#cinnamon roll mickey

[nerdy-birdy-photography]

5th June 2023

Cinnamon Roll Mickey caught a little umbrella.

[zutaralesbian]

Ian was an ass for calling Mickey a coward because he was afraid of Terry. Like, no other way around that one

[huntthemouse]

Mickey Cinnamouse

015/365 #hunt the mouse

craving some cinnamon buns rn

I am making 365 new versions of Mickey Mouse for the public domain and releasing them under public domain all year long.

You can join the initiative to #hunt the mouse or suggest a theme yourself via my ask box.

[disneybooknerd626]

The best way to start the day ✨

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While I love a cinnamon bun, a Mickey one? Well that’s a dream come true!

Get this delicious mickey bun from Starbucks right on Main Street USA!

✨ For more Disney info, news and fun sure to give me a follow!

And for more Disney fun follow me on:

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Instagram: disneybooknerd626

[luci-z-wont-shut-up]

I am about to be So Normal about this brat <3

[teddybeartoji]

# MIKUNA ♡₊˚ 🍪・₊ ❤️‍🔥✧

☆. contains: ryomen sukuna x mickey; strangers to best friends to friends with benefits (???) to lovers, baker!sukuna, neck kisses, fresh cinnamon rolls, late night bike rides, sukuna with a staring problem, playfighting, a lot of bickering, flowers hidden behind backs, loud conversations, napping on the couch, bloody knuckles, mickey serenading kuna with a terrible singing voice, regular dates turned into babysitting ones (little yuuji is the cutest ever)(and sukuna is jealous).

〣NOW PLAYING:

  — kiss you all over by exile

  — forever by majid jordan

  — promiscuous by nelly furtado & timbaland

  — die for you by the weeknd

  — latch by disclosure & sam smith

[fictionalcharactersaremypassion]

The Cereal Dilemma

It was just his fucking luck. 

The one fucking thing he wanted and Ian’s giant ass couldn’t even reach it. 

“Let’s just find someone to get it for us, Mick,” Ian said, looking at the end of the aisle for one of the workers. 

“No fucking way,” Mickey snapped. 

Ian sighed, rolling his eyes. “Why the hell not?” 

“We don’t need anyone. We can do it ourselves,” Mickey said stubbornly. 

Ian threw his head back, groaning. “I can’t even get it. How the fuck do you think we’ll do it?” 

The last box of Cinnamon O’s was up there on the top shelf in the very back. Mickey was a simple guy, and he liked sugary cereal before work. He’d already gone four days without it-and ignoring Ian’s fucking smug smile after he’d been telling Mickey he was going to run out with how big of a bowl he was using each time. 

“I don’t know. Climb it?” 

“We’re not going that,” Ian said flatly. 

“We’re sure as fuck not leaving without it-” 

“Then we should find someone to get for us-” 

They glared at each other, waiting for the other to crack. 

Ian took a step back. “If you want it, you get it then.” 

Mickey glanced up at the top shelf, huffing. 

He wasn’t ashamed of being shorter or anything, but he wasn’t about to do the climbing himself. He scratched his eyebrow, wondering what they were supposed to do now. 

“There is another way,” Ian said, voice sounding too nonchalant for Mickey’s liking. 

He narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

Ian set the basket down on the floor. Mickey watched him suspiciously. 

“The fuck are you doing, man-fuck you! Put me down, Ian!” 

His husband had swooped in, picking him up effortlessly. Mickey’s cheeks burned. Ian had a firm enough grip that he couldn’t easily get out of. 

“You said you wanted it,” Ian said smoothly. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spat. 

“I’m not putting you down until you grab it.” 

This motherfucker-

Mickey twisted around enough to punch him straight in the face. The force of it sent them both to the floor; Ian was underneath him, trying to dodge anymore punches. Mickey had already managed to draw some blood, a trail of it coming out of his nose. 

They wrestled around on the floor. Ian got the upper hand, throwing Mickey on his back to straddle him and giving him a taste of his own medicine: a punch landing on his cheekbone. 

“I was trying to help you!” Ian snarled, trying to grab Mickey’s arms to hold him still. 

“Fucking help my ass!” Mickey reached for a container of oatmeal that was on the bottom shelf, slamming it on Ian’s head. 

His husband hissed out in pain, clenching his head. Mickey got out from under him, victorious. 

By now, some other shoppers had heard the commotion and came to each end of the aisle. Some of them gasped, others looked on in horror. 

A couple of them cried out when Ian held onto Mickey around the waist, the latter trying to push against him, sending them to the floor for the second time in a heap. 

A security guard was called, and they were quickly escorted out of the store, their faces bleeding and muttering crankily to each other. 

“This is all your fault-” 

“My fault? You’re the one that fucking picked me up!” 

“This is the third place we’ve gotten kicked out of, Mickey!” Ian snapped. 

“Wouldn’t have if nosy ass bitches minded their business!” Mickey turned around to flip everyone off who’d gathered at the front entrance. 

Ian rolled his eyes as he fished out the keys from his pocket. “Next time, I’m shopping alone.” 

[lycaondaughter]

need 14 to complete his retirement by finding martha and mickey. he invites them to a weekly trivia night with donna and shaun. martha & donna’s moms shake their heads at him. 14 learns how to cook and has dinner parties (everyone brings something too bc he’s not a very good cook (yet?)). mickey and shaun definitely get along they’re so cinnamon roll. slowly 14 reconnects with all living companions, one by one. they rent out a local shop for a family reunion every 5 yrs. kate comes and starts to mention an alien work thing and donna gives her the best disapproving mom look ever bc she doesn’t want him hands-on with unit stuff. 14’s therapist tells him to start journaling and he gets way too into it. every companion he reconnects with thinks the worlds ending but then donna gets to tell the bigeneration story and she LOVES to tell it (…so there we were, world about to end, and they just start throwing a ball!)

[germ-t-ripper]

22DEC24 Mickey shaped cinnamon rolls.

[look-i-love-u]

Pintrest Tag Game

Thank you, to the wonderful @francesroserecs , and @guinguin1984 and @creepkinginc for tagging me in this. It's the first tagging game in a while that didn't make me cry XD

Rules: search up fashion, pantone, mood, and food on pinterest and then save the first picture that comes up.

I wish I could pull that outfit off while indulging in my Mickey mood :D. We both are total cinnamon rolls inside so that also checks out!

Tagging: @energievie, @jrooc, @kiinard, @iansw0rld, @ian-galagher, @vintagelacerosette, @gillyp, @sickness-health-all-that-shit

[bagel-lover]

HC POST PART TWOOOOOOO

This time we're covering this Hickory Dickory deadass clocktower :3

He/It

This goof was nicknamed "Clockwise" by the Gremlins because he wears glasses and they thought it would be funny haha

Menace

Has accidentally smacked Gus out of the air before

Has seen his Comic Version in a dream before

Big boi

CLAWS

short compared to the other clocktowers

Will crush anything that brings up that annoying song

Mickey almost never commits canon route

This idiot knows he's in some sort of loop

Almost immediately tried to kill Mad Doctor the moment he saw him

Screams a lot

Actually very smart

Punched Glockenspiel in a dream once

Wonders what the hell pastrami is

Oswald forgets he exists every two seconds

Spaces out way too much

Time puns

Retractable teeth

Can switch between the Yellow and Purple faces by spinning his clock

Like if he was yellow, then he would spin counterclockwise to turn purple

SO MANY TIME PUNS

Is probably the only being that Prescott tolerates

Has been swarmed by Bunny Children before

Looks like a cinnamon roll; could and will kill you

Probably has ADHD

Lazy eye has fallen off like seven times

FERAL BEAST

When he sleeps the time displays normally on the clock

How any of this makes senses is up to you guys

Voice claim, Funtime Freddy but lower pitched

NEXT IS GLOCKENSPIELLLLL

[threepwoodmarley]

For the ask game, Doctor Who, naturally 😁

This is for you and @killingkueen who also asked for Doctor Who! 😄

the first character i ever fell in love with: Nine

a character that i used to love/like, but now do not: Jack Harkness

a ship that i used to love/like, but now do not: Don't think I have one

my ultimate favorite character™: River Song

prettiest character: Amy Pond

my most hated character: Madame Kovarian

my OTP: Eleven/River

my NOTP: Mickey/Martha

favorite episode: A Good Man Goes to War

saddest death: River Song

favorite season: Five and Six

least favorite season: All of Jodie's, tbh. I wanted to love her but I can't stand Chris Chibnall's writing.

character that everyone else in the fandom loves, but i hate don't love as much: Ten

my ‘you’re piece of trash, but you’re still a fave’ fave: The Master/Missy

my ‘beautiful cinnamon roll who deserves better than this’ fave: Rory Williams

my ‘this ship is wrong, nasty, and makes me want to cleanse my soul, but i still love it’ ship: The Master/Missy

my ‘they’re kind of cute, and i lowkey ship them, but i’m not too invested’ ship’: Clara/Ashildr

[brandstifter-sys]

The Great Bitchin Bake-Off

Chapter 2: You Close? (Ao3)

Word Count: 3215

Rating: T+

Characters: Roman, Remus

Warnings: Innuendo, blood, gore, food, intrusive thoughts, Remus has OCD

Roman and Remus have no internet, no cookbooks, and they have to make breakfast for everyone in the mindscape. Rather than work together, the creativitwins just have to make it a competition, if only so there's something edible in the end.

--

Roman returned to the kitchen before Remus, and checked his dough. There was still some time before it should have been ready. It had risen somewhat, even with that stupid towel covering it. He was not looking forward to making the filling or glaze for his cinnamon rolls now that he was clean and wearing his Mickey Mouse pajama pants and an old American Eagle t-shirt. His pajamas were not meant to get dirty, so he also borrowed one of Patton's aprons. 

At least he could get started on his filling in peace. He went to the fridge and grabbed a block of cream cheese, thinking that it would suit his needs. He placed it in the clean mixing bowl and turned the mixer on to the highest setting. Whipping the cream cheese seemed like the right thing to do. He also needed to add some cinnamon, so he went to the cabinet for the spice.

“Aw! You started before I got back!”

Roman glanced over his shoulder and pouted at Remus. The duke was pouting back at him, leaning against the oven he turned on, and holding an electric hand mixer. Good. Roman was not about to give up his edge. 

“Last I checked, it’s not a race,” Roman scoffed and casually dumped some cinnamon in his cream cheese. It was just enough to give it some color. That's what he told himself. 

“It’s not!” Remus laughed and bounced to the counter where his butter was waiting for him. He immediately grabbed a bowl and put the butter into it. 

“Then why are you complaining?” 

“Because I want to spend time bonding with my pissy little brother!” he laughed and grabbed his blood jug. He needed to add some more holding power to his filling. 

Roman scowled and turned to his mixer. Would he need to add anything more? He hoped so, if only so he could pretend that he couldn't hear Remus. Unfortunately he couldn't think of anything. 

“Of course I would rather not have to fight or compete every time we get to hang out! But you think I'm evil for some reason,” Remus continued and turned on his mixer. 

As soon as the beaters met his cursed concoction, a crazed laugh leapt from his throat. The rapid spinning was spraying the blood all over the bowl. Some of it even splashed onto the counter top. 

Roman turned off his mixer and guarded it from any potential splash damage. He was horrified by Remus' deranged, wicked cackling and his unnaturally wide eyes, locked onto his bowl. 

Did he really have to wonder why Roman was convinced he was evil? That laugh could freeze the fires of hell! 

And then he stopped. Remus turned off his mixer and grinned at Roman as if he hadn't unleashed an inner demon or two. 

“It matches your face!” Remus giggled and held up the beater. Roman would have been more offended if the whipped butter was a darker shade of red, but it was a rather light pink that matched his favorite blush. 

“You didn't add any cinnamon,” Roman commented dumbly. Granted, he still had the powdery spice next to him. 

“Of course not! That goes on separately! Don't tell me you didn't know!” Remus jeered and grabbed a rubber spatula to clean the beaters. 

Roman fumed and tried to ignore the smugness hidden in that chipper tone. The least Remus could do was acknowledge his budding ire! 

But nope! Remus was happily cleaning up his mixer and gathering yet another bowl and a measuring cup. He didn't even look Roman's way when he pushed his butter mixture aside and pulled out the sugar. 

“What are you doing?” Roman huffed.

“Making cinnamon sugar for the filling!” Remus responded and carefully measured out the sugar he would need. He had a feeling Roman would want to copy him somewhat. 

He was right! Roman snatched the bag of sugar from him like a greedy little goblin and grabbed a bowl. The rude little prince could keep it, as long as he shared the cinnamon. 

Remus knew better than to expect that much from Roman. He stole the cinnamon while Roman poured some indeterminate amount of sugar into his bowl. Hopefully it wouldn’t bite him in the ass later! 

Of course, being a nosy little bitch sure would! Roman just had to see what Remus was doing. He had to fight back the urge to laugh, Remus added so little cinnamon to his sugar, surely no one would be able to taste it! 

He swiped the bottle from Remus with a scoff and dumped half of it into his sugar. Remus mixed his sugar and bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to ruin Roman’s “perfect” cinnamon rolls with any decent advice! 

“And now to pull a Frankie!” Remus cheered and grabbed his resting dough. He tore the towel away with a flourish and grinned. It was so puffy and red, like his lips after using them on someone's—

He cleared the counter and pulled out two baking dishes, mainly so Roman wouldn’t get in his way later. This was the second most fun part, right after kneading the fresh dough. Then he sprayed both pans with cooking spray and broke out the flour again. 

Roman set his fillings aside and checked his dough. It rose somewhat, but it looked dense. Surely it would become fluffier after baking. He watched Remus coat the countertop with a dusting of flour and then let his dough slowly drop onto it from his bowl. It was disgusting. 

Remus laughed and set the bowl in the sink. He was far too pleased with his creation for Roman’s comfort. He was so pleased that he slapped the red mass with a giggle. 

“It’s even softer and jigglier than Virgil’s butt!” the duke cheered and grabbed a rolling pin.

“What?” Roman gasped, affronted that Remus would dare talk about his best friend in such a lewd manner.

“Yeah! He’s got a booty to die for! That’s the one spider trait he can’t hide!” Remus jeered and coated his rolling pin with flour, “Remember this, Ro hoe bro, spiders have the fattest asses in the animal kingdom!” 

Roman sputtered indignantly and stole the flour. He had to finish this task so he could get away from this twisted disaster! 

The so-called twisted disaster was absolutely killing it, rolling out his dough and humming to himself. Roman immediately floured his counter and grabbed a rolling pin, not one to be out done. But when he turned his dough out, it landed with a thud that caused flour to puff up in a cloud and cover his shirt and apron.

“I’m looking down the hole, you’re looking up at me,” Remus sang to his bloody mass of gluten, “You’re cold and tired, that is easy to see.” 

Roman forced himself to ignore that off-key screeching and focus on rolling out his thick dough.  

“Lower the rope to you, a bucket and a light,” Remus kept going, “Your membrane will be soft and smooth, and your heart will be mine! It rubs the lotion on its skin! Or else it gets the hose again!” 

Roman gripped his rolling pin tightly, enough that his knuckles turned white. He was not hearing this. He was not hearing this while this imbecile made the kitchen look like a murder scene.

“The look inside your eyes drives me from control,” Remus kept singing as he carefully flattened and spread his dough, “Evoking visions of my favorite casserole! And if I eat your heart—”

“Will you stop that?!” Roman snapped.

Remus stared at him with wide eyes and an unnerving grin. He cracked his neck and waited for Roman to continue. He didn’t. 

“I look like an organ harvester, the least I can do is have fun with it!” Remus said through his teeth. The horrible thoughts flooding his mind about harvesting actual organs were getting too loud. The singing was helping him. Not that Princey ever considered that. 

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” 

Roman frowned. He hated that Remus was right. But he could not concentrate when Remus was singing about Hannibal Lecter! 

“Could you find a different song, one that isn’t laced with questionable queer representation,” Roman sighed. He would have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to get this over with. At least Remus seemed to relax at that request. 

He set his rolling pin aside and grabbed his butter and spatula, dancing to the beat in his head. 

“Just a steel town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life. In the real-time world no one sees her at all. They all say she's crazy!” he sang as he spread the butter on the flat dough, making sure to leave a thick coat. He was jogging in place and having fun with his little baking mess. 

Roman was not having nearly as much fun. His dough kept tearing and he couldn’t get it flat enough for his liking. This was not a task meant for a prince, but he would do it, and he would surpass Remus. He was sure of it. 

By the time he was satisfied with his dough and spreading his cream cheese on top of it, Roman saw Remus was finished adding his cinnamon sugar mixture. Instead of continuing to the next step, he just had to have a little dance break. 

It was impressive, watching him run in place on the balls of his feet, switching into fast pirouettes and flailing with timed precision. Roman was half convinced he could hear “Maniac” playing as his boastful brother went full on Flashdance. 

“He's a maniac! He just moved in next door! He will kill your cat and nail it to your door!” Remus sang, surprisingly well for how much he was moving. 

That's when Roman noticed that Remus switched from his Dread Pirate get-up to a black, strapless leotard and dark red leg warmers. Dark. Red. 

“You thieving wretch!” Roman snarled and abandoned his baking to throttle Remus. That bastard had the gall to steal his—wait. 

Roman didn't own a pair of leg warmers. 

Remus was too lost in his performance to pay him any mind. There wasn't enough room for any cool flips or sudden dips, which put a damper on things, but he was Remus, he could make it work! 

It was only when the duke arched back, stretching his torso over the island counter by the stove, that Roman realized what absolute hell could break loose. 

Remus reached up and grabbed a pull chain out of thin air. Knowing him, the fluid that was supposed to crash over him would not be water, like the movie. It could be urine or diarrhea or something else from that area. Or it could be blood. That was the most likely considering the course of the evening. 

Roman immediately tried to will the coming cascade into water. Or juice. Or anything that wasn't a bodily fluid. Just not blood. Not blood. 

Not blood 

Remus pulled the chain and opened his mouth wide. He was thirsty and he was looking forward to a mouthful of Gatorade. 

Blood rained down all over him, coating the counter top and splattering all over the floor. Fortunately it didn't reach the cinnamon rolls. 

Remus jolted upright and raced to the sink. He spit out the offending fluid and coughed like he was dying. 

“What the fuck?! Why did you make it blood?!” Remus whined and washed his face. 

“What were you expecting?” 

“A tasty beverage! Why did you change it on me? It's my job to be gruesome!” 

“I was trying to change it to not blood!” Roman huffed. He would not be blamed for Remus' mess. 

“‘Not blood?’” Remus laughed and magically changed out of his dance get-up, “You know you can't conjure a ‘not’ anything!” 

Roman shrank back and tried not to pout like a kid.  

“At least it was human blood! Can you imagine how much thicker it would have been if it was dragon blood!” Remus giggled and skipped to the fridge. He was still thirsty and he knew Virgil had some pomegranate iced tea in there. And if he didn't want to share, well Remus was a glutton for punishment! 

Roman shook off any embarrassment and got back to his cinnamon rolls. He sprinkled the cinnamon sugar on top of the cream cheese and realized he didn't have enough. So he grabbed the cinnamon and coated the whole thing so he couldn't see any cream cheese. 

Remus watched him amusedly as he drank a glass of iced tea. Oh, he was excited to see the end results of that! 

He put the empty glass in the sink and washed his hands again. It was time to finish the beast! 

He carefully rolled up his dough, making sure it was just tight enough. Roman blatantly copied him, but that wasn't a problem for Remus. He was fine with giving Roman some help. 

Roman was quite pleased with how well he rolled his dough and pulled out a knife to slice it into perfect rolls. This was something he knew he could do! He was careful not to create any sort of tear with each slice. When he had ten rolls to bake, he was satisfied. 

And then the countertop shook violently. 

Roman glanced over at Remus and cringed. The duke was suspended in mid air, doing a split, with his hands around the handle of an oversized, double headed battle axe. The axe was jammed in the counter and covered in off-red gunk. 

“Are you trying to wake everyone?!” Roman snapped as Remus' feet met the floor. 

“Nope!” Remus laughed and swung his axe again, jumping up to deliver a comical amount of force. Roman had to wonder if his trembling on impact was just for show. Considering he repeated the process until he had twelve buns, and he was giggling, Roman assumed that it was an act. 

Remus banished his axe and dusted off his hands. And then the oven beeped, signaling that it was ready. Perfect! 

“Pick your pan, Princey!” Remus cooed and motioned to the baking dishes he prepared. Roman would suspect he sabotaged one, especially if he handed it over, so he had to give Roman the first pick. 

Roman swiped one with a pompous air and brought it to his rolls. He arranged them delicately as if he were arranging a bouquet and sighed once he was done. 

Remus was not so delicate, plopping them on his dish in three rows of four. He didn't take a deep breath to relax, but instead went for the cabinets again. 

“Can you put mine in?” Remus asked as he pulled a jar from the cabinets. Powdered sugar. 

“Why on earth would I help you?” Roman scoffed incredulously and brought his tray to the oven. 

“Why would you want to pass up the opportunity to ruin my dish?” Remus laughed and grabbed his mixer. He needed to clean those beaters for the final piece. He summoned his rubber gloves again and turned on the sink. 

“Am I nothing more than a scoundrel to you?!” 

“Nope! But don't heroic princes want to keep things fair? It's fair if they bake at the same time!” Remus countered and washed his beaters, “Plus my gloves would melt in the oven!” 

Roman relented and took both dishes to the oven. He set them inside on the same rack and closed the door before setting the timer. 

“Thanks Pissy!” Remus said and dried his beaters, “I'll get started on the rest of the dishes after I make my glaze.” 

Roman glanced at the stand mixer and pouted. He would have to wash the paddle and bowl before he could make his own glaze. He was not Cinder-Elias for Pete's sake! Baking was more than enough for him, cleaning was absolute agony! 

“Gimme your bowl and paddle while I still have my gloves,” Remus said, cutting into his spiraling, “I’ll make a double batch of glaze while you run to your side to get some eggs.” 

“Why didn't you ask me to do that before you used blood?” Roman gawked. 

“Because you told me to figure my own shit out before I could ask! And now I'm not asking because I need help, so you won't immediately say no!” 

“And why would you think that?” 

“Because you wouldn't be helping me! We still have to make eggs and sausage for everyone!” 

“‘We?’ You have already bastardized this breakfast enough!” the prince huffed and crossed his arms, “I shouldn't even let you make my glaze, seeing as how you'll ruin it with your demented ideas!” 

“Butter, powdered sugar, milk. That's all I'm putting in there. Nothing else. Even despite your cowardly sabotage, I haven't used anything you can't find in this kitchen,” Remus pouted. 

“The blood!” 

“It's still here, in the jug on the countertop, and then there's some on the floor and cabinets, and there's plenty rushing to your face, Pissy!” he jeered. 

Roman fumed as he gathered his bowl and paddle and put them in the sink for Remus. It should have been a red flag considering how the duke lived, but Roman couldn't be bothered. He was too frustrated with this menace. 

Remus shrugged and washed the dishes, perfectly content with the job as long as he didn't touch any dish soap. 

“Why are you so calm about cleaning?” Roman asked. He knew Remus was always raving about his filth and squalor.

“It calms me,” Remus shrugged and rinsed the paddle, “Don't tell me you haven't noticed!” 

“Why would I?” 

“Because you secretly care about your stinky big brother and his mental health. Or maybe you don't, but you need to know your enemy's weaknesses!” Remus teased. He had long come to terms with the fact that Roman didn't like him, possibly that he hated him. Remus didn't need Roman to like him, as long as he didn't live up to his namesake. 

“Do you honestly think you're worth my attention?” Roman scoffed. So what if he didn't pay attention to the duke? It's not like Remus was paying him any mind! 

“Yes, but I can be wrong,” Remus said as he set the paddle aside and washed the bowl. Roman was unnervingly silent. Remus decided that he struck a nerve. 

He most certainly did! Roman was a noble prince and he knew exactly where his attention was needed. Not some fiendish evil twin! Why would Remus even think he deserved Roman's attention? Because they were brothers? 

They were brothers. Maybe Remus was right, that he should care, or admit that he cared. 

“And now I'm ready to churn up some cinnamon roll cummies!” Remus chirped and set the clean dishes aside.

No, Roman did not have to give him any attention. 

He huffed and sank out to gather the ingredients for the rest of breakfast. If he were smart he would do all that cooking in his part of the Imagination. And he was feeling rather intelligent.

Remus mentally patted himself on the back. This was not the right time to get into deep stuff and get all emotional. He had work to do!

--

(1)(3)

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Okay, okay, hear me out

Fanboy with #7 from the fluff prompts.

Thanks for requesting this one Mocha! I love you babe! I hope this includes all of the soft fluffy feels for Mickey! @twsssmlmaa, for you, Person A stealing person B’s sweater/clothes. 😘😘😘

Hoodie

It's late and you're feeling kind of chilly as you sit on the sofa in your living room. You're fighting your yawns because it's nearly 1 AM, and while you should go to sleep, you don’t want to miss a minute. Your roommate, Mickey, is a Naval Aviator and he’s been on deployment for the past six months. He still paid his share of the rent and utilities, but it wasn’t the same living in your apartment without him in it. Movie nights were one of only a long list of things you’d missed doing with him. 

This particular night, Mickey and you had settled in to marathon the Lord of the Rings movies. You were partway through the first movie, and Mickey had demanded a break to go pop some more popcorn. Mickey had stolen the majority of the throw you kept over the sofa and left you with only a corner. And now, you’re freezing. Since he can't see you, you burrow under the soft blanket, rucking it up until it's completely tucked around you.

But it doesn't work. You're still freezing. You drape the blanket around yourself and walk into the kitchen. Mickey's got his back to you, hips grooving to the beat of the song playing lowly over the speakers. He's wearing a pair of soft sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He doesn't notice you until you tug on his sleeve.

"Hey, Mickey?"

"Yeah? What's up, Bugaboo?"

"God, you're such a nerd. Have you been watching Miraculous Ladybug again?"

"Yeah, I have. What's up?"

"M'cold!"

"Says the girl completely wrapped in a blanket burrito standing in our kitchen."

"It's freezing! How come you're not cold?" Your pout is over exaggerated as you peer into his eyes.

His quiet huff of amusement is a balm to your soul when he reels you into a hug. You take that opportunity to sneak your icy hands under his sweatshirt and press them into his hot skin. His yelp of shock has you giggling.

"Go wear a sweatshirt or something! It's November! Nobody told you to wander around wearing shorts and a tank top this late in the year!"

"Well excuse me! Mr. Miguel, 'I'm in the Navy and know better' Garcia! It's called being comfortable and not stealing all of the blanket!"

He snorts as he turns back to the popcorn now popping in the skillet.

"Go wear a sweatshirt, Bugaboo. Popcorn will be ready in five minutes!"

You shuffle towards your bedroom, nearly tripping as you pass Mickey's open door. It's when you're hopping on one foot while struggling to free the other from the snarl of blanket that you notice the hoodie slung across his desk chair.

It's Mickey's prized Naval Academy Hoodie. The one he's safeguarded jealously the entire time you've been roommates. He's never worn it while eating and it still looks brand new. It's also the most comfortable, warm hoodie known to mankind. You've worn it only once before, and it had felt like being wrapped in the warmest hug.

The devil on your shoulder is begging you to take that hoodie. Mickey had asked you to grab a hoodie. And it’s not like you haven’t stolen one of his hoodies before. Just never this one. You debate going through his drawer to search for another, but before you can, Mickey’s shouting for your attention.

“Hey, Bugaboo! D’you want butter and cinnamon sugar on your popcorn? I’ll keep ‘em separate. Don’t you worry!”

“Yeah, Mick! Thanks! You’re the best!”

“You know it, Bug!”

You roll your eyes before shuffling into his room and grabbing the hoodie off of the chair. It smells really good. Like Mickey, the spicy cinnamony notes in his cologne wafting from the fabric. You tug it on over your head, the warm fabric enveloping you as it unfurls. It goes halfway down your thighs and there are several inches dripping past your fingertips. You roll the sleeves into place carefully before re-doing your blanket burrito and walking back into the living room. You’ve just plonked yourself down on the sofa when Mickey walks in bearing the two colossal bowls of popcorn. 

“Feeling warmer, bug?”

“Yeah.” 

You snuggle deeper into the blanket hoping and praying that he won’t make you relinquish the lovely soft hoodie You hopes are dashed, though, when he begins to unsnarl you from the blanket. His eyebrow quirks at the sight of the soft fabric eclipsing your form.

“What’re you wearing, Bug?”

“Your hoodie?” His mouth firms into a straight line. “I know it’s your special hoodie, Mickey. But it’s so warm, and it smells like you and …” Your voice tapers off at the lack of emotion on his face.

“I’ll take it off. I’m sorry.” You shouldn’t have done that. You’re mortified as you file back into his room and carefully tug the hoodie off. You fold it neatly and set it back on his bed before walking into your room. You’re rifling through your closet when you feel fabric collide with your back. You turn to see your roommate standing in just his white singlet. His sweatshirt lies in a crumpled heap at your feet. You grab the soft fabric and tug it on.

“C’mon, Bug. We’ve got 8 hours more of movies to watch.” He drags you by the hand until you’re propped against his chest on the sofa with the throw draped over you both. “I’m not mad at you. And if you want to borrow a sweatshirt, just ask.”

He hands you one of the bowls of popcorn and hits play on the remote. You nuzzle in under his arm, smiling as he waits for you to pop a bit of the aromatic, fresh buttery corn into his mouth. This? This is exactly what you’ve been missing, even if you have to watch 8 hours of movie to get it.

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[m4ndysk4nkovich]

i definitely think that mickey texts like an old man. he uses basic emojis and doesn’t fully get internet slang and only has youtube and twitter. meanwhile, ian has twitter, instagram, youtube, tiktok, and he had facebook and tumblr at one point. the years that mickey was locked up effected him because he really doesn’t understand half of the shit debbie talks about when she talks about her stupid tiktoks and shit and he bullies carl and debbie when he sees them filming tiktoks. maybe by 2023 mickey has an instagram and a tiktok, but on tiktok he just watches shit about guns and stupid things like the cinnamon challenge, and on instagram he posted one picture and it’s a bad photo of ian that ian begged mickey to take down. he doesn’t have a profile picture, and his username is probably just “mickeymilkovich” or he just rages because he doesn’t get why everything needs to know his name and birthday and gender and ian rolls his eyes at his husband.

[wh0lemilk0vich]

Cinnabon at the food court!!!!!!! Ian would be dying holy fuck. Mickey licking the icing off his fingers, eyes fluttering shut, moaning loudly (at least that's the way I eat Cinnabon and I'm not even trying to seduce anyone lol). And poor Ian has a job where the LAST thing he needs is to seem horny while on the clock poor little baby

He unravels that shit, tearing off piece after piece, licking sticky glaze off his fingers and the corners of his shiny pouty lips. Ian has watched him eat so many cinnamon rolls and he always thinks this is going to be the time he gets through it without popping a boner and every day he has to set the "Days without getting turned on watching my boyfriend eat" counter to zero.

In this case, Ian absolutely drags him away to do unspeakable things because it's just professional courtesy that Mickey finish what he started so he can go back to work without people thinking he's a sex pest. He goes as easy as he can on Mickey, the boy's full of Chinese and cinnamon sugar, and he tastes like glaze, and Ian is sprung and wrecked, sorry!