian usually got him.

His sixteen year old self would be in fucking disbelief if he saw him now. Mickey often thought back on that time. The denial, the self loathing, his destructive behaviour towards both himself and Ian. It wasn’t all that long ago that Mickey had apologised for one particularly nasty thing he could remember calling Ian.

They had just gotten into bed for the night, the room dark, Ian’s hand on his thigh drawing invisible little shapes on the skin there.

Mickey had been mulling over that memory for a while in his head, a scrunched up disgusted expression on his face as he recalled calling Ian nothing but a warm mouth. It had left a vile taste on his tongue to even say it the first time, but to think back on it made his chest burn with hatred for his younger self. Ian had deserved more than him back then. Mickey was only worthy of him now that he had changed for him.

“M’sorry for all the shit I called you,” Mickey watched as Ian turned to face him, clearly confused. “Back then, man, all the shit I said,” he was slowly getting better at apologies, so he paused for a moment as Ian nodded a little, an understanding smile on his face. “You were always more than that, you know. Always meant something more to me, Gallagher.”

Which is why Mickey wouldn’t be kicking that fucking cat out, as much as the thought of having a cat around the place wasn’t that pleasing.

Ian was still smiling like he didn’t believe him, and squeezed his hips again as he pecked his lips one last time. “‘Kay.”

Mickey cleared his throat as Ian finally stepped backwards, his skin feeling a little hot, because there was a gun tucked into the waistband of his boxers, yes, but part of him was now definitely excited to see his husband.

Like he could fucking help it when Ian pulled that shit.

“Can we go back to bed now?” Mickey groaned, and even though both of them knew they wouldn’t be going back to sleep yet, Ian gave a huge smile as he nodded, hooking an arm around his husband’s shoulders as he started to walk them back to the bedroom. “And the cat’s not comin’ into our room, no fuckin’ way.”

Ian just laughed, patting his shoulder. “Sure, Mick.”

As expected, Mickey got up to let the cat into their room a little past three o’clock in the morning, and when he woke up it was asleep on his chest.

Little fucker.

#iris actually writes #gallavich #ian gallagher x mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #shameless #ian gallagher x mickey milkovich fanfiction #ian x mickey fanfic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fandom #gallavich fanfic #gallavich fanfiction

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whatthebodygraspsnot · 1 month

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for the smutty one-liners, if you feel like it: 1. "Feel this? It's just for you." 17. "Can you be good for me?"

"Feel this? It's just for you." "Can you be good for me?"

Mickey is high as hell and pushing his luck with Ian. He knows it, his boyfriend's silhouette locking in - unflinching - even as the rest of the room starts to spin around him.

But that's what they're at this club for. They had a whole big talk about how hot it'd be to let go a little - for Ian to smoke him up and get him loose in the sea of strangers. But Mickey's a little too loose.

Mickey's a little too high, the floor stretching out under his feet as he grins up at Ian in the crowd, wrapping his arms around him like he's ready to get turned out right here.

He wants Ian to eat him alive.

A free show for everyone.

But Ian's got a tight grip on the reins.

And when Mickey looks back on what he can remember from tonight, he'll be so fucking relieved that Ian took control like this - that he didn't listen to Mickey's stoned pleading.

Even now - here - sat up on one of the tall bar stools that Ian dragged into the far, shadowy corner - there's just the quickest flash of disappointment in him from being dragged off into time out. But there must be a part of his brain still online, because he can't get the fucking smile off of his face.

He slots his swaying body into the angle of the walls, his head heavy and listing forward before Ian takes pity on him and helps it back to rest too. "You're so fuckin' high, baby..."

Mickey's smile widens. Feels like it takes up his whole face, even as he slurs together his answer. "S'your fault..." Ian was the one who kept guiding the joint back to his mouth, watching hungrily. Exactly as planned. "Gonna fuck me on a... ...a fuckin'...stool...?"

They could make it work, he's sure...

Ian crowds closer. Blocks him in with his body, one hand planted on the side that Mickey keeps tipping toward. "No Mick, I'm gonna take you home."

No! "No no no..." The protest that falls from his mouth gets drowned out by the music, but he can feel his face scrunching. "The fuck for..." And it's in perfect timing with how he reaches up, ready to prove his sobriety but distracted far too quickly as he realizes his wrists are caught - a belt secured around them so his hands are stacked, palm up.

The fuck?

Is that his belt? Who's fucking belt is this...?

"Mick..." Comes Ian's voice again, and it's fallen into that good good tone. That controlled one. "Want you to listen to me, baby. Alright?" Fingers below Mickey's chin. "Look at me..."

He didn't even realize his head was hanging again. But now he's level with Ian, the height of the bar stool bringing them face to face.

He blinks and it's heavy. Drags his tongue across his bottom lip, imagining himself falling forward into the sloppiest makeout he could possible muster. Fuck, that would be hot.

But Ian's holding firmly onto the reins. So when he wraps a big hand around Mickey's wrist, it's to pull both of Mickey's bound hands forward, until his palm is slotting right over the crotch of Ian's jeans, the bulge beneath them obvious.

"Feel this?" Ian murmurs, and it shoots a nasty thrill though Mickey's body, pulling a slow nod from him that Ian must like. Because, "This is for you," he says, "...if you can be good for me and listen to what's gonna happen."

Mickey takes in a long, heavy breath, the rush of it making his lashes flutter as Ian keeps his hand there.

He's big and warm beneath his palm - beneath the denim. Mickey wants his cock so bad. Bad enough to listen.

"You're gonna let me walk you out of this club," Ian explains, keeping that eye contact. "You're gonna sit in the car with me and be good," a fate worse than death. "And if you can keep your hands to yourself, when we get home, I'll lay you out and fuck you exactly how you like it..."

Christ... "And cum inside me," Mickey wagers.

Ian's cock jumps beneath his palm. "And cum inside you." Fuck yes... "But none of that happens if you can't be good for me. Understand, Mick?"

Mickey swallows down the impulse to do something horny and stupid just for the instant gratification. He may be high, but he knows a good deal when he sees one. He can't blow this. So. "Mhm."

"Yeah? Can you be good for me?"

And oh, the way that grin dances back across Mickey's face... "Yeah, I can be good for you..."

Ian's seen it before, he's sure. Moments before disaster.

"We'll see..." he supposes.

But he's fully hard now in his jeans.

They'll definitely see how far they get.

Mickey's banking on at least getting outside of the club.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]

#gallavich #smutty one-liners #ray writes #these have been so fun and so good for my brain - thank you :)

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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Shingleback Part 2— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Female Reader

Synopsis: Escape from Mick Taylor's grip doesn't last long...

Trigger/Content Warnings: non con, violence, death (not reader), bigotry (which in this chapter includes some Mick typical queer fetishisation)

Read after the cut

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Light cuts like a dirty knife through the bars of the underground cell as Mick approaches with an old-fashioned torch, his leer a sickle moon above its glow.

“G'morning, America! How ya doin’?”

You do not answer, merely stare through the midden black of the mine with all the unfeeling misery of dread.

Though without a clock or light by which you might determine the time you presume only one night has passed, coiled grubby and naked on unforgiving stone.

Shock has pinched out all pangs of hunger like a match head. You can’t conceive of knowing appetite again after what your flesh has known, what you have witnessed.

“Look like ya could do with a good wash,” Mick comments, unlocking the door to your cell. “Here's your shower. Make the most of it.”

Before you’ve registered the statement a bucket flashes in his left hand, dashing a quantity of cold, soapy water across you from head to foot.

Shouting, you jolt upright, quivering like a street child failing through some foul disease.

“Ah, what are ya squealin’ for?” asks Mick, through a nasty smirk. “I haven’t even got my cock in ya yet. Save your noise for then, eh?”

His hands drop to his belt, toying thoughtfully with the buckle.

Then he pauses, head cocked aside to listen.

“Hold that thought,” he says, at last. “Sounds like we’ve got company.”

Blinking soap from your eyes you gaze, nonplussed, up into Mick's sun-browned face. He looks irritated, thrown by the disturbance.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “We’ll get to it when I’ve seen to the trouble.”

Fumbling for a lump of fabric wedged under one sweaty arm Mick shakes it out and drops it at your feet.

“Here. Chuck this on so you’re ready for me when I get back. I like a short skirt on a sheila. Not having ya in jeans, like that baggy tomboy shit I found ya in.”

Grumbling under his breath, Mick withdraws into the warrens beyond your narrow world, his flashlight swinging.

Desperate to be warm, you pick up the musty garment from the floor and yank it over your head, struggling with the one hand injured from having been crushed in your idiot’s bid at escape. The fingers are swollen, crooked; you imagine most to be broken.

You wonder if Mick will make the effort to set them, or if he’ll allow them to heal badly to make an example of your folly.

That he will force you under him again and again to grind you of pleasure like some foul grain is surely worse, but you loathe the thought of bearing the remnants of his violence in so physical a form as losing full use of your hand.

You slump with your back to the corner of the cell, considering how easily you might break your skull against the bars. Death is superior to a life condemned to brutish fucking under the earth, you believe.

The thought is rattled from you by the distant boom of firearms from above. A gasp burns through you like a knotted rope, and you see again your father dying, his face gone to holes, no longer human through the transmutation of the gun.

You daren’t close your eyes, afraid of the shadow puppetry of memory behind the lids.

A woman’s voice calls abruptly from the gloom, startling you upright against the bars.

“Hello?”

At first you think it a ghost, the echo of some woman raped and gut-slit in the unhappy darkness. But then a torch beam strikes your face, and you glimpse a slim woman with a black wolf cut hairstyle staring at you through the half-open door of the cell.

“Jesus,” she says. “So there is someone alive in this bloody pit.”

Wiping your face with both hands, you ask, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Your voice is low, barely more than a breath.

“My name’s Lyanne,” says the woman. “The arsehole up there took one of my mates. Me and a few others have been following him, trying to get her back. We had no idea that Mick fella would be this fucked up, or maybe we would’ve held off.”

Lyanne pushes the door further open with the toe of a Doc Marten boot and looks at you, her sharp face tightening with disgust at your condition.

“Did you find your friend?” you ask, getting tentatively to your feet.

The other woman gives her head a single, gruff shake and takes off her leather jacket to put around your bare shoulders.

“Nah,” she says. “From the state of things down here he must have killed her. Least I can get you out of here. Got a van up top we can use if we’re quick getting to it.”

Hanging back, you ask, “What about Mick? He’ll shoot us both if he catches us.”

Lyanne sniffs.

“My mates are keeping that ugly old bastard distracted. Come on. You’re freezing. Don’t wanna stick around here, do you?”

Recalling Mick’s fingers fracturing you to your first, terrible orgasm you’re quick to follow Lyanne from the cell, stumbling alongside her through and out of that reeking grave.

Later, strapped into the passenger seat of a beaten-up van, half-listening to punk music your new ally finds on the radio, you think how uncannily alike your meeting with Mick was to your escape. For that reason, and the tenacity of your attacker, you don’t quite believe in your freedom.

It’s been too easy, as though for the play of it alone Mick has allowed you to slip from his den.

Bur perhaps you are only wounded, paranoid, a twitching mimic of the girl broken in below the ground.

Three weeks later you’re living in an apartment over a pub Lyanne runs at the outskirts of some roadside town, working under the table for enough cash to purchase a new passport and an aeroplane ticket home to America, plus what other fees will follow.

All you’d had in your pockets had been lost when Mick stripped you of your clothes in the mine. Thus it’s on a borrowed phone that you attempt to contact your mother, receiving no answer, the expected result.

Likewise, there is little response to the anonymous report you make to the police as to your father’s murder— no newspaper coverage, no announcement on the televisions in the bar.

Mick has cleaned up his crime so as to render it inexistent, like the wind blowing sand across buried bones, sinking them deep. He is such a force of nature, a man cursed to exist by the book of his wicked being. His name arises in no online search.

He is no one. He is death, its living hand.

You mourn your father, privately, and fear his killer’s return.

Each day that passes you imagine Mick strolling through the pub doors and cutting your throat across the bar, fucking you as the life runs from you like beer from an overturned keg. You’d come as you die, you envisage, one last spite upon you from your attacker.

Your nights are near sleepless in avoidance of dreams on that bleak subject, of what you saw in the mine as you tripped out of it into the daylight again.

Yet the weeks swim on without evidence of Mick, and still you distrust his absence, which feels entirely hinged on his inevitable return.

“How could he know you’re out here?” asks Lyanne over the bar one night, her pierced nose wrinkling. “He’s a psycho, not a bloody psychic. Got to start living your life again, mate. Don’t let that perve fuck you up for good.”

She shoves a beer at you, nodding approvingly as you down the pint and shake the glass at her for more.

Four drinks later you disappear into the women’s bathroom, sitting in the end cubicle with your head in your hands, tearful and slightly drunk. It’s the first time you’ve had enough access to feeling to cry, and you still cannot quite find release in it.

You never were one for tears, even before Mick Taylor crushed your heart under his weapons. Your method has always been to withdraw away from all things into yourself, that recess from which only your father could ever coax you out.

Now, forced to smile at customers as you mop floors of spilled drinks and shattered glasses you’re unable to shrink into that old cave of quiet. Perhaps it will be good for you to immerse yourself so quickly into the world, you reason; a few more months’ wages and you’ll be home again, after all, across the miles of sea between you and Mick Taylor’s country.

Wiping your eyes, you flush, and buckle up your jeans, taking your time to return to the bustling pub. As you push the cubicle door open a man steps into the gap, the grit of his unfriendly squint like grains of night above his grin.

“Found ya,” says Mick, and with a vicious jerk he headbutts you square in the brow.

The assault careers you back into the cubicle again, your skull a windchime of ringing agony.

Adrenaline tops you up quicker than fear. As Mick fills the space you make a fist and strike out at him, which he dodges with a startled chuckle.

“That's my girl,” he says. “Ya got a bit of fire in ya this time. Won’t do you any good. You’re gonna wish ya stayed where I left you, ya runaway cunt.”

A growl churning from his throat, Mick flattens you to the wall of the cubicle with a punch to your stomach, causing you to double over him like a lover seeking solace.

Mick’s arms go around you, and he pulls you to his chest in a throttling squeeze.

“Bet you thought I wouldn’t find ya,” he sneers against your cheek. “Livin’ it up in the arse end of nowhere with ya girlfriend. Lyanne, is it?”

He hauls you out of the cubicle and throws you against the hand dryers, setting them into gusting motion at your back.

“What have you done to her?” you ask, slumping, bruised and shell-shocked to the grubby floor tiles. "Leave her alone."

Mick guffaws.

"Don’t fancy sharing her with me, then. Bloody shame. Might have been fun.”

He bends down and drags you up on tiptoe by the front of your t-shirt, compressing one breast flat in his fist.

“Get your arse up, you lazy Yank.”

You flop uselessly in Mick’s hold as he tows you into the bar, which aside from the muttering televisions is of an unnatural silence.

Death in its ruddy carnage lies everywhere, patrons gut-slit and opened out like a butcher’s windows, their organs piled in steaming mounds before them.

Some lie in trains of blood, their still hands become claws of desperation, having been cut down from behind, or else shot through the back of the head like cows at the end of some slaughterhouse corridor.

Lyanne is among them, her punctured chest rising and falling shallowly with fading breaths. You spy the desperate roll of her sclera in the direction of your footsteps and attempt to go to her, but Mick heaves you sharply back.

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” he snaps. “Fifteen minutes and she’ll be as dead as your father. Give it a rest, will ya?”

With incredible strength for a man of his age, Mick hoists you up across a nearby table top amongst broken glass, uncaring of the shards that slash your cheek upon landing. Before you’ve truly felt the injury you’re turned on your back, Mick’s palm dashing across your face in a spindrift of blood.

He rears over you, his thin mouth a helix of rage.

“I should cut ya clit off for the trouble you’ve caused me. First ya left me, right, then you went and stirred up a loada coppers after me. They’ve been a bloody nuisance, sniffin’ around for weeks. What have ya got to say for yourself, eh?”

“You shot my dad,” you whisper through fearfully gritted teeth. “You— you— made me—"

“I fingered ya till you came and I then I fucked ya till you did it again,” says Mick, and he licks his lips, one hand slipping down to adjust his firming trouser front. “Gave ya a bloody treat. Bet you’ve been missing me after that corker of a first time.”

Your innards warp with terrified revulsion.

“I hate you,” you say, softly. “I hope you rot.”

Mick leans forward and laps your face from mouth to cheek with a throaty moan of delight.

“I love it when ya talk dirty,” he growls, then his stare flattens with a sudden cruelty, and he goes nose to nose with you, his hat colliding with your swollen forehead.

“Take ya fuckin’ clothes off, America. What did I tell you about wearin’ jeans?”

Grimacing, you shake your head, a bitter mistake. You see the anger wash through Mick like a tide in the apocalypse, and suddenly he has a knife in his hand, lashing its steel arc across your left breast as you squeal and scratch the table top for support.

“Fuckin’ move it, ya slow cunt,” says Mick, “or I’ll cut the other one.”

With struggling hands you peel your top over your head and set it clumsily aside, the fingers you’d nursed in the mine still bandaged and poorly healing.

Mick watches with a lascivious fascination, unable to resist reaching out with both coarse hands to manipulate your breasts. He plays with their hardened points with a coarseness that, for all its foulness, carves through you that bleak and familiar god of pleasure.

It’s only doubled as Mick harshly tongues blood from the nipples, sucking them between his teeth like cherries from the stem.

You stare at the flickering televisions broadcasting some dull sports event, unable to cast your gaze anywhere else without looking upon death, or its maker.

Mick pulls back from you, wiping gore from his stubble on the heel of his fist.

“Let me give you a hand there, darlin’,” he says, and takes your boots off, one by one, the thud of them landing on the grimy flooring making you start twice over.

Your good hand slips back across the table, landing upon an evil shard of glass. Closing your fingers over it you tense, thinking to jab your enemy in his soft throat when he next bends to torment your body.

With an abrupt motion Mick wrenches your arm behind your back and hits you in the face until you can hardly breathe for the many bursts of pain.

“Ah, come on, America,” says Mick, with a false amiability. “I know what you’re gonna do before ya do it.”

You dry heave over the side of the table, unable to cope with so many avenues of suffering at once.

Sighing, Mick unbuttons your jeans and drags them off over your ankles.

“Christ,” he says, dumping them to one side with emphatic disgust. “Have to do everything myself.”

From the low vantage of the floor Lyanne moans and coughs; you realise she’s been watching the entire scene through weakening eyes, and beholds that her attempt to liberate you was all for nothing.

“Got a bloody good view down there, haven’t ya, sheila?” says Mick, following your eye line. “Bet ya regret breaking her out now, don’t ya? And convincin’ her to wear this girl power punk shit.”

He spits through his teeth, missing Lyanne by a hair.

“Well, you can watch your sweetheart get what’s coming to her.”

Twisting your underwear aside, Mick unsheathes his cock from his pants and thrusts into you without preparation, humming low in his throat as you scream from the suddenness of his piercing.

The pain is like fire upon fire, a dual war of burning. You thrash on the suttee of it, arms outstretched across the table top in a stigmata of Mick's sharp enmity.

A boiled kettle scream is gouged from you as though by your attacker’s blade. You slap at his broad shoulders, wanting him off you, out of you, but Mick only pounds deeper into your writhing form, his hands on your breasts holding you down.

You try not to look at Lyanne, whose choked cries of horror entwine with Mick’s grunts of porcine delight. That you have an audience to your humiliation is unbearable, every rough, perspiring thrust witnessed by the very friend who’d hoped to liberate you from such grotesquery.

You attempt to restrain your cries of pain to spare her that, at least, but Mick jars meanly into you with a smack of soldered flesh. His girth is as punishing as you remember, widening your entrance almost beyond its limit.

“This is what you get for pissing me off, darlin’,” says Mick, and he closes his palm against your throat until you sputter, airless, in his grip. “Last time we had a bit of a play I warmed ya up first. Got ya wet and ready. I was bloody nice to ya.”

With his free hand he slaps your breasts, catching the cut there so that it opens again, spilling its bounty down your belly to your navel.

“Bet you’re missing my hand in ya cunt now. Don’t usually have sheilas drip on me fingers like you, America. But it feels like you’re already gettin’ used to me. Ain’t just ya tits that're wet.”

He slows his strokes, parting your labia with two calloused fingers to show the slick on the shaft of his cock.

“What do you think of that, Lyanne?” he leers, brushing a lazy thumb over your clitoris so that you jerk in horrified surprise. “Your pal’s a fuckin’ whore. Not worth the trouble you put into rescuin’ her.”

Lyanne gurgles, bubbles of crimson saliva bursting on her lips. As you shut your eyes Mick seizes you by the hair and forces you to look at her, shaking your head about like a turned dog with a child it despises.

“Look her in the eye, America. It’s your fault I had to go for her and everyone else in this fuckin’ hole. Least ya can do is own up to it.”

“No,” you choke out between hateful thrusts. “No. It’s you. You’re a murderer.”

Mick plants a sloppy kiss on your turned cheek.

“Well, you’re not wrong there, darlin’. Still, wouldn’t have killed any of these bastards if you’d stayed in the mine. Thought ya could beat me, ya stupid cunt.”

Briefly withdrawing from you, Mick turns you onto your front, banging your brow upon the table with enough force to stun you beneath him.

You sob as he hammers into you again, his bulk jammed to your back, reeking of dirt, and of cigarettes, of sex.

Your eyes fall on the watch strapped to one thickly-haired arm, and it occurs to you how very late in the night it’s grown, how much time he’s already spent fucking you.

“I’m gonna make ya wish I’d shot ya like your dad,” says Mick, his lips grazing your bare shoulder. “Fuck ya till you can’t walk, or you’re limpin’ like I filled the wrong hole. You’re gonna be sore for weeks, sheila. No doubt about it.”

You attempt to pull yourself forward and off his cock, but Mick draws you back with a lazy ease.

“Better not, darlin’,” he says. “Didn’t work out for ya last time. Want me to break ya fingers again? You’ll be wanking with your shit hand for weeks.”

Whimpering, you say, “Stop it, Mick, please—”

“Ah, quit your moanin’, will ya? You Yanks can’t shut your traps for five bloody minutes. Land of the free my arse. You’ve had too much fuckin’ freedom if you ask me.”

Tugging your head back painfully Mick sinks his teeth into your earlobe, sucking until you screech in protest. His cock swells within you in hungry response to such tortured music.

“Fuck, you’re still so bloody tight. Mate didn’t finger you while you were on ya holiday, then. Thought you two would’ve been going at it on the daily. Least ya can see what you’ve been missing, eh, Lyanne?”

Mick pauses to drag your right leg up onto the table top so as to fuck you deeper still. It starts a new pain within you, a bruised, blunt cramp that almost makes you sick.

“I shouldn’t let ya come,” says Mick. “Dunno why I let ya the last time. Probably just the novelty of it. Been a long while since a bitch has finished when I’ve fucked them. Too busy yellin’ down me ear to think about it, most of the time. Must have something loose in your head to have an orgasm with your father's blood all over ya.”

He kisses your neck and mouth with renewed interest, reminiscing even as he creates this new nightmare of violence. A hand squeezes between your loins and the table, unable to resist seeking the cherished reaction of before.

“No,” you croak. “Not again.”

“Yeah,” Mick moans, between harsh kisses. “Gonna make ya come right here, taking my cock, looking at all the corpses you helped to make.”

His blunt fingertips lace your wet cunt, his familiarity with it eking out the sense of your damnation. As he does so Lyanne releases the guttural noise of her dying, and you are overcome with the knowledge that you have killed her by proxy, that you should have stayed in the pit, after all.

Mick's rhythm increases, quick and deep with the excitement of this horror. He touches you in a clever asterisk of motion, and to your despair you reach your crisis upon him, a volcanic event of heat and screams.

“That’s a good girl,” he croons. “Come for your Uncle Mick.”

Then his right arm folds across your chest, and with a snarl he joins you in climax, fucking you through every ring of this robbed pleasure until it wreaks its last.

You sprawl under him as though you, too, are dead, shutting eyes and mouth against the capsule hell of that monstrous room.

Mick climbs off you and does up his belt, humming cheerily under his breath, a familiar habit.

“Ya know what,” he says. “Ya might be a weak bloody Yank but you’re a good root. Get dressed, America. I’m takin’ ya home.”

You open your eyes to look at him, so ordinary in his plaid shirt and plain, working man’s features that the entire night might seem some intrusive fantasy, were it not for the blood soaking his clothes in inky blooms.

“Christ,” says Mick. “What’s gotten into ya? Here, have a drink for the road.”

He strides over to the bar and helps himself to a beer, pouring the foamy amber liquid over your face as he did the water, a month ago. You part your lips to swallow, wanting to forget through drunkenness the devil’s work that you’ve endured.

“That’s it,” says Mick, as you drain the glass. “It’ll do ya good.”

Dully, you get down from the table and dress, your hands working of their own accord. Mick eyes your body openly, seemingly poised to change his mind and have you walk out of the pub entirely nude.

In the end he only whistles at you as he would a dog, and in leaden resignation you follow, the remnants of your life hanging like the skin of a flayed man at your back.

#shingleback wolf creek #tw violence #tw noncon #tw blood #tw death #tw rape #tw queer fetishisation #wolf creek fic #wolf creek #mick taylor x reader #mick taylor wolf creek #mick taylor

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zablife · 1 year

Text

The Orphan

Summary: In 1929 Jack proposes to his Italian girlfriend, excited for the birth of their child. When her brother interferes in their relationship, whisking her away to give birth in secret, it alters the course of his life forever.

Author's Note: Requested by @alimosblog.

Warnings: language, pregnancy, fighting, blood, mention of childbirth, mention of death, ethnic slur, mention of adoption, angst

November 1929

“What have you done with her?” Jack rasped, holding the man who would have been his brother-in-law by the collar.

“Why do you care?” The man replied, his grief making him bolder than his normal temperament allowed.

“Because she was going to be my wife! Before you broke it up, Sal. Why the fuck would you do something so stupid?” Jack asked, tightening his grip in anger.

Sal’s face twisted in disgust as he spat back, “Why don’t you drop the phony bullshit, Jack? You were never gonna marry my sister. That was just a lie you told her because she got scared after you knocked her up.”

Jack seethed at the notion he would abandon his fiance and child, rearing back and landing a punch squarely at Sal’s nose. He connected with a sickening crunch, letting go of the man he hated most in the world, the person who had taken the light from his life.

Sal had made one call to the don and Lucia was taken underground, somewhere no one could reach her, not even Jack’s spies. However, he was determined to find out how he could get her back.

Sal slumped forward holding his nose as the blood gushed forth. He huffed out a breath as he retrieved his handkerchief. Holding it to his swelling face, he raised his head slowly to look in Jack’s eyes. Jack was astonished to see tears welling in the corners as Sal spoke. “You want to know where she is big shot? She’s six feet under at St. Cecilia’s. All thanks to you.”

Jack clenched his fists by his sides, breath coming in shallow, uneven spurts as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. “What are saying?”

“She died in childbirth a month ago. And for what? A stillborn Mick bastard,” he spat at Jack. Pushing his fingers into Jack’s chest threateningly he continued, “Go home and leave our family alone. You were never welcome here.” With one final shove, he turned and shuffled away, dripping blood on the pavement as he walked. Jack stumbled to hold himself up against the wall, too overcome to retaliate.

—————————————————

December 1931

“You feeling alright, doll?” Jack asked, placing a hand to his wife’s swollen stomach.

“I’m fine. Stop fussing over me, Jack,” she said, shooing him out of the kitchen so she could finish cooking dinner. She found it sweet how he hovered over her, but sometimes he became overprotective. She had no way of knowing how his anxiety ate at him, wondering if something would go wrong the way it had with Lucia. He hadn’t been there for his fiance two years ago and the guilt nearly drove him insane before he met Maggie.

He tried to hide it as best he could, but there were tell tale signs of his past trauma. Maggie always wondered why he avoided St. Cecilia’s, for example, even though it was so close to their house. It would have been much easier to go there on Sundays, but Jack insisted on driving an hour away to St. Mark’s for a reason unknown to her.

Despite the fact they were not members, the women in the neighborhood had asked Maggie to join their ladies’ group at St. Cecilia's, providing items for the orphans at Christmas and she didn’t have the heart to deny them.

After working with them for some time, she developed close bonds with the nuns and the children in their care. Her heart ached for the kids, seeing their angelic faces every week. They were so appreciative of everything they received.

Being in their company made her want to have a child of her own and when she shared the news of her pregnancy, they all rushed to hug her legs telling her how happy they were she would be a mother soon. It was then she decided she wanted to be part of that church more than anything.

After dinner one night, Maggie carefully broached the topic with her husband. She thought appealing to reason would be the best approach. “Jack, I know you like St. Mark’s, but how would you feel about attending mass at St. Cecilia’s for awhile? I’m getting so big, it’s uncomfortable to ride so long in the car now. Besides, what if I go into labor on a Sunday?” she asked, leaning her head against him in bed. She felt Jack’s pulse quicken at the mention of it and wondered if it had been a bad idea to bring it up. To her surprise and delight, he took her hand in his and agreed.

“Of course, anything you want. I want what’s best for you, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders.

——————————————————

The next Sunday Jack lost sight of Maggie in the crowd after mass. With worry creeping into his chest, he set out to find her. A friend of Maggie's soon approached to calm his nerves, informing him she was in the orphanage next door.

Pushing the heavy door open, he found her holding a chubby toddler with olive skin and dark curls. An odd sense of familiarity crept over him, although he didn’t understand why. Then Maggie turned to face him, picking up the girl’s tiny hand and waving to him.

“Say hello!” she prompted the child who looked up suddenly. Jack froze as he found a pair of hazel eyes with flecks of green staring back at him, the same unique shade as his own. He shook his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be possible, he thought.

A nun whisked into the room greeting them and offered an apology, “I’m sorry Mrs. Nelson, but this little one has visitors,” she said with a bright smile.

“That’s wonderful, sister!” Maggie replied handing the child over carefully.

The little girl whimpered for a moment and Maggie hushed her with a palm to her chubby cheek. “There, there, sweet girl. Smile! You might be getting a mommy and daddy today,” she cooed at the child.

“God, willing,” the sister replied. “She’s been with us since the crash and times are hard,” she said with a shake of her head.

“When exactly did you say?” Jack asked.

“October 1929,” the sister replied. “But it wasn’t financial hardship that brought her to us. No, she was born to an unwed mother, all alone in the world, and the poor dear died giving birth to this little angel.”

Maggie came to stand by Jack’s side without noticing he’d grown pale as he matched the dates in his mind.

“We won’t keep you sister. Goodbye, Lucy!” Maggie said, waving to the child animatedly.

Jack felt a lump form in his throat as he asked, “Lucy?”

“Yes, she was named after her mother, Lucia. Isn’t that a beautiful tribute?” Maggie beamed. She placed a hand to her stomach, reaching for Jack’s arm, but his mind was far way. Sal had lied to him and he felt sick that he'd taken him at his word, never attempting to find Lucy when she'd been a stone's throw away all along. His heart broke anew as he watched his child being carried away into the shadows, slipping from his grasp a second time.

------------------------

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@rikki-b-lake

#Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Jack Nelson fanfic #Jack Nelson imagine #Jack Nelson x OC

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gridgirldrabbles · 2 years

Note

going to leave it to you, but can we please have something Mick related to celebrate points! Maybe something a kink you know he’s into but you’ve both never talked about it, so you suggest it as a congratulations present

sorry this took so long bestie!!

you couldn’t explain how proud of your boyfriend you were for scoring his first points

unfortunately it wasn’t a race that you could attend but you were at home screaming at the tv when he crossed the line and made it into the top ten

you FaceTimed him once he was done with all his media duties to tell you how proud you were of him and how you couldn’t wait to celebrate when he got home tomorrow morning

because of his successful weekend you wanted to plan something special, and you had just the thing in mind

you had an inkling that mick had been wanting to try choking for a while, feeling his hand resting delicately on your neck while you were getting intimate before it would shyly slide away

as soon as he walked into your shared apartment you had your arms around his neck and your lips were on his

he didn’t need to be told twice about what was about to happen, dropping his bags to the floor and picking you up into his arms

you both blindly felt your way to the bedroom, your legs locked around his waist as your lips refused to part

as you both fell onto the bed micks hands were happily settled on your waist, until you grabbed his wrist

you left his hand up to your throat before you squeezed his hand around it just enough to slightly cut off your air supply

mick groaned at the sight of you with his hand wrapped around your neck

‘how did you know?’

‘you’re not very subtle about it’ you teased

clothes were stripped rapidly and mick warmed you up with his fingers, pushing you over the edge as his thumb circled your clit and two fingers pushed in and out of you

once he’d made you cum on his fingers his cock slid into you with ease

his hand tentatively wrapped itself around your throat, pressure making your pleasure feel that little bit better

the moan that escaped your throat had mick gripping it that little bit tighter

his hips were meeting hours at a blistering pace, the adrenaline from his first points, as well as being able to try out something new and sexy making everything heightened

it didn’t take long for both of you to get close to your orgasms, your pussy still sensitive from its first orgasm

mick felt you clenching around him as your orgasm took over you, your legs locking themselves in a death grip around his waist, pushing him even further into you

the feeling was enough to make mick release himself inside you, hips slowing as you both caught your breath

his hand slowly released your throat, breath filling your lungs

his eyes widened as he looked at your neck

your furrowed your eyes, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘you might have a few…bruises’

you couldn’t wait to try to cover them up when you went to dinner with his family tomorrow

#ms47 #mick Schumacher drabble #mick Schumacher imagine #mick Schumacher smut #f1 drabble #f1 imagine #f1 smut

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motleycrueobsessed · 27 days

Note

Could you write a smut with Vince during that first scene in the dirt where the guys go to the pool party to see Vince and while Vince is performing Nikki starts talking the female reader up and Vince sees it and aggressively storms off stage to Nikki and the reader and pulls reader aside and fucks her?

i actually love you. /p

Warnings!: Vince being a horny bastard, smut, barely any aftercare, brat tamer.. i think thats it.

—————————————————

The three boys, Sixx, Mick and Tom arrive to the pool party after Tom said he knew a guy who could sing. They saw the blonde on stage, singing a cover of “My Kinda Lover.”

“A fuckin cover band?” Mick said with a almost disgusted look on his face. “Yeah but Im telling you, i went to highschool with this dude.. hey, *that* is exactly who we need.”

The boys all walk over to a table with a bunch of alcohol, and both Mick and Tommy reach for the Jack Daniels. Mick gives Tom the death stare and Tom lets go. Nikki shoves a bag of coke in his jacket.

“His voice ain’t bad.” Mick remarked. A bunch of girls gathered around the Blonde, and squealed. “I dont care if he can sing or not look at what he’s doing to those chicks!” Nikki exclaimed.

“Thank you, we’re rock candy!” Vince exclaimed before getting off stage, almost angrily. Meanwhile, Nikki had found a hot chick, and he went off and talked to her.

“So pretty baby, you got a boyfriend?” Nikki inquired. “Yes, i do.” You replied. “And.. who would this lucky gentleman be?” Nikki asked, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Apparently Vince had seen them and gotten off stage quickly. “You like trying to hit on peoples girlfriends?” Vince asked. “No man i was just making conversation!” Nikki replied to the blonde. “Right.”

“We were actually here to talk to you.” Nikki stated. “Talk to me in a minute. I want to have a word with my girlfriend, Y/N.” Vince announced. Vin grabbed your hand and dragged you off out of the public eye. “What the FUCK were you doing?” Vince spat. “Making conversation. Like a normal person does when someone talks to them.” You replied. “Oh so you’re in a bratty mood? Got it.”

So, Vince shoved you into his backseat and tugs your bottom off. “You wanna be a brat? I’ll show you what happens to brats.” He removes your panties and dives in, eating you out like you’re his last meal. “Mmh.. you taste fuckin’ divine, baby girl.” He moves and slides two slim fingers into you, curling them around and sucking on your clit.

“Mmmh! Vince~” You whimpered, before Vince slapped a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. “Hush baby girl. You don’t want anyone to know how I’m about to ruin you, do you sweetheart?” Vince said in a condescending tone, pulling away from your dripping cunt. “Mn-mh..” You whimpered out. “Good girl.”

He tugged off his leather pants and his boxers along with them, and his hard on sprung out, leaking pre-cum. He moved you and laid down, and then grabbed you by your hips and positioned you on top of him. He helped you lower yourself onto him, and gave you a minute to adjust to his size. With a whimper, you started bouncing on his cock.

“You look so pretty when you’re ruining yourself on my cock, baby girl.” Vince praised. “Mm.. vin..~” You moaned out, trying to grip anything in your reach.

“Vinnie, im gonna cum..” You whimpered. “Come for me baby. Thats it.. good girl.” As if on cue, you released all over his cock. He soon followed, coating your tight walls with white.

“Good girl.. Come on, lets get you cleaned up baby.” Vince pulled you up off of his cock, as you whimpered from the loss of his cock inside of you.

He helped you dress again and then he dressed himself, pulling his leather pants back on. He attached his lips to yours for a loving kiss, holding it for a minute. He eventually pulled away from you.

“You did so good, pretty baby.” Vince whispered to you. “Now those dickheads who decided they wanted to try their luck with you wanted to talk to me. Wait for me here darlin.”

So he got up and left the car. He slowly walked back into the pool area and spoke to the three, coming back with a demo tape. He got into the car, drivers side.

He pulled away from the party, goin and driving home.

“Im not done with you baby. We’re gonna have some more fun once we’re home.”

————————————————————

This is actually so shitty i hate the ending ☹️

Its short and im sorry ‼️

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abi-cosmos · 2 years

Text

this bitter nightcall

NEW! Chapter nine

After hallucinating things with Castiel, Dean follows a lead in hope of finding the djinn to kill...but it takes him somewhere else.

Dean gets touched by a djinn, but it's all cool. Or, is it?

Forced to confront his desires, Dean's grip on reality slips. Leaving Castiel, Sam, and Mick Davies trying to find a way to save him before it’s too late.

If only they knew that the cure is right in front of them.

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Explicit

Beta read and beta-vibed by @the-rollerchloster

As always, check the tags.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36024958/chapters/102047802

✨ djinn ✨ mindfuck ✨ inappropriate smut ✨ unreliable narrator ✨ heavy angst ✨ love confessions ✨ implied cas/mick ✨ jealous!dean ✨ hallucinations - sex and otherwise ✨ fucked up fairytale ✨ cursed dean winchester ✨ very briefly almost major character death ✨ happy endings ✨

Ch9 on AO3 now, and sneak peek under the cut.

It’s a dark and lonely road for miles towards Lebanon, and Sam has to be along it somewhere. Dean drums on the steering wheel. There’s no music, just the sound of the engine and the drag of the wipers across the windscreen. He nestles his chin into the collar of his coat with a sigh, feeling a chill down his body.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks, suddenly in the passenger seat with a flutter Dean hasn’t felt in years.

Dean's knees jump, but he keeps his foot steady on the gas. “Really? Haven’t you got someone else’s head to be in right now?” He takes a breath and dares to face the hallucination head on, but Cas simply squints at him.

“This is the wrong road,” Cas replies carefully, looking out the window with concern.

“The wrong-?” For the first time since setting off, a car races up the other side of the yellow strip and takes Dean’s gaze with it. “What the hell?” He chokes. It’s identical to Baby, even down to the driver.

But Cas is very unbothered. “I told you. The wrong road,” he talks like it’s just another Tuesday.

The doppelganger is djinn, there's no doubt about that, but maybe it’ll lead him to where a monster is left to kill. It’s the only lead he’s got, so he checks for traffic and screeches a u-turn to follow.

“Dean-”

“Shut up!” He presses harder on the gas, trying to catch up to himself but the overarching darkness eats into everything in sight. The trees; the stars; the tarmac. There’s nothing left but Dean and his rearview mirror as he storms along at 80mph.

Cas looks out of the window to his right, to where there’s nothing but black. “Are you trying to get to Sam, or are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Dean ignores him, his hand gripping tighter until his knuckles turn white.

“Dean?!”

“Cas!” He turns off road sharply, both feet on the brake as Baby plunges to a stop in the gravel. Cas stares at him, narrow-eyed and mouth knitted together as Dean throws himself out of the car. Pointing over the roof when the angel steps out, Dean heats up and shouts, “I need you to stop!”

Read it all on AO3

#destiel #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fanfic #destiel angst #destiel smut #fanfiction #ao3 writers

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gatefleet · 2 years

Text

My Kasai

DC The Flash: Leonard Snart, Lisa Snart, Mick Rory , Akame (OC) Word Count: 820 (T)W: Swearing, mention of mutilation Request: Technically yes by the other writer for this blog (currently on hiatus) A/N: Trying to upload what's left from Sutoritaimu blog

You were casually checking out the guys in the dive bar that you normally meet your friends in while you waited for them to finish their latest heist, you didn’t notice when one of them turned up beside you until they laid their gun on the table top and stole your beer. That’s when you looked turned around and looked them dead in the eyes with a look that would have sent anyone six feet under and made them scared of you. Unfortunately, it had to be the one person in the world who wasn’t afraid of your ‘infamous death-glare’. You strung out several profanities at your friend in your native tongue. “Yeah, that’s smart curse at me in Japanese under your breath, subtle Akame” – the dead pan tone that Mick said it with almost made your façade falter… almost. About two seconds later Leonard and Lisa turned up and you regained your composure, damn Mick, he’s the only one who can make you falter… make you forget everything, even if it’s only for a couple of seconds before the moments ruined by someone or something.

“What Mick, you got yourself a drink but forgot about Lisa and I?” Leonard’s drawl made you look at him in shock, as if he didn’t know or piece together that Mick had clearly taken your drink and not bought you one to replace it. You looked at Lisa and smiled as she sat down next to you and got Leonard to get everyone beers. “Have you heard from Rem recently?” Mick’s voice brought you out of your own little world and back to reality. You shook your head in response to his question, you assumed that he must have melted his phone again otherwise he’d have spoken to his sister himself. “Where is Rem? I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.” Lisa’s question made you wonder the same thing, last you heard she was meeting up with some guy in Coast City who could help her with her burns… Hellfire? No that wasn’t his name… it was Hell-something anyway. All you really know is that she asked you to look out for her brother before she left and said she’d be back in a few days, 2 weeks’ tops. That was a week ago, you discreetly text her under the table **Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while, everything alright?**

There was a crashing sound from behind you which dragged Lisa and your attention away from Mick and Leonard’s argument over whether or not Mick was babying Remi, someone had started a fight over a bar tab or something trivial like that. You and Lisa watched with smirks as the two guys got more and more physical, eventually you both decided to get dragged back into Mick and Leonard’s argument, keeping an eye on the fight to ensure you wouldn’t have to move. “Come on Mick, Remi’s a big girl now, she can take care of herself” “Yeah Snart, I know, I raised her remember? But she’s still my sister and I’m still the cause of her going to this Hell-guy for help” “So, what Mick? You’d rather she went to Flash brigade for help?” Mick just grunted at Leonard and drank more of his beer before gaining the bar tenders attention for another round for the table. You watched Mick curiously, he wasn’t one to pay too much attention to anyone but Remi was always the exception.

The fight was getting uncomfortably close to you and Lisa for your liking, you gripped the end of your katana tightly in preparation for what you expected to come. Lisa spotted this and moved her hand closer to her gun. Now that the fight was close enough to possibly involve you, you jumped up with your katana raised and tried to break up the fight – unsuccessfully – which led to you pointing your katana to the necks of both men, who you realised were Bat Lash and some guy calling himself the Mad Hatter. You were severely pissed from Leonard’s general existence and the fact that Remi had ignored your texts which caused your katana to glow red with sparks flying off of it, this automatically put a stop to everything in the room, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, even Mick and Leonard had dropped their beers in shock and awe at you. “If you two don’t stop, I will personally slit your testicles and feed them to you for dinner.” The calmness with which you said this immediately heightened the tension in the room to an unbearable level, it left Mick, Leonard and Lisa staring at you with intrigue and a bit of fear. Although, Mick couldn’t help but be more impressed than scared, it was the first time he’d seen this side of you rather than just hearing about it from Leonard and not believing him.

(GIF Credit: @procrastinatorimagines)

#dc #the flash #mick rory #leonard snart #lisa snart #mick rory x reader

0 notes

bloody-oath · 3 years

Note

Which slasher is the best hugger? 👁👁

Are the slashers good at hugging?

Jason Voorhees: Never the hugger. Always the huggee. His barnacles itch.

Michael Myers:

Freddy Krueger: On one hand, yes. On another, no. Got ‘em.

Bubba Sawyer: Yeah, but his sweat beads roll off his skin and onto yours. Bonjour.

Nubbins Sawyer: Like a monkey. Do not let him shit on you.

Chop Top: Grimy – and he holds on for too long. Tap out.

Drayton Sawyer: He does not hug, but he may hit you a little gentler. Negotiation!

Brahms Heelshire: Yes – him and his dust mites. Nothing is perfect.

Chucky: Fucking useless, ginger disappointment.

Hannibal Lecter: Grips hard. Very handsy. Weighing that meat. Cellulite-fondler.

Norman Bates: Wants to be, but the man is awkward. Can he offer you a stabbing?

Pennywise: Richard Cranium. All head. Sports mascot bullshit.

Pinhead: He is like an uninterested teenager hugging their loud, sticky-handed, younger cousin.

Billy Loomis: You bet Grease Lightning is a hair-sniffer. Too bad you cannot sniff his.

Stu Macher: Does not shy from a hug and neither does his food and drink from spilling on you.

John Kramer: Not horrible, but he smells like hospital.

Hilliker Brothers: ??? h u g ???

Jack Torrance: Squeezes and lifts. Shakes you. A college jock with a keg of ale.

Candyman: Speak to me, soft, warm, cosy coat... Bees kind of sting though.

Leprechaun: Such as those uncles who pull a coin out of your ear and calls it magic. (It is though.)

Yautja: ⚠️ [initiating death roll] 🐊

Ash Williams: Dangerously enthusiastic and plain dangerous. Offers free, accidental limb removal with each hug.

The Creeper: Horrible and needs to be chased down to be hugged. Avoidant personality.

Art the Clown: Surprisingly gentle, but the brick wall he smashed your head into afterward was not.

Mick Taylor: Will not risk losing his masculinity. Gives a lacklustre hug, then goes missing for a two-week shooting spree.

And the Best Hugger Award goes to…

No one. Everyone loses in these scenarios. Shameful participation ribbons for all.

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starryevermore · 3 years

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peachy keen: tiny victories (2) ✧ colin shea, mickey henry, jake jensen, & ransom drysdale

peachy keen ✧ a colin shea, mickey henry, jake jensen, & ransom drysdale anthology | ao3

pairing: colin shea x fem!reader x mickey henry x jake jensen x ransom drydale; andy barber x fem!reader (one-sided)

summary: living with ransom is gonna be the death of you, you’re sure of it.

word count: 1,387

warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, mommy kink, subby!jj, ransom’s an asshole, not proofread

note: there is no set update schedule for this; new parts come whenever they come.

“Shh, baby, let mommy take care of you,” you whispered, your lips grazing over the shell of Jake’s ear. “Don’t gotta do a single thing. Just let mommy do all the work for her baby.”

“Please, mommy, need you so bad,” Jake whined, rutting his hips against yours. “Can’t take it no more, please please please!”

“I got you, baby. I got you.”

You sank down on his cock, gasping as he filled you. It was almost unfair, how Jake was basically the complete package. Cute face, killer bod. Cared about family, both of the biological variety and of the found family variety. Complete goofball. And a monster cock? It was like God was trying to smite you when he brought Jake into your life.

Your grip on his broad shoulders tightened, nails digging into his flesh, leaving little half-moon indentions in his pretty skin. “Shit, baby, fits just right,” you groaned, rolling your hips. “Could just stay like this forever, keep your cock warm all day. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Take you wherever I go. Take you to the office and show everyone just how good of a boy you are.”

“Show your stupid boss that I don’t share with him.”

“That’s right, baby, you only share with Mick and Colin. But right now, I’m all yours.” You pressed a soft kiss to his, moaning at the way they fit together so well. “Just wanna take care of my baby boy. Wanna make you feel so, so good.”

You began to bounce on his cock, your eyes rolling back as his cock hit just the right spot with every stroke. God, you’d been needing this. Been needing the release only fucking a good cock could bring. Work was stressing you the hell out. Your boss had a big case coming up and was working you to the fucking bone while finding subtle ways to suggest you’d be better off with him every chance he got. Then add the new roommate situation?

Fuck the new roomate—but not the way you’d fuck your boys. Ransom fucking Drysdale was the fucking scum of the earth. Ever since he’d moved in, he’d taken every fucking opportunity to make jabs at your relationship with boys. Sometimes outright calling you the boys’ whore, sometimes being more subtle in the way he tore down.

It made you want to kill Mickey. First, he hurt your Jake. Then, he invites an absolute fucking asshole to live with you. If you didn’t love the man so much, you’d consider kicking him to the curb. But the fucker had a good heart, saw the good in people even if they didn’t deserve it. Almost made you want to believe there was something good in Ransom. But that trust fund prick was grating on your every last nerve, seemingly determined to drive you over the edge in the worst ways possible.

“Mommy, more! Please, mommy, need you so bad!” Jake gasped, his big hands gripping your hips, his hips snapping up to meet yours.

“All yours, baby, all yours,” you said. “Fuck, I’m boutta cum.”

Before Jake could say anything, even think to tell you, you felt him reach his orgasm, thick ropes of cum filling you to the brim. “Sorry, mommy,” he whimpered. “Didn’t mean to cum without your permission.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you assured him, reaching up to the scratch at his hair. “Ah, shit!”

Stars exploded in your vision, ecstasy washing over you in wave after wave after wave. You collapsed on Jake’s chest, gasping as you tried to gain your bearings. Shit, you needed this. You needed this kind of release so bad.

“Did I do good, mommy?” Jake whispered.

“So good, baby. Made mommy so happy,” you said, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Are you ready to sleep now? Did mommy wear you out?”

“Mhm. Mommy stay for cuddles?”

“Mommy stay for cuddles.”

Jake slid down the mattress so you both were fully laying down, then rolled over so you both were on your side. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his face buried in your chest. You began to play with his hair, deep in thought as you waited for him to fall asleep first. Soon, his quiet snores filled the room.

You laid there a while, trying to will yourself to sleep, but sleep never came. So, you slowly unwound yourself from Jake and padded out of the room, hoping that maybe a midnight snack might be able to lull you into a dreamland.

You weren’t the only one looking for a midnight snack.

“So...” Mickey said, watching as you grabbed a brownie. Things had been awkward between the two of you ever since Ransom moved in. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“You know what. Ransom,” he said. “He just...he’s in a rough spot. I thought we could help him out.”

“You don’t have to be nice to everyone you meet, Mick. Some people are always gonna be assholes.” You sighed. “Besides, does he even have a job? How’s he supposed to chip in to the rent?”

“He had a trust fund...”

“Had is the operative word,” you said. “Listen, I understand why you said he could move in. But you gotta understand if I get to the point where I say he’s gotta move out.”

“I do understand. I just...He’s just rough around the edges, you know?”

“I’m willing to see if this can work,” you conceded. “But if I have to put my foot down...”

“I know. And I won’t fight you on it. Promise.”

“Thank you.”

There was a quiet shuffling of feet, and you felt a pair of arms wrap around your middle, a face nuzzling against your neck. You turned the best you could, seeing Jake clinging to you like a baby koala to its mother. “Hey baby boy,” you cooed, reaching a hand out to scratch at his hair.

“You left me.” You could feel his pouted lips against your neck.

“I was getting a snack, baby boy.”

“You coulda asked me to get it.”

“I didn’t wanna wake you.”

Jake nipped at the spot where your neck meets at your shoulder. “You need more sleep than I do, Miss Works-til-Six-Every-Night-Then-Brings-More-Work-Home. I already sleep weird hours. I can handle getting mommy a drink.”

“Next time, I’ll wake you up,” you promised. You both knew you wouldn’t.

“You’d better.”

It was a sweet moment. You’d missed moments like these. They were few and far between nowadays, especially when they were so quickly ruined by your new roommate. For a second, you thought you were in the clear, that you might be able to just have a nice moment. But it seemed like fate had other plans.

“So, is this where the orgy is?” Ransom smirked, looking between the three of you. “Do I finally get a front row seat now or am I just supposed to listen through the walls like I have been?”

“You’re fucking gross,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Not nearly as dirty as you though,” he said. “Tell me, how do you end up being so desperate that you need three cocks on constant rotation?”

“Dunno. But clearly not desperate enough to add a fourth cock.”

His jaw clenched. “You’d be lucky to fuck me.”

“You know, given how obsessed you are with my sex life, I think you’d be the one who’s lucky if we ever fucked.” You smirked, watching as his face turned red. “But don’t worry, we won’t ever have to find out who’s the lucky one, ‘cause you’d never get the chance to even see my pussy, much less touch it.”

“Why you little—”

“What? Whore? C’mon, you’ve been here a week. It’s getting old. Gotta up your insults.” You grabbed Jake’s hand, tugging him out of the kitchen. “Hope you have fun with your hand, bud! ‘Cause that’s the closest your gonna get to getting laid since no one’s gonna want to fuck a trust fund prick who’s lost his trust fund.”

And as he swore and cursed at you while you walked away, you allowed yourself to revel in your tiny victory. Ransom would come back full force with his insults in the morning. But for now, you had the upper hand, and that victory was so, so sweet.

#peachy keen: a colin shea/mickey henry/jake jensen/ransom drysdale anthology #colin shea imagine #colin shea x reader #colin shea x fem!reader #colin shea x female reader #mickey henry imagine #mickey henry x reader #mickey henry x fem!reader #mickey henry x female reader #jake jensen imagine #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x fem!reader #jake jensen x female reader #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x fem!reader #ransom drysdale x female reader #starrywrites #starryevermore

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billiebeanhoward · 3 years

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Silence - Multi Character

A/N: hello this has been an enormous project for me to do. Thanks for @stayevildarling for the prompt and for the help with this. Apologies, it's a long one. Tenses are a bit fucked but just go with it.

Prompt: Each character receives a mysterious invitation to visit a Hotel Cortez in LA to prove they're not alone in their struggles

TW: alcohol, mention of murder / death, cigarettes, swearing, mention of character death, hints at suicidal ideation,

Word Count: 4480

Tag list: @stayevildarling @okpaulson @mrsdeanhoward

Working at Kineros Robotics for the vast majority of her life, nothing really fazed Wilhemina anymore. Especially with the bullshit her bosses come up with daily, but when the redhead finds a strange invitation on her desk that morning, she never thought her life could get any stranger. The invitation that was written, well, typed, on very fancy looking stationary, held coordinates to a Hotel she never wanted to visit in her existence, but when she sees there is a list of nine other women's names, she assumes they're women, anyway; It piques her curiosity regardless and later that evening takes the rest of the weekend off work so she can drive the few hours to the Hotel.

Never been one for tardiness, the redhead arrives a mere twenty minutes early, the receptionist with ridiculous glasses asking her if she had booked a room to which she banged her cane and left towards the bar without a word. Conversation, socialising has never really been her strong suit, you can really blame her mother for that. She had been isolated from the outside world for most of her life growing up. Thinking back, she's glad for it. People are despicable. The bar isn't too shabby, not that she could complain, dark, quiet, she quite enjoys the ambience. Her cane clanks, hitting off the floor as she makes her way over to the bartender.

"And what can I get you, this fine evening?" she, she assumes, smiles politely. Nice enough.

"Anything purple?" her nose scrunched at the ridiculous request that leaves her mouth and she scolds herself silently moments before the bartender points a finger at her.

"You know what? I have just the thing," she turns around to pour the drinks, Wilhemina watching her every move, "So what brings you here?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"Oh, no, not at all." she shakes her head, "Enjoy your drink," Wilhemina eyes the mysterious neon concoction in front of her momentarily, before spotting a straw holder in the corner of her eyes and she reaches out to grab one when a hand grazes over her own.

"Oh, sorry," a British woman with a blonde pixie cut says quickly, pulling her hand away. "You look familiar, do I know you from anywhere?"

"No, I assure you, you don't."

The blonde put the green straw into her whiskey? before sipping it, "My name's Audrey, Audrey Tindall. I know what you're thinking..." Does this woman ever shut up? "I'm not related to the royal Tindalls, no."

"Did I ask?" Wilhemina cocks her head a little towards her and she quickly shies away, "Get out of my sight," The blonde scurries off to the other end of the bar while Wilhemina tries to enjoy her drink.

"Mom, what's this?" Ally looks over her shoulder, her arms elbow-deep in her sink as she washes up the dishes from dinner.

"Not sure, Ozzy. Can you read it for me, Sweetheart?"

"To whom it may concern, You are not alone.

34.0443° N, 118.2508° W

Ally, Audrey, Bette, Billie, Cordelia, Dot, Karen, Lana, Sally, Wilhemina. What does it mean, Mom?"

Ally empties the sink and clears away the dishes before wiping her hands on a towel, "I really don't know, does it say anything else? Give it here," she holds her hand out and he passes it to her as she studies it curiously.

"Karen!" The woman turns her head towards the door at her friend with a little smile on her face, "Guess who has mail?"

Her eyes widen in anticipation, "No, you're joking! Me?"

"Of course you! Open it." Mickey smiles as he passes it to her. She excitedly rips open the envelope, careful enough not to destroy the contents and unfolds the paper curiously. "Well, What does it say?"

"A bunch of numbers and names, Mick I think this is just junk,"

"No, Karen, the first mail you get in years, it can't be junk. Let me see," she passes it to him and in the dimness of the room, he looks at the letter. "They seem to be coordinates for somewhere,"

"Like for treasure?"

"Exactly, well, you never know, but could be someone who wants to murder you for all we know. But look, it says You are not alone."

"Course I'm not alone, fuck face, I have you."

Cordelia sets aside her paperwork for the evening, cradling a cup of hot coffee in her hands, she sighs as she takes a look at the monstrous pile of work ahead. She nudges her glasses further up her nose as the door of her office swung open. "Madison, how many times have I told you to knock?"

The younger blonde rolled her eyes as her arms crossed against her chest, "And why would I do that?"

"I could have been doing... something." the Supreme says before taking a sip from her coffee.

"When exactly was the last time you got laid, Cordy?"

This time the Supreme rolls her eyes before glaring at the younger witch, "And when was the last time you got laid, Maddy?" she snaps back, Madison slumps her shoulders, the smirk that graced her lips disappearing quickly, "What do you want?"

"I forgot to give you this when the mail came this morning," she absentmindedly threw a letter down on the desk before storming out.

Cordelia once again rolled her eyes at the girl, eyeing the mysterious envelope before picking it up.

Wilhemina looks down at the watch on her wrist whilst trying to figure out who exactly she's supposed to be meeting. The bar is seemingly quiet, and she stays seated at the stools near the bartender, Liz, who had told her her name, although she definitely didn't ask. Liz is a talker and a very annoying one at that, although Wilhemina is quite enjoying her company right now, or rather lack of as she attends to other women at the bar. A thought enters her mind at that moment, the name Audrey did ring bells, although not any ridiculous royal ones. She pulls the letter out of her blazer pocket and adjusts the glasses on her nose. There. The second name. Audrey. Was that her? Great. Now she does have to actually go off and talk to the chatterbox. She rolls her eyes before sighing, picking up her cane as she makes her way over to where Audrey is sitting, she seems to be sitting next to a brunette who did look quite familiar.

"Oh, hey!" Audrey greets, getting up from her place at the booth seemingly for Wilhemina to seat next to her. Wilhemina quickly turns around grabbing a chair from behind her and drags it to towards the table closer to the brunette instead, "Oh," the blonde says before pulling out a packet of cigarettes from her purse. "Do you mind?"

"I do actually, yes," Wilhemina says and the brunette turns to her.

"Are you here because of the letter as well?" Wilhemina nods and the other woman brings out her hand towards her for her to shake it, "I'm Ally, Ally Mayfair-Richards?"

"You're the one that was in that cult weren't you?" Wilhemina says. This has got to be the most interesting thing that has happened all night.

"Oh." Ally pulls her hand away looking around slightly awkwardly, "So you don't know me from my senator work? How did you know about the -"

"I saw it on this silly show I watched on the True crime channel."

"Right. So must know a lot about me then," she sips from her wine and Audrey annoyingly, despite Wilheminas dismissal, lights up a cigarette. "What's your name."

"Wilhemina Venable."

"Oh your name is Wilhemina, it's such a -"

"I'd prefer to be referred to only as Ms. Venable." Fine. Wilhemina has now made this awkward, thanks mouth. Change the subject. "Seven more women to find," she states, looking at the two, her hand gripped tightly around her cane. "Is this some sort of gangb-" Nope. "Right, I'm going to get another drink, excuse me."

"Sally that girl, what can I get you?" Liz asks a blonde that is definitely stuck in the '90s. Her hair is fully crimped, her outfit choice, however, is far more ridiculous, fishnet tights, a very short skirt, revealing shirt. Stop staring.

"The usual," she mumbles before diverting her attention back to the woman beside her. "So, are you from Tennessee? You're the only ten I see," Wilhemina almost spits her drink out as she hears the conversation between the two.

"No actually, I'm from Massachusetts." the brunette says, nodding slightly, clearly slightly uncomfortable.

"Oh, it's pretty close though, right."

"No you blonde idiot, it's a 17-hour drive," Wilhemina says and the blonde turns to look at her and this time she looks at her face.

"Did I ask you?"

"No, course not. I just like correcting idiots,"

"Well, I'm sorry we all couldn't afford to go to private schools," the blonde then storms off somewhere else, Wilhemina genuinely doesn't care. The brunette, however, slides closer over to Wilhemina.

"Thank you," she smiles.

Wilhemina's face turned to one of a fish, "What for?" The other woman continued sipping from her drink before leaning a little too close for comfort to Wilhemina before taking a deep breath.

"Is this.." she pauses, Wilhemina only furrows her brows at her, "Is this a 'girl' bar?" she asks curiously, "I'm only asking because..."

"Good question," the redhead smiles as she looks around the room, only women are seated, mainly bundled together with Ally and Audrey," Maybe this woman is one of the names on the list too. "Surely hope not," she mumbles. She doesn't want to make conversation but it seems she needs to. "What brings you here?" she continues to drink the nuclear waste that Liz calls a drink and looks at the brunette. She seems familiar too.

"I... This is going to sound really weird."

"Not as weird as that, I assure you," she points behind her and the brunette turns around to see a woman with two heads walk through the door with the frizzy blonde talking to them.

"Probably just as... How is that possible? That's fascinating." The brunette brings up her purse and pulls out a notepad."I'm a writer, you may have read my book. It's quite popular among women." She speaks but Wilhemina isn't listening. Distracted by the definition of fucking weird that just entered the room.

"You girls here for the "meeting"?" the frizzy blonde asks them and the head on the left nods. Creepy.

"Nice," she grabs a cigarette, it hanging from her mouth lazily as she spoke. Ok, so far there are Audrey, Ally, writer girl, the one Liz called Sally, the two-headed beast... Wilhemina looks around and spots another blonde speaking to Audrey and Ally. So extra blonde. And a homeless woman sitting at the back end of the bar.

"If you're here for the meeting, come over here!" extra blonde calls out over to her table and Wilhemina rolls her eyes, her cane clanking loudly as she walks over to the table. "I'm Cordelia Goode. Supreme of my coven in New Orleans."

"Ally Mayfair-Richards, I came here from Maine. Had to find a babysitter before I drove all the way here,"

"Audrey Tindall. Had to get a flight back from England."

"Lana, Lana Winters." the writer girl added.

"Wait.." three heads turn to her. "How is that possible?" Ally spoke.

Lana shrugged, an uncomfortable smile gracing her lips, "What do you mean?"

"You're... young?"

"Oh, wow, am I that old?"

"I- no of course not."

"What's that?" Wilhemina turns her head towards the left of the beast as she stares down at Sally's cellphone.

"Oh, come on I've been stuck here since the nineties and even I know what it is." she rolls her eyes.

The right one furrowed her brows. "90s?"

The two of them stared into space for a moment, their expressions changing every so often as if they're in a conversation and Wilhemina shakes her head and diverts her attention to the homeless one toddling over to the rest of the group. She looks paranoid, looking over her shoulders as if someone is following her.

"The rest of the introductions?" Audrey says, bringing the letter out and Lana handing her a pen from her purse before she ticks off the names of people here. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks the homeless one but she doesn't answer, peeking into the massive tote bag on her shoulder before Wilhemina hits her ankle with her cane to gain her attention.

"I'm not telling you my name. I don't even know who you are," she states

"Why are you sitting with us then?" the right one says before the homeless one gives them a look.

"I know people like you, fuck faces, huge assholes," she mutters

"I'm Dot, this is Bette, "Right one says almost headbutting the other

"I can introduce myself, Dot,"

Dot turns her head to look at her, "Well you were taking your sweet time,"

"Okay, we're only missing Billie and Karen."

Sally chuckles, her cigarette still hanging from her mouth, "That's definitely Karen," she points over to a blonde with wavy hair, pink blouse, pearl necklace and a pencil skirt and fake nails. "I actually thought you were Karen until you said your name is Audrey," she looks to Audrey and Wilhemina purses her lips trying to stifle her laugh.

Audrey looked offended as if someone ran over her mothers already dead body. Her nostrils flaring as she leans over the table towards Sally, "And what do you mean by that?"

Before anything happens and all hell breaks loose in the Hellmouth they already were in, the homeless one squeaks up. "I'm Karen."

That's it. Wilhemina laughed. "What's so funny?" Cordelia asks the redhead who continued chuckling as she tried to drink her acid.

"Nothing, continue."

Lana finally pieces the puzzle together, "That's Billie."

"Congratulations, would you like a gold star. I'm sure Mommy senator here has plenty for you." Wilhemina chuckled at her own joke because it was funny. The other women did laugh too. Billie made her way over somewhat gracefully, her hands flaring as if she's trying to pick up a watermelon. Karen probably has one hidden in that Mary Poppins bag of hers.

"Good evening, girls. I'm Billie Dean Howard, Medium to the stars." she flutters her fingers around like one of those stupid ASMR videos that Wilhemina has not ever watched before and took a seat beside Bette and Dot.

"Were you the one who sent the letters?" Bette asked, her fingers fiddling with the hem of the dress she shared? with Dot before Dot slapped her fingers away.

"No, I assume you're all here for the same thing. As am I. Unfortunately, it had to be here though,"

Cordelia sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat seeming to know what the hell Billie was actually talking about. "I know, it's like they're screaming in the walls."

Liz comes over handing Billie her drink while giving a pointed look towards Sally, "What? I didn't kill everyone here, y'know."

"Your reputation says otherwise." she turns to the rest of the group, "Enjoy your stay,"

"Does anyone actually know what this is about... Wait I know you, I've seen your face on the side of a bus," Audrey says excitedly

"And I know you, Ms Audrey Tindall. Making a big name for yourself I see after My Roanoke Nightmare." Billie smiles at her and Wilhemina gives a look of impressive to the two blondes.

"Oh god don't. My shrink is still drilling it into my head that it wasn't real."

"What wasn't?" Lana asks curiously, her notepad in hand as she continued to write notes.

"You haven't seen the show?"

"What show?"

Wilhemina diverts her attention towards Ally's and Cordelia's conversation although it seemed to be about cheating exs so then she focuses on what Dot, Bette and Sally were saying.

"It's 1952 where you're from?" Okay, now that is interesting. "How did you get here?" Sally points her phone in their faces.

"Can you please get that thing out of our faces! It's scary," Bette says,

"We killed our mother and you're saying that's scary." Fine. She stood up and made her way to Karen.

"Don't want to talk to you." she mumbled, seemingly comfortable slightly curled up in the seat.

"I don't want to talk to you either." Hmm, maybe the homeless one isn't too bad after all.

After a few extra drinks, everyone seems to be in a better mood, laughing, joking, much to Wilhemina's dismay, and even still trying to make conversation with her. Which she has done. Gotten to reluctantly know more about those with who she was almost forcefully made to be made acquaintances. Sally stood up on the chair, wobbling slightly as she tries to regain her balance. "Ladies, Unfortunately, Liz is closing up for the night." most women whined but Wilhemina was genuinely happy she finally got to go home. Was this it? What exactly was this about? "But... We can take this party up to my room,"

Wilhemina almost growled to herself, the thought of being at home a lot more comfortable than being in a hotel room with nine other women. All women stood up and followed Sally to the elevators. Billie and Cordelia following behind as they chatted.

Wilhemina slowed her pace a little mainly because she felt like her back couldn't handle it but also because she wants to know what the two blondes are talking about. "If the letters weren't really from you, then who was it?" Cordelia asks

"I genuinely thought it was you, dear. Seems like a 'you' thing to be bringing in people of all backgrounds, especially lonely ones at that,"

"I'm not lonely. You don't even know me." Karen pipes up defensively, still holding her bag close.

"No, not at all." Billie shakes her head, "But I do know when one is feeling lost and doesn't know how to get back up," she says before rushing off to get to the others.

Wilhemina's steps slowed as she enters the elevator, not one for taking the stairs. She opens her mouth but Cordelia is quick to speak, "I like your hair," the redhead raises an eyebrow at the blonde, a hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

"You're drunk, Ms. Goode,"

"Oh, please. Call me Cordelia. I'm nothing like my mother." she says before her expression turns somewhat sorrowful. Her mouth opened, slightly agape seeming as she wants to speak but she doesn't. So Wilhemina decides it's humane of her to change the subject.

"You know Ms. Howard?" she looks down at the floor, the elevator dinging indicating their arrival on the floor where Sally's room is located.

"Oh yes, she's not a witch though," the blonde slightly stumbles out, almost tripping on her heels when Wilhemina rolls her eyes reaching her arm out to catch her.

"I didn't ask," she states, although she is due for another awful round of dosed up fuckery that is her medication she fights through it, tries to anyway. Liz's miracle drinks seem to be working fine as an atomic type of painkiller. She allows Cordelia to loop her arm around her shoulder, hers around the blonde's waist as they walk down the hallway towards the room Karen just strangely snuck into as if she's there on a heist.

"You know of my story then?" Lana asks seemingly gobsmacked towards the other women, "And not from my book, from my talk show? One I don't even have yet?"

"How exactly did you get here?" Audrey asks curiously as she sits down on the bed, crossed legged like an elementary school child.

"I received the letter, like the rest of you. I took the train. Fell asleep, woke up at the station and everything was different but I couldn't really explain it. Then I asked around about the coordinates and someone guided me to this hotel."

"The same thing happened to us," Bette smiled at her but Dot was quick to scold her

"Don't listen to my idiot of a sister, we've never been on a train in our lives. We woke up, found the note at the foot of our bed and started to get ready for our show."

"Show?" Billie asks before closing her eyes for a brief moment. "Does the name Eudora mean anything to you?"

"We work fo-" Bette starts

"No, absolutely not. Bette, we're leaving."

"But we've been having so much fun, Dot."

"No,"

"She says she forgives you."

Tears well up in both their eyes for a moment as they sit back down on the bed. Wilhemina slowly helps Cordelia sit down on the armchair beside them and awkwardly perches on the arm of said chair.

"She forgives you Bette for what you did but," she closes her eyes before facing Dot, "She doesn't forgive you for what you tried to do to your sister."

An awkward silence filled the room, only to be heard are the sniffles from the twins and the lighting up of cigarettes before Sally broke the silence, "You know, I would probably do anything to have a sister and you tried to kill her?" Dot looks away ashamedly.

Bette, sweet Bette, she seems so childlike, she just smiles, "I would do anything to make my Dot happy,"

"I would rather kill myself than let anyone treat me the way she treats you." Sally rolls her eyes "And I'm dead," she brings her hand to the side of her mouth as if she's revealing a huge secret.

"At least she's not alone," Ally says, sipping on more wine. "I'd do anything for my son, the way Bette clearly would for her sister."

"And let her kill herself?" Audrey remarks, "That's not love."

"Wouldn't you kill for love? Fight for others."

"I'd rather be a lover than a fighter, because all my life, I've been fighting." Lana says, "I've lost the love of my life and had been through so much I ca-" tears escape her eyes and Audrey curls up beside her, wrapping an arm around her frame.

Karen opened her mouth wanting to speak, most of them probably expecting her spewing profanities but instead, her face was calm, "I've never felt a feeling of comfort. All this time, I've been hiding. Where I'm from the stupid fuckfaces who live there..." There we go. "All they do is just think I'm some mad homeless woman -"

"Aren't you?" Wilhemina blurts out, a smirk gracing her lips and Karen glares at her.

"That's not the point, you fucking, purple, fucking, dragon bitch."

Wilhemina tilts her head, impressed with the insult. "Carry on."

"I don't want to anymore."

"I never had someone to call my own," Bette says, her usual smile now a frown as she fights back her own tears

"I'm so used to sharing." Dot mutters, looking down at her fingers. Billie reaches out to hold their hands to comfort them.

"Love only left me alone," Audrey says,

"I've found peace in the violence, can't tell me there's no point in trying," Sally says, cigarette hanging from her mouth as she speaks, mascara running down her face

Wilhemina thinks it's her turn to speak, Cordelia looking at her intently from the seat. "I'm in need of a saviour," it feels like she confessed her deepest darkest secrets. Words she would have never thought she would say out loud to anyone. She sees Billie lift her head as if to speak "But I'm not asking for favours," she says, Billie nods understandingly.

"My whole life, I've felt like a burden," Cordelia pipes up, her chin quivering as she spoke. "I think too much, and I hate it"

Ally pulls a small face, finishing her wine before she spoke, "I'm so used to being in the wrong. I'm tired of caring."

"Loving never gave me a home" Karen speaks again, probably feeling a lot more comfortable with the group now. Which is surprising as she acted as if they would kill her.

"I'll sit here in the silence," Billie says. She hadn't said anything. She gave a small smile before lighting up a cigarette. Wilhemina only groans, now her clothes probably stank worse than an ashtray at the amount the four women had smoked like a chimney. "I'm at one with myself. I've been quiet for so long."

There's silence for a few moments. Not uncomfortable at all, surprisingly. Although plenty of tears, small sobs escaping and a few hugs. This was needed. Everyone felt seen, even in the silence of the room. They felt heard. They all understood and could relate one way or another to each other and, maybe the letter was right. You are not alone.

But the one question is... who was the one who had sent it?

Maybe someone out there who cared enough for each woman individually and knew their struggles maybe even up to a personal extent. Maybe whoever sent it just wanted the women to know that they are loved and people do care.

Maybe it was you.

The night was slowly coming to an end, the women started to say their goodbyes when Lana had an idea, "Sally?"

Sally lifted her head from where it lay on Cordelia's shoulder as the two blondes were almost fast asleep. "Hmm?" Wilhemina stood, collecting her cane ready to leave but Cordelia's hand stopped her, grabbing onto the hem of her blazer.

"Give me your cell number, I have an idea." the brunette gave Sally the pen and paper and Sally wrote her number down, passing it back. "If I remember you'd hear from me again," then the brunette vanished. Magic tricks aside, most of the women were either too drunk or half-asleep to even react. Sally's phone began ringing loudly, Wilhemina picked it up, disgusting fluffy case in hand as Sally snatches it from her.

"Hello?"

"Sally? It's me, Lana. Put me on speaker." the familiar yet different voice said. The women looked, Wilhemina observing from the door until she noticed Bette and Dot aren't there either.

"Lana, it's you?" Audrey says, tears in her eyes, "God I've missed you." It's been less than two minutes you dramatic blonde. Wilhemina rolls her eyes as Lana chuckles down the phone.

"I've missed you too, Audrey. It's been fifty-five years since I had last heard your voice."

Wilhemina, now confused, was ready to leave. She pried the sleepy blonde away and left. On the way back to her home, she magically bumped into Billie. "What do you want?" she almost snapped.

"We're wondering if you'd like to meet back up at the hotel again next week." the blonde smiles, of course, cigarette in hand. Wilhemina sighed, as much as she hates to admit it she really did enjoy the company in comparison to her lonely nights at home in the silence.

"Okay," she says, Billie, raising an eyebrow at her expectantly.

"Okay? That was easy,"

"Don't think it'll be any easier than this, Ms. Howard, I'm a busy woman."

"Hm, I'm sure."

"If Ms. Winters is.. a woman of age now, What happened to the Tattlers?" Wilhemina asks out of curiosity, Billie purses her lips as she thinks of an answer.

"They're gone. They're at one with the silence."

"Good night, Ms. Howard." Wilhemina opens the door to her car.

"Good night, Ms. Venable," Billie says but Wilhemina can literally hear the smile that's on her lips as she says it. "Oh, Cordelia wants me to give you her cell," Billie hands the redhead her number through the crack of the window. "Then you don't have to be at one with the silence for so long. Neither of us do. We have each other now, just remember that. All thanks to Y/N."

#sarah paulson #ahs #wilhemina venable #cordelia goode #billie dean howard #cordelia foxx #tb karen #lana winters #audrey tindall #sally mckenna #bette and dot tattler

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arrowflier · 3 years

Note

A fic prompt if you'd like: Mickey opening up to Ian about details of his childhood and the abuse he suffered. In 11x06 after Terry is brought home Mickey says he could do anything to him now like "piss on him and let him air dry" and "use his mouth as an ash tray". To me it sounds like those are examples of things that Terry has done to him.

Content warning: child abuse

the things he did

“You’re so much better than that.”

Ian’s words echoed in Mickey’s head while the cooked dinner together. They resonated as they sat side by side at the table to eat, shoulders brushing, rings glinting in the harsh lights of the kitchen. They played on loop as they retired to the living room, alone for once with everyone else out for the night who knew where, sitting close on the sofa as mindless sitcoms droned on from the television.

“What if I’m not?” Mickey asked abruptly, when it got to be too much.

Ian turned to look at him, face full of shadows in the blue light from the tv.

“What if you’re not what?” he questioned, confused, and Mickey shifted away from him, bringing a knee onto the sofa between them to face his husband.

“Not better than that,” he answered, and saw Ian realize what he was talking about. It was in the way his eyes softened in that harsh light, the way his lips turned down at the thought that Mickey might question himself.

He always took it personally when Mickey did that.

“You are, Mickey,” Ian reassured instantly, just as expected. “I know you are.”

Mickey shook his head, looking down. His fingers scratched at the label of his beer, tearing it from the condensation-wet bottle.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. “No one fucking does.” He shook his head, looked up again into Ian’s green eyes. “You don’t just come away from a life like that and turn out alright.”

Ian looked like he wanted to argue. His chin was already pushing out, his lips pressed tight and thin.

Mickey didn’t give him a chance.

“If you knew half the things he did to us, man,” Mickey laughed humorlessly, averting his gaze again. “He should be on death row right now, not sitting next door with a roof over his fuckin’ head.”

“Tell me,” Ian prompted softly, but Mickey shook his head.

“You don’t want to hear this shit, Ian.” At least, Mickey didn’t want him to hear it. Didn’t want him to think of Terry when he looked at Mickey’s face.

“I do though,” Ian countered easily. “Wanna know everything about you, Mick.”

He was always saying things like that. Always trying to challenge the barriers Mickey put up.

But Mickey always challenged his, too, so he supposed that it was a fair enough trade.

“Fuckin’ sap,” Mickey said anyway, glancing up at Ian’s face and down again. “Gonna change what you think of me,” he added more quietly, and bit his lip at how pathetic it made him sound.

“Mickey,” Ian said. That was it, just his name. But it made things better, somehow. “Nothing can change how I feel about you,” Ian went on. “Besides, I was there for some it, remember?”

Mickey snorted, and took a swig of beer.

“How could I fuckin’ forget?”

They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of the clock ticking behind them and the strains of an annoying jingle on the TV filling the room. Ian didn’t scoot any closer, didn’t ask Mickey again. He just sat in his presence, calming sipping his own drink, and waited Mickey out.

It was a technique that never failed him.

“It wasn’t too bad when our mom was there,” Mickey started out of nowhere. “She was strung out most of the time, but she cared, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his neck. “At least in her own way.”

“And when she wasn’t?” Ian prompted gently. Not pushing, just providing a guiding hand.

Mickey shook his head. “When she wasn’t, things really went to hell.”

A beat. The TV had changed over to some new infomercial, an obnoxiously eager voice droning on about the ‘next best thing’, whatever that was. Mickey ignored it. They both did.

“Iggy and Colin were already used to it, I think,” Mickey expanded. “They were around more the first few times she left, when Mandy and I were still in school. They knew what was coming when she was gone for good.”

Ian made a sound, deep in his throat. He set down his glass on the coffee table, overlapping the multitude of condensation rings that already marred the surface, and grabbed up the carton of cigarettes that lay there. He lit it with a spare lighter, took a drag, and passed it over to Mickey’s waiting hand.

“What about you?” he asked casually. Too casually for the way his fingers shook when Mickey took the cigarette from him.

Mickey scoffed. “Me?” he repeated, then took a drag himself. He held it in as long as he could, breathed it out in a plume of smoke that hid the new wetness in his eyes.

“I was a naive little shit whose mamma hadn’t warned him how bad Terry could get,” Mickey said, then took another hit.

“The first time he hit me—really hit me, not just a cuff around the ears for mouthing off—he laid me out flat on the kitchen floor. I had eaten the last side of bacon, see,” he explained. “Mandy made it for me after school. And Terry’d been savin’ it for after whatever run he was out on.”

Ian stayed silent.

“Couldn’t tell him it was Mandy’s fault,” Mickey went on. “He didn’t care that she was a girl.” Mickey flicked the ashes off the end of the cigarette, watched them fall. Watched the tiny burns it made on the knee of his jeans. “Didn’t care until she was useful.”

Ian swallowed hard at the reminder of what Terry had done to his best friend. But this was about Mickey right now, not Mandy, and as much as she was entrenched in that part of his life, it wasn’t what he needed to get out.

So Ian scooted closer, brushed ashes off Mickey’s knee and rested his hand there, waiting.

Mickey stared at the point of contact, then at his cigarette again.

“You know he used to burn me with these?” Mickey asked abruptly, waving the lit stick in his hand. “Think it was an accident, the first time. Caught me suckin’ on a candy one when I was a kid, told me I needed to man up. Tried to stick a lit one in my mouth, but he was drunk. Used the wrong end.”

He tongued the corner of his lips. “Couldn’t eat for two days while it was healin’.” He chuckled, shook his head. “I was suck a fuckin’ wimp back then, man.”

“Not the worst thing he’s put in my mouth, though,” Mickey continued, on a roll now. His voice was faint, full of that absent quality it got when he wasn’t really there. When he was reliving his nightmares in real time.

“Stumbled into my room more than once looking for the toilet,” he confided. “Forgot there was a second door, I think. He usually just went in the corner, but he got me on my bed more than once.”

Mickey paused, looked up at Ian through his lashes.

“You know why I don’t breathe through my mouth anymore?”

Ian shook his head.

“Wakin’ up to the taste of piss will teach you that trick real quick.”

The cigarette was gone, now, and his beer was only dregs. Mickey stared at a space over Ian’s shoulder, breathing heavy, refusing to let his eyes spill over.

He was done crying for the kid that let his dad walk all over him. He was done crying for Terry. He was done with all of it.

And he really, really wished that were true.

“Frank locked me in the basement, once,” Ian stated suddenly, taking the empty beer bottle out of Mickey’s hand and placing it with his own glass on the table. “During one of my mom’s episodes, when she wouldn’t get out of bed.”

Mickey just looked at him. Let Ian take his hand, turn it over to hold it in his.

“He told Fiona I was at a sleepover, and she believed him—forgot I didn’t really have any friends.” Ian grinned, then, but it was empty, almost sharp.

You had friends, Mickey wanted to say. You had family. You had me.

But the first and the last were lies, and the middle wasn’t always a blessing.

“Lip found me two days later,” Ian told him. “He got suspicious when he saw Frank taking food down there; he was an asshole, but he wasn’t gonna starve a kid on purpose, at least.”

Ian laughed, and rubbed his free hand along the leg of his pants.

“He just didn’t want to look at me.”

Mickey gripped his hand tighter.

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” he asked. “It’s not a fuckin’ competition, man.”

“I’m just saying,” Ian pressed on. “We don’t have to be our dads, Mickey.”

Oh. And there it was. Ian, his husband, ever the optimist.

“What if we don’t get that choice?” Mickey questioned. He’d seen it often enough, after all. Milkoviches that tried to get out, tried to do better for themselves and their kids.

But they always ended up back where they started. They always ended up under Terry’s roof, and under his thumb, just waiting for another chance to break free.

Ian shrugged, and pulled him closer, tucking Mickey’s head into the space between his own neck and shoulder. Mickey made a grumbling sound, but went without protest, tilting his head so that his nose rested near Ian’s collarbone.

“Then I guess we have to kill each other,” Ian stated blandly.

Mickey gave a stunned, barked laugh, breath hitching and releasing in a wash of hot air over Ian’s neck.

“Ian, what the fuck?” he managed, but Ian only gripped him tighter, pressing his face into skin so that he couldn’t speak.

“It’s for the greater good, Mick,” Ian assured him. “Mutually assured destruction, and all that, right?”

He ran a hand down Mickey’s back, scratching lightly.

“I lock you in a basement, you take me out,” he declared. “You piss on me—well, without my permission at least—”

“Ew, Ian, Jesus Christ—”

“I get to murder you in your sleep.” Ian pulled back just enough to look at him, Mickey meeting his eyes without a struggle this time. For all the macabre discussions, Ian’s eyes were bright.

“Deal?” Ian asked, and Mickey finally smiled.

“Yeah, alright, tough guy,” he agreed. “It’s a fuckin’ deal.”

#thanks for the prompt!#daily speedwrite #fanfic #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #tw: child abuse #angst #but they'll be okay

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awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands · 3 years

Text

Laid out cold, now we're both alone (part 2)

A/N: Hello, this fic is very important to me because I tried my best to give justice to such a cool idea and I hope I did a good job. Plus I don't do multichapter ofter, so this was a challenge.

I wanna thank the lovely @livdonna for proofreading my work, you're literally the best <3.

P.S. If you want to get tagged in the next chapters, let me know.

Summary: Nikki visits Mick to give him a very important task.

Warnings: Major Character Death,Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug Use, Angst, Overdose.

Pairing: Nikki Sixx x Tommy Lee

Chapter 1

Taglist: @slashscowboyboots @witchytombstonesmile @arnold-layne @emometalhead @i-dont-like-rice @nikki-sexx @smokeandmirrorz

Mick was supposed to not give a shit about Nikki. He and the stupid drummer had tormented him and his wife for months on ends, making the whole tour a living hell and he didn’t need to have even more things to worry about. So what if his bassist decided to get addicted to heroin? He was a fucking dumbass but it wasn’t his problem. He would end up killing himself and it wasn’t like Mick could have done something, not when his whole body was torturing him.

The only problem was that he cared, deep down. He cared about the fucker and hearing the news that he was gone forever hit him. He lost one of his friends and the band all together in a day, what would have happened? He hated to admit he was scared about the future, it was hard to imagine Motley Crue without Nikki.

He sighed, turning off yet another discussion about his death. They didn’t call him yet but something was telling him that they had to release a statement soon. Doc was probably freaking out somewhere crying for all his millions of dollars lost.

“Fucking Nikki, you had to die at the worst moment, didn’t you?”

“Yeah… sorry about that, man” A voice incredibly similar to Nikki said, making Mick jump up.

Nikki didn’t feel anything, one moment they were in the ambulance and the other they were on the beach. He was confused for a moment before he remembered that Mick had a beach house, and stared at it for a bit. He didn’t know much about the guitarist, maybe almost nothing but he respected him so much. He was one of the strongest dudes he had ever met.

The weirdest thing about all of this was probably how he was only able to feel certain things, no cravings or sand under his feet as he was walking, yet he would still feel guilt, fear, love, worry… it didn’t make sense but he wasn’t in the mood to question the universe’s rules.

People can’t see you until you decide to show yourself. You have to remember or otherwise they can’t hear or see you.

The voice still freaked him out, but at the same time he was grateful for it to be there… it made him feel less alone, which was great considering how he felt lonely for his entire life.

“You’re not alone Nikki, I’ll always be there with you, through highs and lows”

“God it sounds like a marriage vow, T-Bone”

“Well if I could I’d marry now…”

He shook his head, trying to get the memory out. It wasn’t the time to be sentimental and risk fucking everything up, so he walked ( more like flew) through the front door and found Mick sitting on the couch.

“Fucking Nikki, you had to die at the worst moment, didn’t you?”

“Yeah… sorry about that, man”. The bassist hoped that he was heard, otherwise it would have been pretty embarrassing.

Mick visibly jumped at hearing Nikki’s voice and quickly turned around to look at him. From his widened eyes and confused expression, he knew he probably looked fucking transparent.

“Okay first of all why the hell are you here talking to me if you’re dead? Then why the fuck can I see myself through you ?”

The black haired man just realized that he had no idea how to explain everything and be believed, he just went along with whatever the voice in his head was saying, but now it was different. He fumbled with his hand and realized he couldn’t feel them, while he tried to come up with the best way to explain to his friend how he was a ghost and why he was there.

“I died… I have no idea how I came back but I have unfinished business and I need to talk to you!”

The guitarist looked at him up and down, clearly skeptical. However, there wasn’t much arguing… Nikki’s ghost was literally standing in front of him.

“Okay I have no idea if this is a dream, I’m dead or in a coma, or simply I drank too much but now I’ll grab some vodka and you’ll spill your little secrets as you like”.

Nikki smiled a bit… He honestly felt normal for the first time since he was brought back. Having Mick joking was so familiar, usually Tommy was the aim of his jokes and they all laughed because they were all so unexpected…

Tommy. Thinking about him still hurt, again he wondered if he was okay and how much he missed him… but it wasn’t his time now. He had other things to talk about as Mick came back into the living room with his glass.

“Mick… you gotta promise me that you won’t let Motley Crue die, that you will fight to keep the band’s legacy.”

The older man looked at him surprised, rolling his eyes.

“Well that’s a bit hard when our bassist and songwriter died!”

Rage and resentment were heavy in his voice but there was more : fear and sadness. Nikki felt guilty and he fucking hated it, it was so unlike him but he couldn’t help it… Mick cared about the band as much as he did. He always said the band was his life, before heroin came into the picture, but it was also Mick’s and he probably destroyed everything.

“You will find another one, another bassist who is also a songwriter…” The words felt so foreign coming from his mouth. They even hurt a bit but they were necessary.

“I know you care about this band as much as I do, Mick. I know how much you’ve worked your ass off in shitty bands, trying to find the one that was going to break… I might be dead but Crue can’t have the same fate”.

Mick scoffed, taking a long sip of his vodka.

“It’s not easy, it’s not like we can find the perfect match like we did. Plus, everyone will probably hate him for replacing you!”

The frustration was almost tangible, but there was something else… Mick was scared, he knew everything was about to fade away because of Nikki’s actions, he was already looking at the boat sinking. Nikki started to panic because his band had to live, even in his death! It was pointless and selfish but that was the only thing people could remind him of.

“If you give up, then Vince and Tommy will do the same! I know that you think no one will take you, but the truth is they will. Crue is what it is because of our vision, you are part of it and I’m asking you to keep it going. Think of this as my dying man’s wish… even if I’m already dead”

The older man’s grip on his glass got tighter, his eyes lost in thought as he was pondering Nikki’s words. It was hard to take in, hell that was an understatement, it was fucking insane and probably wouldn’t work but the bassist needed to have this false hope.

“It’s so fucking weird, you know? To realize you’re fucking dead yet here talking to me.”

He was deflecting, Nikki knew it, but didn’t want to push it too far. He learned to know Mick, he kept his promises and he was a hard worker and with a good dose of luck and jokes, you got him to your side.

“Yeah, do you remember how I said you weren’t going to make it in that interview? Well, karma hits like a bitch!”

“Mick might not make it , he drinks a little too much and it looks rough” Mick quoted, trying to imitate Nikki’s voice.

“Yeah and then you said something like I heard what you said and you’re dead, fuck I guess you were right” He laughed but Mick didn’t.

Oh c’mon so what if he was joking about his death? It’s not like anyone really cared about him. They just saw him as a burden, which he was. Not his mom, nor his band or his Tommy would have really missed him… they would eventually move on.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” He said annoyed but his lips formed a small smile.

“I know, I know. Mick… please promise me that. If Crue is going to end, then my whole life didn’t mean anything! Ple…” He stopped himself, he was so fucking close to begging but he couldn’t. Nikki Sixx didn’t fucking beg, not in life or death.

“I’m thinking about it!”

He really meant the first part. He spent all his teenage and adult years creating the band of his dreams and making sure they conquered the world. This band was his escape; his attempt at redemption after his shitty childhood. Nobody loved Frank Feranna but he didn’t care, he would become Nikki Sixx and be super fucking famous!

He didn’t need anyone’s love, except that he did.

“ I love you, Nikki.”

“ No you don’t, nobody does, T-Bone”

“Well I fucking do. You gotta pass on my dead body before you’ll hear me not saying it over and over”

His heart might have stopped, but he still felt the big wave of nostalgia hitting him. He couldn’t do it, he would have never been ready to see him again.

“Okay, I will. But listen to me, it won’t be easy and I’m an old man with a fucked up back, so don’t send demons against me if I fail!” The little spark of determination in his eyes relaxed Nikki, he was on board.

“I fucking knew you were the best, Mars! If I wasn’t dead I’d probably tattoo your face on me as a thank you!”

“Oh gross, never say that again!” He pretended to be disgusted but his eyes betrayed him, the small softness in them told Nikki he felt touched.

“Who knows, maybe in hell they have tattoos for the ghosts. God we used to hate each other and now we are two peas in a pod.”

“I still hate you.”

“Ugh, you crushed my heart Mick”

The guitarist flipped him off, rolling his eyes. Nikki desperately wanted to keep talking, if he did then he could have pretended nothing changed, right? He didn’t have to face Vince and Tommy and go through the light… everything would have stayed the same or he could fool himself that it would.

I think it’s time to go to the next person.

The voice was demanding yet still calm. Nikki knew that he couldn’t stay forever, they had to prevent spirits from just lingering into the real world like that, it made him a bit angry but he understood it. It wasn’t like he could have done much anyway…He was just a shell of what he used to be.

“I gotta go Mick…” He wanted to punch himself because he sounded so fucking pathetic, but the other man gave him a compassionate smile.

What he fuck are you, a little small puppy? Oh look Frankie is scared to leave his illusion of a family.

Mick walked him to the other without saying anything, but before turning the handle, which was pointless because Nikki could have just passed through the door, he broke the silence.

“Try to give us some signs, okay? Show us that you’re there… but don’t you fucking dare spill my vodka or I’ll make you two times dead!”

“Oh that’s exactly what I’ll do, thanks for the suggestion!”

He stepped outside and looked at Mick one last time.

“You promised, alien. You gotta do it!”

“Yeah yeah, you better repay me when I come to join you there…” And with one last look, Mick closed the door.

Nikki felt all of the weight crushing down on his body, even if it was made of air. He simply stood still, his mind racing like a freight train, trying to take everything in but also getting ready for his next move… being overwhelmed was an understatement, he felt peeled down like an orange and this was only the beginning. He felt like a fucking coward but he just wanted to get over it, was it that bad to accept his fate and disappear without facing anyone?

You are going to abandon him again? You know why you need to talk to Vince, and you know this will be your last chance to see him, asshole!

He went to kick the sand, but he couldn’t touch it. God, how frustrating was that!

So where are we going next?

Nikki would have wanted to scream at him, give him the middle finger and just run away but it wouldn’t have been helpful, would it? So he forced himself to be as neutral as possible.

“Vince Neil. Take me to his house.”

#nikki sixx #Tommy Lee #mick mard #vince neil #motley crue #motley crue fanfiction #80sRock #80s rock band #fanfiction #my writing #tommy lee x nikki sixx

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