#my gallavich ficlet

[sam-loves-seb]

the bathroom drawer

"Mickey!" Ian yells. "Did you move my cologne?"

"Your what?" Mickey calls back, appearing in the bathroom doorway while buttoning up his shirt.

"My cologne."

"No. I don't even know where you keep that shit."

"In here!" Ian says, shaking his head as he rummages through the drawer below their bathroom sink. "I swear I left it in here."

"Lemme see," Mickey says, nudging Ian to the side. "You're shit at looking."

"I'm not shit at looking, it's just not fucking there."

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey grumbles, moving the junk in the drawer around. "Jesus Christ. How much shit do we got in here?"

"Too much," Ian muses, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the sink. "But it doesn't matter anyway. It's not in there. I've been looking for--"

"Found it." Mickey holds up the blue bottle with a smug grin.

Ian grabs it from him. "Whatever."

Mickey raises his eyebrows. "Whatever? That's what I get?"

Ian leans in and gives him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he says instead.

"Better," Mickey grumbles.

Ian spritzes the cologne onto himself while Mickey keeps rummaging around in the drawer. He pulls out an empty toilet paper roll, a broken comb with too many teeth missing, and an old phone charger with exposed wires.

He throws them all in the trash. "This thing is a mess."

"Yeah," Ian says with a sigh, checking himself over in the mirror. He paws at his hair a bit. "We gotta do a deep clean in here one of these days. Closet's a disaster too."

"What the fuck is--"

Ian looks over at his husband when he doesn't finish his sentence.

Mickey's brows are furrowed as he holds up a thin black stick in front of his face. "Is this makeup?"

Ian huffs out a faint laugh. "Yeah."

"Debbie's?"

"That thing's old enough to be Fiona's," Ian tells him, taking it from Mickey. "But no. It's mine."

Mickey raises his brows. "Yours?"

Ian uncaps the tube, twists the end so the little black tip pushes through the end. "Eyeliner."

"Holy shit," Mickey says slowly. "How fucking old is that thing?"

"Old," Ian says, trying to read the chipped writing on the side for any kind of date. "Probably expired."

"That shit expires?"

"Supposedly. But who knows."

Mickey tilts his head, watching Ian examine the eyeliner. "How the hell did it end up here?"

"No idea," Ian tells him. How it survived in the Gallagher house for as long as it did and moved to their west side apartment is beyond him. "Probably got boxed up with some of my shit a long time ago."

"Huh," Mickey muses. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Can't believe you used to put that shit on every night."

"Me neither," Ian says. "You ever tried it?"

"What, make up?"

"Yeah."

"For a disguise once or twice," Mickey tells him with a shrug. "Never like, just 'cause."

Ian starts to grin. "You wanna?"

"Fuck no," Mickey says instinctively. He bites his lip. "Why? You gonna wear it tonight?"

"Why not?" Ian asks, facing the mirror and leaning in close. "We're already going to a club. Might as well get go all out."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah." Ian glances over at his husband. "You got a problem with that?"

Mickey shrugs. "No."

"Okay."

Mickey watches with rapt attention as Ian applies the eyeliner to himself. The stick is old for sure, and it takes a few passes to really get the make up on his eyelid. It only takes a minute though, and then Ian's eyes are outlined in black.

"There," he says, blinking and turning to face Mickey. "How do I look?"

"Weird," Mickey says.

"Sure, but like, crazy weird, or hot weird."

Mickey's brows pinch together. "...Hot weird."

Ian grins. "It's kinda doing it for you, isn't it?"

"No. Shut up," Mickey says quickly.

Ian laughs. "You should try it," he tells his husband. "It's fun."

"It looks like it's gonna get in my eyes."

"Maybe," Ian says with a shrug. "But I bet you'd look hot with it."

"You say that about everything you want me to wear."

"And I've never been wrong once."

Mickey makes a face. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"...Can I take it off if it looks stupid?"

Ian's face relaxes. "You can take it off whenever you want," he says softly. "Doesn't ever have to leave this bathroom."

Mickey glares at the eyeliner, his face slowly melting into apprehensive reluctance. "Fucking... fine."

"Really?" Ian asks, perking up.

"How do I do it?"

"I can do it," Ian offers, holding up the eyeliner and his open hand. "Lemme put it on you."

Mickey sighs through his nose, then steps closer. He tilts his chin up and fits his face into his husband's waiting hands.

Ian kisses his temple. "Close your eyes."

Mickey does as told. His eyelashes flutter at the first press of the stick, eyelids scrunching at the new, weird sensation.

"Hold still," Ian whispers, trying not to poke him in the eye.

"Feels weird," Mickey mumbles.

"Yeah, but..." Ian pulls back, smiling at his work. "Open your eyes."

Mickey blinks them open, eyebrows bouncing with it. "So?"

"Damn," Ian says, grinning. "You look good, baby."

"Fuck off with that," Mickey grumbles, turning towards the mirror. He makes a face. "I look like a fucking alien."

"A hot alien."

Mickey gives him the side eye, but he doesn't immediately wipe the eyeliner off. He leans in close to the mirror, tilts his head this way and that. Pulls at the skin on his cheeks and his temples. "Weird," he says quietly.

"So," Ian starts, capping the eyeliner and tossing it back in the drawer. "You ready to go, or what?"

Mickey sighs heavily, taking one last look at himself in the mirror.

Ian slides in behind him, curls a hand around his hip. "Don't overthink it," he whispers, kissing his husband's temple. "If you like it, go with it."

"I don't know if I like it."

"That's okay too."

Mickey leans back against him. "It looks good on you."

Ian smiles softly. "Thanks."

Mickey hums. "Fine," he says, standing up straight. "Let's go. But if anyone says anything about it--"

"I know," Ian says, hands on his husband's shoulders as he follows him out of the bathroom. "You get to punch them."

"I get to punch them."

"Fine." Ian kills the bathroom light. "And we might have to hit the 24 hour CVS on the way home. I definitely don't have make up wipes."

[mmmichyyy]

40? for the prompt

#40. "am i your husband or your taxi service?"

the first time it happens, mickey doesn't think much of it.

can you pick me up after my shift? too tired to take the L

when mickey is near the station, he parks the van a block away. force of habit from when he and his brothers used to sneak up and collect from people who owed terry money. plus, he doesn't particularly want ian's coworkers to see their stolen ambulance, even though it's completely unrecognizable after debbie helped them revamp the entire thing and paint over it with the logo sandy designed.

here

i don't see you

i'm parked a block away

pick me up at the station

your legs don't work?

i'm tired :(

i drove the van

it's fine no one will be able to tell lol

mickey rolls his eyes and drops his phone in the cupholder. as he pulls up across the street from the station, he sees ian standing on the curb, chatting with someone wearing a matching EMT uniform, a shorter man with tan skin and curly hair.

mickey honks once, a bit impatient since he's hungry as fuck and there's a large pizza he ordered earlier waiting for them at their apartment. ian lifts his head and smiles. as he waves goodbye to his coworker and jogs over to the van, mickey doesn't miss the way the dude is gaping at mickey with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

the hell is this guy's problem?

"everything okay?" mickey asks, once ian buckles his seatbelt and reclines his seat.

"just tired." ian yawns. "had a long shift today."

"well," mickey puts the van in drive, reaching over the center console to ruffle ian's hair, promptly forgetting ian's weird coworker, "i already ordered a pizza so we can eat then turn in early."

ian smiles sleepily and interlaces his fingers with mickey's. "you're the best husband ever."

mickey shakes his head, biting back a smile. "sappy fucker."

*

after almost two weeks of ian asking to be picked up, mickey suspects something is up. not that he minds or anything, since he makes his own schedule nowadays. after the security business started turning a profit and ian went back to being an emt, he hired a couple of guys to drive the routes so he could work from home and catch up on admin work, freeing up a lot of time in his day to day.

but ian never used to mind the commute. he's the kind of long-legged freak who liked to take the scenic route and go on long runs in the morning, just for fun. absolutely deranged behaviour, in mickey's opinion. but lately, ian has been flashing his kicked-puppy eyes and asking to be chauffeured like a pampered prince and, well. mickey could never resist spending more time with his husband, so he hasn't said anything. not yet, anyway. god he's so whipped.

the excuses ian came up with, however, were more unbelievable as it went on, ranging from the train broke down (mickey knew for a fact it didn't), to spraining his elbow (though he had no problem throwing mickey on the bed later that night with his supposedly injured arm), to how it was going to rain later (it was sunny all day without a cloud in sight).

when mickey tried to call him out on his bullshit, ian either got down on his knees or flipped mickey over and fucked him senseless into the bed, promptly making mickey forget what the hell he was trying to say.

it's gotten to the point where ian stopped making excuses and simply asked mickey to come get him. which truthfully, mickey doesn't mind at all. but he just finds it odd how his beefy athletic husband had gotten so lazy.

"what's with you?" mickey finally asks one day, as ian climbs into the passenger seat.

ian blinks innocently. "what do you mean, dear husband of mine?"

mickey rolls his eyes. "am i your husband or your fuckin' taxi driver? 'cause i've been picking your ass up every day for the past two weeks when you have two perfectly functioning legs."

ian huffs, crossing his arms. "maybe i just want to spend more time with you."

"we live together," mickey points out flatly, "how much more time do you need?"

"i–"

a tap on the glass interrupts them, and mickey turns to see a woman with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, enthusiastically gesturing at him to roll down the window.

"the fuck?" mickey turns to ian, whose face has turned slightly pink. "did you forget something at the station?"

"ah, no." ian scratches his head sheepishly. "sue is just being... sue."

sue waves her hand again and mickey reluctantly lowers the window.

"mickey, this is sue, my supervisor, and sue, this is–"

"the elusive husband." sue grins. "i've heard a lot about you, mickey."

mickey raises his brow. "have you now."

"oh sure," she says, ignoring ian's frantic head shaking, "ian won't shut up about you, yapping on and on about mickey this and mickey that. we're all jealous at the station actually, everyone just complains about their partners while ian keeps gushing about how perfect and amazing his husband is. his words."

"huh." that explains a lot, actually, why there was always someone different waiting with ian every time he came to pick him up, and why they all stared at him like a circus freak. "well, i bet ian didn't tell you the time we stole an ambu–"

"okay," ian cuts in loudly, reaching over to turn the key in the ignition, "we're leaving. i'll see you tomorrow, sue."

"come to the company picnic next month," sue calls out. "it's a potluck and everyone is bringing their family. it'll be fun!"

"uh sure," mickey says, even though a social gathering with ian's nosy coworkers sounds like the least fun thing he's ever heard of. he looks over at ian, slumped in his seat, avoiding mickey's eyes. "I'll check my schedule."

once mickey drives around the corner, he playfully flicks his finger at ian's temple and ian rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"you yap about me to your coworkers," mickey teases. "you're so fuckin' whipped."

"whatever," ian grumbles. "stupid sue calling me out."

"is that why you keep asking me to pick you up?" mickey asks, amused. "to parade me around like a little show dog?"

"well, eduardo blabbed to everyone he saw you, then everyone kept asking about you and wanted to see you in person, so..."

"hm." mickey reaches over and brushes his thumb over ian's palm. "what do you say about me?"

ian links their fingers together and sighs. "that you're attentive. funny. caring. protective. loyal. the ideal man."

mickey laughs. "you're really overselling me here, gallagher. did you forget i'm an ex-convict, pimp and drug dealer?"

ian waves him off and continues. "kind. loving. perfect in every single way, except when you leave your socks on the floor. oh and that you're hot as hell with an ass that won't quit."

"you talked about my ass?"

"okay, i didn't say the last part," ian amends, "your ass belongs to just me. but i meant everything else i said."

"you really are a sappy fucker."

"you love it."

"i'd love it even more if i didn't have to be your chauffeur every day, at least they get paid to drive back and forth."

"you come with me to the picnic, i'll pay you with favours in bed. i'll even throw in a big tip."

"a big tip, huh..."

[iandarling]

Ian and Mickey playing Cards Against Humanity on their balcony

“Wanna play a game?” Ian asked as he placed the beers down on the table

“Is that a fucking Saw reference, cuz you know I’m into kink but even that’s a little too much for me, man”

Laughing, Ian said “No, it’s a card game- but no, shush, listen! You will like this game, the whole point is to try and be as offensive and rude as possible” He put the box down with the title facing Mickey who did not look happy at the concept of a card game

“Played enough cards inside, man”

“I’m telling you, this is different. Just give it a try ok?”

🖤🧡🖤🧡

“So we each get 7 white cards that will have answers to the questions on the black cards, got it?” Ian started dealing the cards while Mickey looked through the black cards.

Hearing his husband laughing over the prompts on the cards made Ian smile, “what?”

“It says (blank, but not in a gay way) So what, now I look at the white cards and find the fucking answer of whatever” Mickey sipped his beer.

“Yup, the more inappropriate the better. Like this, “A sad handjob, but not in a gay way. That’s pretty funny!”

“Ahh, yeah that’s a good one Red, but look what I got. Necrophilia, but not in a gay way. I fucking win, mine is way worse” Mickey was too smug for someone who just started playing the game

“I told you you would like this game, Mick”

🖤🧡🖤🧡

“Ass to mouth”

“Eating together like a family for once!”

“Dead parents”

“Making your penises kiss”

“Anal beads!!”

🖤🧡🖤🧡

“You know you can buy extra packs of more cards right, so we can get even worse answers if we want” Ian smiled as he packed the game away into its box. “I think they even got a pride version of it filled with just gay jokes”

“You’re a gay joke” Mickey said because saying that he had a great time and would love to play the game again is too sappy. “Buy it”

[jrooc]

Galladrabbles "Muscle"

Thanks for the amazing prompt @blue-disco-lights ✨ (and @galladrabbles)

===

It’s when Mickey lies down at night and closes his eyes, alone in his dark room. That’s when he maps out Ian’s muscles in his mind. Those sculpted arms and the ridges of his back. He can’t help but think of how that hard body feels pressed against his, the weight of it, as he reaches a hand into his boxers to relieve the growing pressure. How Ian’s grown so big that he has to reach up on his tiptoes to kiss him, how hard it makes Mickey when Ian manhandles him, pushing and pulling, wrapping him up, consuming him.

[jademickian]

I think it’s pretty neat that stargazing was a Gallavich thing. 

In season 2, Mickey says “you want us to put a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?” There is that—once again—an inner desire hidden behind the veil of a witty rhetoric. The dawn is popularly the symbol of new hope, the sun coming up shining its light, enveloping the ground with a potential of joy and rebirth. But with stargazing, the darkness in which it transpires precedes the coming of dawn. It is the hoping itself, the wishing, the tilting of head towards the sky, like the heart whispering a prayer to the universe. The sun is a very bright star that illuminates all. It’s overwhelming with its promise of renewal and warmth of love. That's why it’s much easier to look at tinier, less brighter stars at night. The multitude of them enough to give light—not too much—but just enough to stare at, so it doesn’t hit you all at once. The dawn would tell him he deserves to love and be loved, and that contrary to his belief, he’s not fucked for life. It’s a crazy jump, and the blaze of it might even burn. Meanwhile, the twinkle of the stars would tell him that a boy likes him enough to hang out with him, and that it is okay to long for something so far out of reach, for now.

In season 5, Ian is having some grass time (he’s lying on the grass), stargazing. Earlier than this, he mentions you can never see this many stars from Chicago because of light pollution. Mickey calls, and he holds it up to stare at his ringing phone. Contemplating whether he should or should not. He stares at the stars—weaver of fates, guider of travels. Desire, once again, for answers. A confirmation. Some direction. There must be something because here, they’re clearer, unlike back home where it’s hindered by stray city lights. Maybe this could help clear his clouded mind. Maybe he could draw constellations by connecting the dots and it’ll show him what to keep, what to lose. A glint. A flicker. “That’s the most important thing, to find somebody to love, right? Who loves you back for who you are.” But the thing about the stars’ divine message is that it could often be misunderstood. Misinterpreted. Maybe the stars will sigh, oh well. Guess you could take detours. Because another thing about stars is that, although enigmatic to a fault, they know where everything must go. They are close to the language of the gods. Perhaps for now, the answer is to be apart because in the grand scheme of things, it will all play out as planned. 

In season 7, together, under the very same stars. It is hope and desire realized. Who would’ve thought? It was inexplicable, almost alien, that this is how their story is going now. But to the stars, it’s an old song. This is exactly where they should be. It’s the same narrative back then under the bleachers, when they didn’t know better. When voicing your feelings seems a futile and gargantuan feat. It’s the same story now, when they reconvene after, celestial forces refusing to cut these ties. When feelings are all you could voice out, as you’ve learned that if they swim inside you long enough, you’ll drown. “God I missed you.” The stars have known since the beginning. Its plans, slowly unfolding themselves. The wisdom they hold seem nearer now that if reached by the fingertips could be cold to the touch—not yet, not yet. 

But even stars could grow impatient. 

Even stargazer lilies—observer of heavenly bodies, predictor of futures—bloom facing the sky. Upwards, toward the stars, the flower looks upon. Maybe they’re ready for the dawn. The sun, the bigger and brighter star. The ball of fire catapulting itself, yet it doesn’t burn. It caresses, warm to the touch, and over the land gives life. It is here before them, and it will be here after. 

“Now?” Now.

[lupeloto]

“the best thing to ever happen to me” ficlet

so ian is struggling with a down and mickey does some reasssuring

Mickey stands at a still in the doorway for a bit, the lowering Sun peaking through the small crack in the curtains. It’s shining on Ian’s body, glistening against his pale-freckled skin, like it was made to illuminate him.

Mickey stalls in the doorway a moment longer, his heart slightly weighed down at the sight of Ian in the same position he left him in this morning… covers draped loosely over his stomach, arms curled underneath his chin, back turned towards the door

“Hey sleepyface,” Mickey shakes himself, forcing a smile on his face as he makes his way to Ian’s side of the bed.

Mickey crouches down in front of him, bringing his hand up to gently caress his cheek as Ian’s eyes flutter open slowly.

A small, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at his lips at the sight of Mickey, “Hey,” he says in a barely audible whisper.

“Hey,” Mickey grins, “Can I make ya something to eat? I’ll see what i can do with the fuckin’ pizza rolls and pop-tarts we got.”

Ian doesnt respond, simply shifting the comforter back on the spot next to him, signaling for Mickey to join him. Although irritated at being ignored, he feels a rush of relief flood his body. Ian wanting company was a good sign.

“Alright softie, gimme a minute,” Mickey tugs off his work uniform before grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the drawer. He pulls back the comforter, a sigh of relief escaping him as the cold sheets hit his bare chest. It had been a long day taking on deliveries himself…not that he would ever complain.

“Ya wanna turn around? Haven’t seen that face all day,” Mickey touches Ian’s shoulder lightly.

Ian slowly turns his body around, a certain sluggishness plaguing his movements, “Telling me you miss my face and i’m the softie?” He speaks slower than usual, a lag in his joke delivery but a small smile on his face anyways.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says through stifled laughs. He revels in this moment, that sunset now revealing a dusted pink through the curtains that shine on Ian’s face, perfectly complimenting the dusting of orange freckles.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers, facing Mickey, hands curling up under his chin again.

“I know it’s hard. It doesn’t just happen to me,” he hesitates, stumbling slightly over his words, “It-it’s happening to you, too. And i’m-“

“Hey,“ Mickey leans his face in closer, eyes staring up at Ian, “Shut the fuck up for me.”

“Don’t wanna hear any more of that shit. You happening to me was the best goddamn thing I could’ve asked for,” Mickey rolls over on his back, slightly insecure at the level of intimacy in the statement.

“Hey,” Ian touches Mickey’s chin, turning his face towards him, “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me too.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, flashing that one-smile he does paired with a flush of his cheeks. Ian fucking loves that smile. From the minute he first saw it he never wanted it to leave, promising himself to make him smile like that every single day he could.

“Yup. Known it for eleven years of my life,” Ian says, a slight higher register in his voice that lifts a small weight off Mickey’s chest.

“Alright, enough of this shit you sappy-ass. I’m starvin’, want some pizza rolls? Pop-tarts for dessert?” Mickey questions, raising his eyebrows sarcastically as if he had just offered Ian a five-star meal.

“Sounds perfect.” Ian says through a satisfied sigh.

Mickey fumbles out of the bed, leaning over the place a quick peck on Ian’s forehead, moving to his lips for a slightly longer one.

They pull away, a smile on both their faces, “Now get your ass in there, Gordon Ramsey,” Ian grins lightly, poking fun at Mickey’s five-star dinner proposal, feeling a blanket of warmth settling over him.

[crestfallercanyon]

I don't think this is long enough to be a real fic, and it's also not polished as I wrote it in a notes app on a plane, but have a little gallavich ficlet:

Title: A Way to Keep the Nice Things Ship: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Content Warning: Mental Health, Bipolar Disorder, Hallucinations

Ian recognizes that he needs to take his meds, and maybe even book an appointment, solely based on what he sees when he walks into the kitchen that morning.

Still, he can’t help but stare.

Their apartment floor has little knots in the designing of the boards, trying to fake wood grain, knolls where if it were a tree — and if it were ever real — may have held a nest once. Ian has thought about that before, the potential creatures that could have called their cabinets or their floors home, has imagined it when he’s tired or high, always intrigued by the pattern and the choice to try to give the linoleum a life it never actually had.

That’s imagination. Ian can tell when he’s imagining things. Has a very active imagination — very helpful during sex — and it’s especially ramped up when he’s high.

This is different.

Inside one of the knolls this morning there is something blooming. Lush green and yellow moss spills out of the floor and sways in a breeze that doesn’t exist. A night sky exudes from it, a dark purple mist that floats just inches above the ground, thinking with impossibly tiny stars. The starts of blue flowers are budding in the darkness of the wood grain, the petals a pale blue that Ian decides are the start of stargazer lilies.

It’s beautiful. It’s mystic and wonderful and if he were a child he’d believe he was about to be chosen for some great adventure. If this were a storybook, he’d be Lucy in the coat closet on her way to Narnia. Except he is not a child, this is not something he’s imagining. If he reaches down, he could touch the moss and confirm it to his own senses, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s lucid enough to know this is not real. Worse than a mirage, this is a hallucination. It makes Ian sad, distantly, that something so pretty is such a warning sign. Not that unlike how venomous snakes are vivid in color, or how poisonous flowers try to draw the eye.

Mickey walks by him, headed for coffee, another solid reason this isn’t real. Mickey would notice something like this. Instead he asks, “Hey. Whatcha staring at?”

This is beautiful, and Ian’s the only one who can see it, and that in and of itself is the problem.

“Just thinking,” Ian lies. It’s not meant to be a permanent lie. He just doesn’t want to lose the sight of something like this so quickly.

Shuffling footsteps, the sound of poured coffee. The misty galaxy above the ground swirls up, mimicking the twister that’s surely in Mickey’s coffee cup. Then the strong scent of coffee is filling his nose, and Mickey is right next to him, holding a cup for him.

“Ian,” Mickey starts, already in that firm tone of hey, do not bullshit me, which Ian doesn’t mean to, he swears. “What are you staring at?”

“Can you get me my meds?” Ian asks, not taking his eyes off the little world in the floor. “I haven’t taken ‘em yet this morning.”

Time, which already stretches and shrinks like a weak rubber band in the dark morning anyway, is particularly hard to track when Ian’s off like this, because he swears it’s two seconds before Mickey’s back and shoving a piece of toast in his mouth. When Ian obediently chews — because he is listening Mick, okay, he swears — Mickey also holds up his pills and water.

“Would you look at me for a second?” Mickey’s voice is no longer in the firm tone, but is a little wary, and a little small, and Ian picks up his head immediately.

Ian smiles at him. Gulps down his pills, wraps an arm around Mickey, and with his water wet mouth he kisses Mickey right on his temple. “Mornin’”

Mickey smiles back, but his eyebrows are furrowed. “Where’ve you been this morning?”

Ian looks down. The little greenery is still on the floor. Meds don’t work that fast.

“Sometimes… sometimes I hate that I have to take my meds.” That sentiment has every alarm in Mickey’s body ringing, Ian knows, so he grabs him tight to assure him. “Not like that. It’s just — sometimes, what I see is nice. It’s actually nice and good a thing I get to have that no one else gets to see. But I have to stop it, because — because it’s not right.” Ian blinks, looks around, and Mickey hands him his coffee. Ian hugs him tight again. “Am I making any sense?”

Mickey considers. Nods, though it’s not all that confident, but he understands well enough. “What have you been looking at?”

Ian grimaces. “Not sure it’s your kind of thing. But it was nice.”

“C’mon. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to worry you.”

“Not worried.” Mickey puts his hand in Ian’s hair. “Want to hear it. Not just the bad shit, though you know I want hear that, too. But just, if it’s nice, then I want to know that stuff, too.”

Ian hums. Takes a sip of his coffee.

Then he decides, why not? Of all the stuff they’ve had to hear from each other and their families over the year, this is hardly the thing that’s going to send Mickey running.

Ian looks down and starts to detail it. Gets really specific, because if Mickey wants to know, then Ian’s going to try to help him see it too. It must take some time, because Mickey hops up on the back of their couch and is almost done with his cup by the time Ian’s finished. Ian’s own cup is a little cold and could use about twenty seconds in the microwave.

He looks at Mickey, and isn’t sure what he’s going to find. Finds himself grinning when he sees the fond smile that’s on Mick’s face.

“So, yeah. That’s all.”

“Sounds nice, Red.”

“Yeah.”

Ian isn’t sure what to say anymore. Is weirdly embarrassed to be so enthralled by something like this. Something that is not even real. Mick’s probably able to tell that Ian’s squeamish about it, because he doesn’t say anything more. Simply drops off the back of the couch and walks up to him. Pats his cheek.

“Let’s get ready to go, eh?”

_____

It’s not until a few days later that it’s brought up again, and it’s not even direct. A journal that Ian was given by a counselor maybe a year ago that was meant for him to get into journaling and he never could, is set out on the nightstand.

“Where’d you find this?” Ian asks.

There’s a moment where he thinks Mickey is going to act like he wasn’t the one who pulled it out. However, there’s only two of ‘em in this place, so it had to be, so he gives it up before he even begins.

“Thought you could write the nice shit down,” he says, trying to sound casual, but Ian knows how much he’s been turning this over in his head. “Or whatever you want. But that way it doesn’t totally go away. Since, y’know, you don’t like that you have to lose that kind of thing.” Mickey shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but Ian’s eyes are bugging out of his head. “Know Franny would love hearin’ about what you see. Debbie says she can’t read the kid enough fairytales.”

Ian blinks at him. His heart aches in a soft way, over ripened fruit, overwhelmed by sweetness.

He walks over to Mickey with his arms open. “C’mere.”

“Oh, don't go gettin' all doe-eyed—”

“Hug me, asshole.”

Mickey scoffs, wraps one arm around him, but when Ian drapes himself all over him, Mickey laughs and wraps both arms around him. Ian nuzzles into his neck. “Thanks for watchin’ out for me,” he mumbles.

Mickey’s hand buries into Ian’s hair, and Ian sighs. “‘Course. You’re my husband.”

[heymacy]

to be gentle, to be soft by macymacymacy for @depressedstressedlemonzest

summary: a series of four vignettes from their third year of marriage as part of the @gallavichthings Gallavich Gift Exchange 2022

additional tags: fluff, light angst, emotional hurt/comfort, domesticity, intimacy, soft!mickey, just a lot of mickey being soft for his husband, bipolar disorder, post-canon, no beta we die like men

click HERE to read

[rereadanon]

Hello and welcome to another installment of

✨Ficlet Friday✨

As always, major thanks to our Beta Extraordinaire @gallawitchxx, I am forever grateful!

Mickey Gets a Massage

“You think a session with Sarah could help my shoulder?" Mickey quietly asked his husband in the dark one night, while they lay in bed.

“Probably. A massage would feel good even if it doesn’t make a huge difference in your shoulder,” Ian replied.

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed. 

Ian was a little taken aback, but then smiled widely. He thought about his trash-talking Southside husband and how different things were for them these days. Who would have guessed then that Mickey would even entertain the thought of getting a massage?

They had recently had dinner with Sandy and her girlfriend, Sarah. They had met Sarah casually before at various events, but this was their first time, just the four of them, so they had the opportunity to get to know her a little more.

“How didya get into massage?” Mickey had asked her. 

“I did sports medicine in college and took a course and was hooked. I like making people feel good.”

“Yeah ya do!” Sandy interjected with a classic Milkovich smirk. 

“Bet you get some weirdos, huh?” Mickey said.

“Not really, most of my clients are people I have seen for a while and on a regular basis, people with chronic conditions or old injuries that need upkeep,” Sarah informed him. 

It sparked an idea in Mickey’s mind. His left shoulder had been bothering him for a few weeks. They argued about what was causing it–Ian swore it was his use of the "Oh Shit!" handle on the driver's side of their armored vehicle. Mickey said it was due to carrying money and product bags. 

Friday around noon, Mickey returned from his very first massage. Ian was in the office at the warehouse, triple checking the weekend pickups, making sure they were all covered. Gallagher Milkovich Security had expanded enough that there was weekend staff, which allowed Ian and Mickey to have Saturday and Sunday off. 

“Ay,” Mickey said as he crossed through the office door. His hair was a little messy, but he looked relaxed, Ian able to recognize that look anywhere. 

“Hey, how was it? How do you feel?” Ian asked. 

“Pretty good, man. Weird as fuck to get naked and rubbed down in oil and not come my brains out, but it felt pretty good,” he replied. 

“Gonna shower.”

“Okay,” Ian responded, turning back to the color-coded calendar on the computer screen. 

Mickey left the room only to come back a couple of minutes later.

“You’re not joining?” 

“Didn’t want to undo all of Sarah’s hard work,” Ian said.

“You wouldn’t undo anything, a shower would be icing on the cake, man.”

“I’ll ice you like a cake,” Ian teased. 

“So come on, lover, let's go,” Mickey said with his eyebrow raised.

Ian jumped out of his chair so fast you would have thought it was on fire. 

[mmmichyyy]

#78 and #57 from the new prompt list?

#57. "we could get struck by lightning, but you want to kiss in the rain." #78. "can you be romantic for once?"

(continuation of this secret spies/assassins' ficlet)

"fuck," ian pants, clutching his chest, "that was close."

"well whose fault was that?" mickey snarls, pushing ian against the damp brick wall of the dark alley. "if you didn't take your sweet fuckin' time cutting me loose, we could've avoided the storm and gotten to the safehouse by now."

"well," ian takes a step towards mickey, reaching out to push wet strands of hair out of mickey's face, to which he annoyingly swats away. droplets of rain and blood from their clothes mix together, painting the cement crimson red. "you know i like to take my time with you."

mickey shakes his head, ignoring the swoop in his chest. "you're impossible."

"thought that's what you liked about me," ian smirks, lips ticked upwards knowingly in a way that simultaneously annoys and endears mickey to no end.

instead, he spits out, "who said i liked you?"

ian hums. "maybe you don't like me. but," he presses his thumb right on mickey's pulse point on his wrist. whispers, "you know you need me."

"i don't." mickey isn't convincing anyone, not even himself. "i don't need anyone."

"is that right." ian leans in, warm breath curling around mickey's neck. they're standing close, too close. mickey shivers. "then what was that earlier? hm?"

"i said what i needed to escape." ian's tongue licks along the shell of mickey's ear, and he has to physically bite back from letting out a moan. "it's... it's your fault for believing me."

"maybe you meant it, maybe you didn't," ian murmurs. "but do you know what i need?"

mickey shakes his head, a lump caught in his throat.

ian cradles his palm against mickey's cheek.

"i need to kiss you."

the heavy thrum of mickey's pulse beats against his chest, threatening to escape, to burst, to combust, matching the beat of heavy raindrops against the rusted metal awning above their heads. "we could get struck by lightning at any second now, but you want to kiss in the fuckin' rain?"

"i want to kiss you all the time, actually," ian admits. "but watching you slice open all of the guards' necks with my knife and smash that giant asshole's head in? has me all worked up."

mickey lets out a snort. "knew you had a blood kink, gallagher."

"maybe." ian shrugs, dropping his hand. "or maybe i just want to make out with my partner because we eliminated the target, killed off pretty much the entire criminal organization we've been chasing for the past few months, and i've never been more hard in my entire life."

"jesus christ, you're the most infuriating person i've ever met."

"i could say the same for you."

"i hate you."

"i know you do."

"you almost got us killed."

"but we're still alive, aren't we?"

"you don't listen to instructions, you keep thinking everything's going to be okay, that you're fuckin' invincible, that you'll survive anything. but what if you don't, huh? what if one day your luck runs out?"

"mickey."

"I should've never agreed to take on this assignment with you. you're too reckless, you dive in head first without taking account of the risks, you're going to slip up one day and–"

"mickey."

"if the agency finds out we've been fucking they're never going to pair us together again, let alone see each other–"

"mickey."

"what, gallagher?" mickey says, exasperated. "what? am i wrong? tell me i'm wrong."

ian looks at him square in the eye, unblinking. "do you trust me?"

the question hits mickey's chest in full force, throwing off his equilibrium and almost knocking him over. "what?"

"i said," ian curls his finger around a belt loop on mickey's pants and pulls him close. too close. "do you trust me?"

"what kind of question is that?" mickey sighs, exasperated. "'course i do. you know i do."

"then," ian gently presses his lips against mickey's cheek, "trust me when i say–" nose "–i won't let anything–" the other cheek "–happen to you–" temple "–okay? i would take a fucking bullet for you before i let you die on me." bumps their foreheads together and sighs. "it's just you and me against the whole fucking world."

it's moments like this, when ian says shit like this that punches the air out of mickey's lungs and fills him with a fire that incinerates his blood. moments that confirm ian goddamn gallagher will be under his skin until his last dying breath.

"i got your back, mickey," ian says quietly. "do you have mine?"

of course i do you idiot, mickey wants to scream. how can you not know that? you're everything to me. how could you doubt me? how?

but then he sees it. the tiniest hint of vulnerability in ian's eyes, blink and he might've missed it. a tiny crack in the porcelain façade of ian's confidence, a startling contrast to his usual cocky demeanor.

and mickey knows. knew it from the very beginning, actually.

as much as he needs ian, ian needs him too.

they need each other.

"i do," mickey nods. "i always got your back."

"so," ian's eyes meet mickey's own, a faint hint of a smile on his face, "can you be romantic for once and let me kiss you in the rain?

the lines between hate and love, truth and lies, rationality and emotions, pain and pleasure - they have always been a thin boundary for mickey. in his way of thinking, his actions, in the way he breathes - a dangerous contradiction constantly teetering between life and death.

and well. how often will he come across a person who will not only accept his flaws and detriments, but also willing to walk the line with him?

"fuckin' do it then," mickey breathes and ian doesn't hesitate to close the distance between them, gently slotting their lips together at first, then eagerly intertwining their tongues and drinking each other in as the rain pours around them.

kissing ian gallagher is careening off a cliff, an adrenaline rush, a rollercoaster ride. it's also soft waves crashing on the shore, a warm cup of coffee in the morning, a cigarette after a long day.

kissing ian gallagher feels like coming home.

and mickey will chase that feeling for the rest of his life.

[jrooc]

Heyy can i request a fanfic where Carl gets beaten up and Ian takes care of him and his wounds since he is his older brother and also an emt ? Thank youuu

Hi Anon! This took me a hot minute but this is for you! Read the whole thing on ao3! ==/

Ian was done with his shift after a long day and grateful to be almost at the Gallagher house for family dinner.

The strap of his EMT medical bag was twisted, so he was busy adjusting it and didn’t immediately register the mayhem in front of him until he was almost tripping over it.

It was a soft groan that made him look up.

A man was lying halfway up the front steps, clearly beaten, moaning, and bleeding everywhere. Whoever it was, he was dirty and bloody and holding his ribcage in pain. Suddenly the man had Ian’s full attention.

Ian jogged the last few steps.

The man was of smaller stature and at first, the irrational part of his brain thought: Mickey. But then he registered light brown hair.

The man dropped his hands from his face and looked up at Ian as he approached.

Carl.

“Ian,” Carl moaned pathetically.

“Jesus, Carl! What the fuck,” he yelled as he skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees beside his brother.

A look of relief passed over Carl’s face before he curled back up on his side.

“Carl, are you okay?” Ian asked while quickly checking for potential spinal cord injuries. He mentally documented multiple lacerations and bruising to the face, blood coming from the torso indicating additional injuries.

“I dunno.”

Ian took a deep breath. He was a professional, just cause this was his brother didn’t mean he could freak out. Okay he was freaking out a little bit. There was a lot of blood, and sure, he’d gotten the crap beaten out of him. But it was too much blood for just a beating.

He lifted Carl’s shirt and rolled him over, examining him while Carl groaned in pain. There, on the side he had been lying on, was a stab wound. Clean in and out, it looked like, and it was pouring blood.

“Shiiiit,” Ian cursed. He opened his bag, grabbed some gauze and pressed it against the wound, shifting Carl so he was lying on his back. Carl groaned again, tossing his head back and forth in pain.

“Carl, what the fuck happened?”

“Ian, thank fuck,” he said, more coherently, like he’d suddenly realized his brother was there.

Ian reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and quickly dialled Sue’s number.

“Miss me? You’ve only been gone an hour,” Sue joked over the line as soon as she answered.

“Sue, bring the rig to 2119 South Wallace. My brother got the shit kicked outta him, need to take him in,” Ian said quickly, grateful his partner was working a double so he wouldn’t have to call it in.

“Shit. Okay, Ian. On my way,” Sue replied and hung up.

Ian refocused his attention on his brother who was watching him but didn’t look fully lucid, his eyes drooping. A black eye was turning dark quickly. Potential concussion, Ian thought.

“Talk to me Carl, what happened?” Ian asked again 

read the rest on Ao3!

[lupeloto]

"say it again" ficlet

i got an anon message about how ian is a "say it again" after mickey says i love you type of person and i agree! unfortunately, for some reason whenever i respond to a message a draft it, it goes away so shoutout to that person and if youre reading this, let me know! anyways here's ian try and failing miserably at making pizza and mickey giving him shit for it

..........................................................................................

A tattered red dish towel, littered with cigarette burns and mystery stains, rests on Ian’s shoulder as he focuses intently on intricately laying the pepperonis across the dough. The kitchen is in shambles, shredded mozzarella and yeast painting the counter tops. A warmth accompanies the scene, reminding him of the early mornings and later nights spent with his siblings and one too many pools of pancake batter littering the counter. He follows suit with splattered pizza sauce splattered across his shirt and face, blending with the pattern of freckles decorating his pale skin.

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey enters with a box of Old Styles and a pack of Marlboro Reds. Ian meets Mickey’s gaze like a deer in headlights. “What’re you doin?” Mickey takes in the state of the kitchen.

“Well,” Ian whips the towel off his shoulder, “I figured we could try somethin’ new. We always have fucking pizza rolls so I thought i’d try to actually make the real thing.” 

“Aint that what take-outs for?” Mickey picks up items on the counter to inspect, “The fuck is yeast?” He examines the yellow packet with uncertainty. 

Ian leans against the counter with a sigh, “It’s not really working out.”

Mickey catches sight of the defeat in those soft green eyes and immediately starts damage control. “Nah, man. It looks good, I’m starvin’” he smells the air and attempts not to gag. How the hell did he screw up pizza so bad? 

“Fuck off," he stifles a laugh.

Mickey cuts him off, “Ay,” he grabs the tattered towel, “Ya missed a spot.” He manages to find the one spot not covered in red sauce and mozzarella cheese, rubbing lightly across Ian’s now flushed-pink cheeks to scrub off the remainder of tonight’s dinner. Ian’s face scrunches slightly at the contact. 

“Cmon, let’s get this shit cooked I’m fuckin starvin,” Mickey turns towards the counter.

Ian lingers for a moment, staring at Mickey with full knowledge that his concoction smells like shit and almost certainly tastes like it too. He leans close to Mickey’s ear, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Mickey grins, "Now come on." He takes Ian’s face in one hand, the other on his waist, as their lips lock and everything else disappears for just a moment.

Ian’s arm is resting on the counter, his triceps sharp and prominent and staring directly at Mickey, tempting him. He looks down, yanking Mickey closer by the waist, his hands enveloping it entirely, “Say it again.” He wears a smug grin.

“Don't push it, Gallagher.”

"Cmon, just need to make sure I heard you right," he tilts his head amorously.

"Oh, s'that right?" Mickey leans in, a small chuckles escaping his lips, "I fucking love you." Ian beams as Mickey dips his hand in a puddle of the sauce that resides on the counter, smearing it across Ian's face with a grin.

As the shock subsides, Ian hesitates for a moment before grabbing Mickey’s face and smashing their lips together. Mickey surrenders to the kiss, the sauce now coating his mouth and dripping down his chin. 

They both pull back, licking their lips with a sour expression.

“You make this?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says with the same bitter expression, hesitating momentarily, “Pizza rolls?”

“Fuck yeah.”

The two spend the remainder of the night sprawled across the couch, Ian’s legs resting in Mickey’s lap as they drift to sleep, two platters of pizza rolls and a full six-pack into the night. Mickey suggests that they give pizza sauce a go, giving a rest to the chocolate sauce and whipped cream that typically coats their bodies... and occasionally their sheets. He questions a few times how Ian could possibly mess up pizza so badly. Ian responds with a middle finger and a "fuck off" every time. The two eventually drift to sleep, Mickey now laying beside Ian, practically drooling on his bare chest, hands intertwined as the glare from the TV illuminates their faces in the nightfall.

[heymacy]

meet me at our spot by macymacymacy for @gallawitchxx

summary: a 5+1 about ian and mickey’s time spent beneath the high school bleachers

additional tags: 5+1 Things, Gap Filler, Canon Compliant, One Shot, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Pining, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content

click HERE to read

[golden28s]

it's december and christmas is coming so i wanted to share some of my gallavich christmas headcanons 🎄

and maybe maybe ill write some ficlets based on some of them

- mickey didn't like or understand christmas at all but ian slowly started to "push" him to participate in some stuff like decorating the tree, making dinner for christmas eve, putting some cute lights on their balcony, etc

- mickey pretended he didn't care about decorating the tree at first but ian found him at midnight changing decorations claiming ian did it wrong and had no taste, ian smiled and kissed his forehead.

- ian gets kinda sad during christmas, he still kinda misses his mum and every time mickey notices he's getting sad or he's not having a good day, he makes special plans that day. normally is going on a walk and see the lights, going to christmas markets and buy cute, original decorations for their tree and other times is just them in the fireplace, hot chocolate and one of ian's fav christmas movie that mickey forces himself to like.

- they celebrate new year's eve with the gallaghers but ian and mickey always sneak out and have their own private countdown and kiss at midnight. mickey calls him softie and kisses him again.

- they open their presents together and their rule is to not buy nothing too expensive and mickey is too good at that because he remembers ian's interests and likes too well so he always buys stuff that is useful or can be homemade, and it warms ian's heart every single christmas.

- ian insisted on starting different traditions at their first christmas together as a married couple because he knew mickey didn't have good memories of christmas during his childhood. he even made some of those childhood christmas dreams come true.

- once they have kids they're gonna be really annoying about christmas and ian will want family pictures with matching outfits.

-mickey will absolutely start to dress as santa claus after that one christmas where their kids almost caught them organizing the presents under the tree

-before the kids, they had morning sex the morning of the new year and ian always made a joke about that and mickey laughed and then proceed to deny that he laughed.

-mickey actually likes christmas sweaters

-finally, when mandy is in town ian, mickey and the gallaghers have a secret santa that ian and mickey absolutely use to be embarrassing, shameless and in love and make it everyone's problem.

[astaraels]

You just gave me a prompt idea. Pride and prejudice but gallavich??????? If you would be so kind as to indulge me with a ficlet I would love you most ardently 🥺

Okay so anon you're in luck that I've been rereading a lot of my queer historical romance so if you'll pardon me the indulgence, I'm gonna have so much fun with this. You're gonna get a ficlet AND a whole lot of world building, so buckle up, m'dear 😘

(tagging @callivich and @holymurdock since they both cheered me on with this one, y'all're the best~)

———

Ian and his brother stood in the corner of the room, each of them with a drink in hand and feeling marvelously out of place. At least, Ian certainly did—he wasn't sure how he ended up being dragged along to a soirée like this, but his little sister had begged and pleaded because "if nothing else I'll need someone to dance with, and you're so much better at it than Phillip." The row that had started lasted them until Fiona bustled them all off for morning chores. Everyone had to pitch in at the estate, except for Liam, of course.

He took another swig of the cloying champagne, hiding his grimace; he'd rather be drinking a decent stout at the village tavern. Everyone minded their own business there; here, it was as if one's presence was all anyone needed to justify striking up a conversation. There were more unfamiliar faces than he'd expected at this party, although it was crowded enough that he felt safe to let his eyes wander a little.

The dance floor was positively flooded with young men and women, smiling pleasantly at each other as they tried to converse through the steps of a lively quadrille. Both of his sisters had been claimed for a dance; Deborah looked positively thrilled, while Fiona seemed as if she'd prefer to be somewhere else. Ian couldn't help but laugh when he saw how enthusiastic Fiona's partner was compared to her own bland smile. At the very least, their family had to keep up appearances, what with their father's reputation.

A young woman in a pale purple dress walked past them, her matching gloves strangely pushed down her arms until they bunched up at her wrists. When Ian looked again, he realized it was the same girl who'd asked him for a dance earlier, but he'd had to turn down—politely, of course—although he was quite impressed by her approaching him. Not many young gentry ladies would be willing to break convention in such a way. A shame Ian felt nothing for the fairer sex; she might have been someone he could have made a match with.

He watched with passive interest as the girl dispersed into the crowd, letting his gaze follow various other party goers as they engaged in conversation or found new partners for the dancing. Just another country party for eligible young people to meet, after all; there wasn't much else in the way of distractions, unfortunately—not even a room where men might play at cards. That had come as a disappointment for Ian. He'd been teaching the younger ones, and Deborah in particular had quite the knack for it. She might have been all of fifteen, but were young ladies allowed into the gambling hells that Ian and Phillip frequented, she'd clear them all out in a night.

Ian was still amusing himself with the image of his young sister taking the coats off of gentlemen's backs to pay off debts of honor, when he heard an angry voice call out from the crowd.

"Oy, you! Gallagher! You damned blackguard! That's right, I've some goddamn words for you, you piece of shite!"

Several of the ladies nearby gasped at the language; Ian, who had learned worse from the Army men stationed in the village, only looked up at the man advancing on him and set his glass to the side. He stuck his chin out stubbornly and crossed his arms, using his height to his advantage.

"There's quite a number of Gallaghers here," he said. "You might need to be more specific."

"I'm talkin' about you, bloody ginger bastard! You tried takin' advantages with my sister!" The man's accent was rougher than his language, which was almost impressive. He cracked his knuckles, and Ian could see the distinctive blue ink of tattoos peeking out from under the man's coat sleeves. "You admit what you did, and maybe I won't have to drag your apology out your mouth along with your back teeth!"

"I did nothing of the sort," Ian said, immediately putting his back up. Next to him, Phillip set his drink down on a table close by, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ian in a show of brotherly solidarity. "A young lady requested a dance from me earlier. I declined, but I said nothing insulting, much less took advantage."

The girl in question stood behind her brother; they were both quite striking, with pale skin and dark features, and the brother's intense blue eyes caught Ian off-guard. He regained his composure quickly, however, determined not to let himself be caught on the back foot by some do-nothing rogue. He's only defending his sister, a voice said in the back of Ian's mind. You'd do the same for yours. Which was true, but he might at least pull the offender to one side instead of starting a confrontation such as this.

"You callin' my sister a liar, are you?" the man said loudly, which only made the sister scowl at Ian. His face burned hot at the offense—he'd turned down a dance, for heaven's sake, not besmirched her virtue. "In that case-" he took two steps forward and punched Ian square in the jaw. "Come near her again and it'll be a bloody pistol next time!"

"Oy!" Ian shouted, blood suddenly boiling. It was one thing to put off insults to his character, but this was a step too far. He moved forward until he was in the brute's face, and damn his eyes because they were indeed far too good-looking than a man like this deserved. It only served to make him angrier. "I will not stand by and let you continue to speak lies!" He knew this was an idiotic idea, but sometimes one had to do very stupid things and apologize for them later.

The shorter man nodded, looking as if he were sizing Ian up. "Right, then," he said, voice rougher than Ian had expected, and damn if it wasn't a sound that hit him in the best—worst—way. "Outside with you. We settle this here and now."

Phillip finally deigned to step in, putting an arm out to push in front of Ian. "This is a party," he said, in that condescending voice of his that set Ian's teeth on edge. "I'm sure our hosts wouldn't appreciate a fight between guests as a way to end the evening, lively as it might be."

The dark-haired man started to speak, but his sister reached out and grabbed his arm. She spoke in a low voice, low enough for only her brother's ears, and then he turned back to Ian. "This is your one and only warning, then, Gallagher," he practically spat. "Next time we meet you won't be so lucky. Or have your brother to take your lumps for you."

Ian moved forward into the other man's space, using his greater height to crowd him in. "There won't be a next time," he said through gritted teeth. "If I never see you again in my life, I'll count myself damn lucky. But if I do, you'd best hope we're in decent company, or we'll see who's a quicker shot."

——————————————————————

(And here's the world building, under a cut because it got really long)

So the Gallaghers are in the business of coal (because that was a Big Deal at the time, finding coal deposits with the Industrial Era making a big wave) because their great grandparents came from Ireland and established themselves in England. Frank is a wily bastard with a nose to ferret out how to steal shit from under people's noses, so he's a master scam artist but has to move around constantly to run different schemes so the Gallaghers rarely see him. Monica is dead, either in childbirth when she had Liam or from taking too much laudanum.

Fiona, being the eldest, has to get them all presentable to Society and keep up maintaining the house and property along with Lip. They'd likely be at least lower gentry, so they've got land and a few servants, but they're not tenant farmers. Lip may be the one who gets to inherit but everyone knows Fiona is in charge of the household. (p&p fans, I'm imagining them in a similar situation as the Bennets—things aren't great but they're doing their best.)

The Milkoviches immigrated from the Russian empire probably either during the reign of Empress Elizabeth or Tsar Peter III (just before Catherine the Great), and they're still considered outsiders due to their heritage, but Mickey has worked hard to get Mandy a Season so she might make a good marriage and thus have a good life. Mickey makes his money off of wealthier men because he's damn good at gambling and wins a great deal of money playing cards.

As in the ficlet, Ian and Mickey ofc meet ugly like in canon, and they'd have a few run-ins until Mandy and Ian come to an understanding, which is when she tells Mickey to apologize to Ian (he's just trying to stand up for his sister's honor, okay, it's not his fault she keeps changing her mind!)

Also there are ~lingering looks~ and ~fingertips brushing~ against each other when they finally shake hands and call it a truce after getting into a few dust ups. After they do so, Ian thinks hmm and starts to like, seek out Mickey when they're at the tavern in the village or society gatherings for the gentry, and he's pretty certain that they share the same "proclivities" and it all comes to a head when they get into a heated discussion and Ian ends up shoving him against a wall and notices how Mickey reacts and then they fuck nasty in an empty room, but Mickey says not to kiss him, because that's something ladies expect and he's anything but.

Ian ofc is disappointed but at least he feels smug about being right, even if Mickey still calls him a damn Irish bastard and Ian shoots back that he's some Muscovite imbecile (Muscovite being what they used to call people from Russia ofc because I'm pretty sure Ukraine wasn't even on a map at this time in history), but yet they still seek each other out for ~assignations~ while constantly sniping at each other to the point where their rivalry becomes well known in Society. Rivals to lovers is delightful, I can't help it!

They play at hating each other in public but behind closed doors they're fucking nasty and Ian absolutely gets swept off his feet. Mickey does too, obviously, but he has to hide his feelings so Ian doesn't get too attached and ruin a good thing. (Spoiler alert: this fails miserably.) Terry Milkovich, by the by, is currently rotting in debtors' prison awaiting transportation to Australia and good fucking riddance to him (sorry aussies!).

I also love the idea of Debbie wanting to mix in Society and Fiona trying to run the Gallagher estate (which may not be a large one but it's their home) and Carl having dreams of joining the army—Ian wanted to as well but he probably had to stay home and take care of the younger ones, and it's not like he's going to make a Society marriage, anyway. Also Debbie thinks she wants a season to get a husband but ends up being like 👀 at all the fine young ladies—I also just love the idea that she's great at cards from playing with her brothers and learning how to fuzz the cards 🤣

Ian still has bipolar disorder in this au—it's a family secret. Whenever he starts to have an episode—by this point they all recognize the signs—he stays at home and the siblings just say he has a "weak constitution" and ofc he knows the staff gossip about him but better than being sent off to a sanitorium and away from his family. And he hates not being able to control his own mind but his siblings love him and they all promise to take care of him no matter what (it's why he never got to join the army like he'd hoped for, but he still helps Carl learn how to use a rifle, and practice drilling, and all that such like).

This kind of got away from me and I don't have a solid concept beyond all of...this. I know you asked for p&p, anon, so I tried to at least keep to the spirit of the thing, and I hope you like it regardless?? <3 I'd love to hear what other people think about this one, so please share your thoughts!

Eventually there would be, y'know, plot—probably something to do with land inheritance, Frank scamming people and it coming back to bite the Gallaghers in the ass, and both Lip and Debbie end up finding out about Ian and Mickey; Ian would have a bipolar episode and instead of running away, Mickey gets worried about him and is like, oh no I'm having feelings this is Not Good, but at this point he knows he's in too deep. Also he and Ian will have to work together for some reason or another and put their public rivalry to bed (lol).

[sam-loves-seb]

dream a little dream of me -- chapter 1

Ian smiles at him. He checks his watch—ten-thirty—and wonders when they got so old. They’re still in their twenties and more often than not they don’t see eleven o’clock. They used to run around the abandoned buildings and the poorly lit sidewalks until the sun came up when they were teenagers. He can’t even imagine doing that shit now. He’s tired. His body is tired after so many years of fighting against what feels like everything and everyone, and now he’s finally pushed through to the other side. Mickey too. Mickey more than most. Beers and blunts and Friday nights. And a bed that’s just on the other side of the living room.

prompt: “Baby, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

read the rest on ao3