#ukranian mickey

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

In case you've been missing this fic - it got updated today! And in case you haven't read it yet - give it a go, promise, you won't be disappointed :) Heads up, it's a WIP.

Selfless Acts of the Illegal Variety

Chapter 5: Mickey Gets on with the Program Rating: E Word Count: 4.2k Summary: It happened fast. Seems like the only way they could ever do anything.

Read the fifth chapter of Selfless Acts of the Illegal Variety here, or start from the beginning here.

[mandy4ever69420]

side note it always makes me kind of chuckle when people take svetlana calling mickey ukrainian derogatorily as an indicator he'd in any way consider himself like, ukranian-ukrainian. if we were meant to think that then someone could've at least taught noel fisher how to pronounce mikhailo

[flamingbluepanda]

i'm on public transport, so i can't be blamed for my thoughts-

today's nosho brain rot is mickey and ian visiting ukraine for some reason (it's probably ian having some sort of "you gotta know your roots" schtick going, they've already been to ireland), and ian being mad at mickey for some reason (he probably exclaimed how easy it'd be to steal shit in the shops), just exclaiming a very exasperated "mikhailo" and suddenly mickey is knee deep into some ukrainian grandma talking him down in ukrainian and he's unable to stop her.

He suddenly flashes back to being small and his mom exasperatedly chewing his ass out in Ukrainian, he feels like hes supposed to go to his room now, thanks a lot Ian.

That, or, to Ian's great surprise, he sheepishly apologizes in ukranian- not great, he's clearly out of practice, but he knows enough- and the grandmother immediately is like "oh!! You are so cute I want to pinch your cheeks" and spends the rest of the train ride asking him about his family history (I don't know much) and who his grandmother is (she died when I was 13, but she used to send me new shoes whenever I needed them) and how cute he is (thanks) and if he's going to marry a nice ukranian girl, her granddaughter is single and about his age (I'm already married) and how nice his husband is (thanks again)

Either way, Mickey is throughly chastened and maybe invited to dinner with her granddaughter lmao.

[thatoneao3author]

fic excerpt - bright as the stars

here’s another excerpt from chapter one of my au, bright as the stars. ian’s an actor who hosts a space-themed kids show called Interstellar Ian 

this scene shows svetlana’s role in this universe as ian’s hair stylist/makeup artist and establishes mickey’s existence in this universe. this is like, the end of a larger scene, but I don’t wanna give you guys too much. enjoy! 

Svetlana seemed entirely unshocked when words bubbled out of the ginger’s mouth as if he couldn’t stop them, as if he couldn’t possibly stay quiet and let the lady do her job. 

That’s something that came with spending your teenage years acting: you get used to always talking. 

“How was your weekend?” Ian questioned. Lana thought about it before answering a question he didn’t actually ask, 

“They hired a new boy to the set.” she said as if she were just remembering, “I was packing up my supplies on Friday and suddenly, this cigarette-smoking ukrainian man is walking around in blue suit much less glamorous than yours. He was rude. I didn’t like him.” 

Ian furrowed his eyebrows. He was usually informed when they casted someone new, but it sounded like this guy wasn’t an actor anyways. 

“Oh! It’s the new electrician.” The actor realized after a moment, “I heard a spotlight operator say that something wasn’t working right through last week. And they just finally decided to hire someone long-term for the job.” 

Ian remembered how whenever there were technical difficulties on set, the tech crew worked to fix it and if they couldn’t, they called whatever number they could find on local advertisements. It was always a different person that came in, unfamiliar with the wires and lights and sets of the warehouse and always one step in the wrong direction away from knocking over thousands of dollars worth of equipment. 

So, by the beginning of season eight, they finally worked out a contract with an on-call electrician that would be around to help with whatever issues arose. 

And apparently, said electrician was a rude Ukranian with a nicotine addiction. 

 “He was handsome, though. Tattoos, dark hair…your type of boy, I’m sure.” Svetlana mused, “You are still sworn off men, yes?” 

“That makes me sound like a loner or someone saving myself for marriage.” he groaned. “I’m just…not looking for anything right now, y’know? Especially not with anyone who works on this set. I can’t- and won’t, do that again. Ever.” 

“It’s not much of a problem if the man isn’t your costar or boss.” Svetlana pointed out, “Fucking writer’s room boy didn’t have many consequences, no?” 

“It’s still not a good idea.” Ian insisted, straightening up slightly when Lana tapped his shoulder. She was now adding some creamy makeup over his eyelids, glancing between the two in order to check if they were even, tapping away with brushes and the tips of her fingers.

“Plus, how do you know ‘my type’? I don’t think I’m crazy for rude electricians.” 

Before Svetlana could even try to reply, he was rambling again. 

“Men can’t get away with being broke, having a bad personality, and looking mediocre. If you check off all three boxes, you might as well give up on love, I think. Mean electrician checks off two out of three, and he’d have to be crazy hot to rebalance the scale.” 

“And what boxes do you check off?” Lana asked, sounding amused now. 

“None! I’m perfect!” Ian replied without missing a beat. He wasn’t truly that confident, but the mock-annoyed eye roll he earned from his makeup artist made his face light up. 

Even though they had grown, independently and closer, over the course of five years, it felt like their dynamic had been more or less the same since season one. It was a playful thing, where Svetlana pretended not to care for him and expressed annoyance and Ian played into messing with her whenever he got the chance. 

Maybe it was childish, but he loved it. 

“Shut up and tilt your head back, orange boy.” she ordered, tugging on Ian’s hair gently. She somehow made the motion look rough, though. 

Ian complied, smile clear across his face. 

The freckles that had once been on his face then were long faded away, but he couldn’t help but compare that moment to one from his first days on that set, when Svetlana was brand new to this career and asking him if he looked okay every few seconds. 

There was that same playfulness. That same smile. That building comfort they now had with each other. 

Ian loved being Interstellar Ian, because it lead to things- to relationships, like this. 

remember to follow me if you’re interested in this au so you know when i get around to posting the first couple chapters of this! feel free to reblog with thoughts and send any questions you have my way! thanks <3

[gallavich-headcanon]

Here's a silly thought- what if the first time Ian has a birthday cake / celebration in YEARS is at the village? Maybe Jimmy-Steve figured it out years ago / when they made the fake documents to travel, but obviously he never said anything. However, it's his first birthday is in Ukraine and Jimmy-Steve bakes him a cake. And suddenly the whole village is celebrating. (so fluff is good for the soul)

Yeah I guess it's bitter-sweet because Ian misses his family and he can't block it out when he's playing with kids and I think he'd be too traumatized to ever want some of his own. But this helps him, just like their cat.

He's in on it the second the suggestion leaves the farmer's mouth. -> I bet Ian is just working out, maybe rolling tractor tires around, lifting stacks of hay from one side to the other... The locals think he's a lunatic. Until Mickey explains to them in semi-broken ukranian that the big orange goof does it to be strong and he's not stealing anything. The old man hesitates but asks Mickey if he thinks Ian wouldn't mind lifting some hay and actually put it down in its place? Mickey is so excited and tells the old man Ian would love to. (of course he beams the second the old man asks him! and gets straight to work!)

i gotta head to the store and run some errands, in the meanwhile-

are we thinking the same? 👀

I-, I didnt know it was-, I’m-… Nosho. I know nothing about call of duty, like literally nothing. And now I discovered there’s a gay lore to cod? Why the fuck didn’t anybody tell me? I guess all my friends are fucking fake bitches because I should have been notified long fucking time ago.

Please tell me everything I need to know about Soap(?) and Johnny(?) apparently known as ghostsoap (?) soapghost (?) I just got suggestions like this and holy shit. Ghost Ian and soap Mickey?

ps is soap wearing a choker or am I imagining?

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

Any fics where mickey speaks Ukrainian. I read Blood in, bleed out and now love the idea

Hey! This is a very fun fic :) Here’s a list we did where Mickey being Ukrainian is a main part of the plot. He doesn’t necessarily talks in Ukrainian there, but it’s obvious that he can ^^

Suggestions are welcome!

[shinygalaxyperson]

Hello, Thanks to @grumble-fish  ❤️ the @galladrabbles prompt is : Tradition 

 *****

When the little Mikhailo used to visit grandma Milkovich, he always loved her old Ukrainian’s book, full of beautiful pictures, fairy tales and local traditions.

Cuddling in her arms, the little boy with shining eyes, listened to the stories of her country.

One time, he even drew two little boys in colorful costumes and wanted to give it to the cute redhead from the 3th grade but he was too shy to do it.

Few years later, he found the old dusty book again, and couldn’t wait to show it to the red little girl sleeping in his husband’s arms.

[xxlovermanxx]

Mickey used to talk to Ian in Ukrainian when he was depressed (and they’d be cuddling or whatever but Ian couldn’t like actually communicate) to the point where Ian can pick up on some words here and there. when they went to prison and had all this time just in their cell, Mickey taught him more Ukrainian to the point where they could have a conversatio. Just imagine Ian and Mickey sitting across from each other on their bunk and he’s quizzing Ian on different words (think very “sunrise from in the heights vibes”) and like praising him when he gets them rigth (in love with your teacher but in a not creepy way things) and now that theyre back at the Gallagher house, if they want to be sappy and romantic AND if they want to talk shit about the other Gallagher’s they just do it in Ukrainian and it pisses everyone off cause they’re adorable

plz read tags and also if someone wants to write a fic, go right ahead

[gingit-cake]

Just wait til they add Irish step dancing to their repertoire

Husbands having fun together on their anniversary ♡( ◡‿◡ )

[howlinchickhowl]

😂 A fic that made you laugh out loud 😋

Yessss Evie come through with the fic rec asks!

Thank you for playing, I am here to tell you about a little story by our beloved @abundanceofnots called Selfless Acts of the Illegal Variety in which pretty much every sentence mickey says makes me full out laugh. and then I am repeating it to myself for days on end afterwards. you try rubbing dicks while i sleep? 😅 a masterpiece.

and while we're on the subject of Ukranian Mickey, has everyone read Lost in Translation by @goodkwuestion? very funny, and sweet, and hot, and cute!

Let's also talk for a second about (g)loved up by @gallawitchxx which is probably not meant to be funny, but made me die with laughter anyway. There's just so much come. And honorable mention to my permafave, my forever-rec, and a story that people must get very bored of being recommended but which is applicable every single time: Two of Your Earth Minutes because clueless Ian asking mickey 'what happens after you sit on them?' when they're talking about babysitting jobs will never not be funny to me.

[abundanceofnots]

Ellie write the greencard fic challenge! It's what the people want...

Well, if it's what the people want, who am I to say no... 😏❤️

the greencard fic draft in question

[heymacy]

*flies across the country to give you a hug and a prompt* 💛 how about 11 and 96??

julissa 😭 my love. my light. my beloved, beautiful sweetface. i’ll meet you at the airport so i can hug for you all eternity 😭 😭 😭 💛 

11 [Witch/Magic/Psychic AU] and 96 ["Take That" Kiss or "Shut Up" Kiss]

The Moonbridge Institute for Young Witches has just gone co-ed for the first time since it opened its doors 1,500 years ago. Ian Gallagher is a young Irish warlock (accents, ooooo) that enrolls in the Institute the second he turns 18, excited to get out of Ireland and spend some time in the United States. Once he lands in Massachusetts, he settles into his dorm, where he’s saddled with a moody, brooding Ukranian warlock (accents, ooooo part 2) that goes by “Mick” - or at least he would, if he let anybody talk to him. Ian is determined to break down Mick’s walls, conjuring up all sorts of oddities he thinks Mick might like. A magical drawing pad that never runs out of paper after he caught Mick doodling in the courtyard after their Necromancy 101 class. A crystal pendulum he leaves on his desk after finding out that Mick was top of his class in Divination. An ancient book of spells he’d transported from the restricted section of the library, hidden in the stack of leather-bound books Mick keeps on his desk. But Ian’s attempts to extend an olive branch are rebuked at every turn, until one day, Mick confronts him.

mini ficlet below the cut 💫

“Hey, fucker” a voice says, and the soft Ukranian accent, dulled by years in the states, rings like a familiar tune in Ian’s ears.

Ian looks over at the bed on the other side of the room. Mick is sitting propped up against the pillows, reading the book Ian had conjured up and hidden in the stack on Mick’s desk.

“Uh, hey,” Ian responds, dropping his bookbag on the floor beside the door, kicking off his shoes and heading over to his bed.

Before he gets all the way there, Mick shuts the book and drops it on the mattress, standing up from the bed and charging over towards Ian.

He grabs Ian by his sweater, shoving him up against the paneled wall. Ian lands against it with a small oof! but Mick keeps his hands fisted in the fabric, his own t-shirt ratty and torn, only the words Fleetwood Mac scrawled across the front. Ian catches his breath and stares at Mick, the other man staring back just as intently. It’s a long moment before either of them speaks, just the creak of the old wooden floors and Ian’s gasping breaths filling the growing silence.

“What the fuck is your deal?” Mick asks, scowling, and Ian attempts to shrug.

“What are you talking about?” he responds, and Mick keeps his grip on Ian’s sweater, pulling him forward, then shoving him back against the wall once more. Ian lands with another oof! and Mickey keeps scowling.

“The shit you keep leaving around,” he says, demanding an answer, and Ian knows the jig is up. Still, he can’t give in. There’s something about the way Mick is looking at him, eyes dark and narrow, that sends a jolt through Ian’s body. A very human, very visceral jolt, vibrating from the base of his neck all the way down his spine.

“What shit?”

“The shit. The shit you keep conjuring up and leaving around the room.”

“Like what?”

Mick grumbles and releases his grip on Ian’s shirt. He doesn’t step back, keeping Ian pinned against the wall with only his eyes and voice.

“The notepad. Then the pendulum. Now this?”

Mick turns around and walks over to his bed, picking up the antique book that’s still a bit dusty, the leather binding well-worn and creased at the spine.

“This,” he said, turning back around and storming over to Ian, shoving the book in his face. “This isn’t even supposed to exist.”

Ian smirks.

“But it does.”

Mick stares him down, trying to get a read on Ian’s face, and Ian tries his best to maintain his innocence.

“Well knock it off,” Mick demands, and Ian chuckles, completely enamored by the way Mick has chosen to tell him off. He could easily use his fists - he was good in a fight, Ian had seen it when he’d taken down Nicholas Gardner in the courtyard the first day of class - but he was choosing to tell him to knock it off. Of all things. So American, so uncharacteristically passive.

“And what if I don’t wanna knock it off?” Ian asks, and Mick raises his eyebrows sky high.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ian smirks again, unable to hide his amusement at Mick’s unusually vulnerable persona. He seems confused, flustered even, like he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of someone giving him gifts for no particular reason.

Well, Ian had a reason. And that reason happened to be that he was maybe, kinda, sorta, definitely, insanely attracted to his roommate, and had been since Orientation day. If he could break down the stone walls Mick had built up, maybe he could figure out what really made him tick.

"I just thought you’d like ‘em,” he says, and Mick’s confused expression stays put.

“Like them?”

“The gifts.”

Mick raises his eyebrows again.

“Why the fuck are you giving me gifts in the first place?”

Ian shrugs. “Like I said. I thought you’d like ‘em.”

“No other reason?” Mick asks, and there’s a shift in his energy, the way his eyebrows lower along with his eyelids, chin raising a bit, his look transforming from irritated to inquisitive.

Ian shrugs again.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

Mick blows out an irritated breath, trying to regain the persona he knows so well.

“Well stop it,” he says.

Something surges through Ian - a burst of confidence, or maybe stupidity combined with a complete lack of self-preservation. Either way, it forces out his next words before he even knows what he’s doing.

“And what if I don’t?”

Mick’s eyebrows shoot up again.

“What did you just say?”

“I said and what if I don’t? What if I don’t want to stop giving you gifts?” He tilts his head to the side, eyeing Mick up and down. “What if I want to give you more than just gifts?”

Mick swallows hard, his jaw twitching. Ian’s struck a nerve, he knows it.

There were two possibilities for how this could play out. Either Mick would beat the shit out of him, or the two of them were about to rip off their clothes in a frenzied, frantic race to devour each other.

Mick contemplates it for a moment, then charges forward, grabbing Ian’s sweater in his fists like he had before. Only this time, it’s not in anger.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and rolls up on his toes, pressing his lips against Ian’s, and Ian’s entire body lights up.

It feels like the first time he ever used magic - unexpected, unplanned, out of the blue, filling him with a light and a warmth like he’d never felt before.

But somehow, this was even better. ✨

[gardenerian]

Does Mickey ever flip through one of Ian's gardening manuals and call him Red Beefsteak the rest of the week?

oh yes, absolutely. no shortage of tomato names for them. see also:

baby cakes

beauty king

beefmaster

best boy

big beef

big rainbow

big yummy

booty

cherry baby

cream sausage

flaming burst

fruity cherry

get stuffed!

hard rock

honey delight

illinois beauty

magnum

moneymaker

mr. ugly

orange king

orange sunshine

pink pounder

prime beef goliath

red candy

red lightning

small fry

sunny boy

supertasty

sweet orange

tough boy

ukranian purple

[flamingbluepanda]

I also personally headcanon that Mickey has his own complicated relationship with religion -- I'm a firm believer that his mom was religious, and that Terry even dragged them to the local ukranian orthodox church a few times.

He probably wonders how god - any god, no matter what fucked up shit you've done - could let some of the things he's seen happen to him. How could any god look at someone as good as Ian make him suffer? Or someone as feircely loyal as his sister? His mom?

Anyway yes I've thought about this once or twice lol

Alicia 🖤 how are you today my love? Any fun plans for the weekend?

Time for Gallavich wedding headcanons: 1. Besides edible boxers from Carl and the honeymoon Car from Liam, what wedding gifts do they get? 2. What flavor was their wedding cake? 3. How the fuck do they have 120 guests at the wedding? Who are they inviting? (only to claim they have no friends a season later?) 4. Why did Ian say Mickey and not Mikhailo? 5. What's one thing in the wedding that way important to Ian? (Chiavari chairs level important)

Heya, my grandma turns 85 next week! We're having her party tonight, And tomorrow I'm going to a potluck

1. Money. People probably just kinda threw money at them. What do you get for two dudes who don't have a house and decided they were getting married like a month ago?? I do think Mickey stole got Ian a new watch, and Ian probably got Mickey a new gun or a new pair of timberlands or something

2. Chocolate, these boys have a sweet tooth

3. I think some of them were ex parolees, some were gay Jesus groupies. I think all the firefighters and EMTs except Caleb came because they all liked Ian lots and think what their bro did to him was really shitty!!! Ian's himbo firefighter friends may only exist in my brain but they're important. Anyway, Tony the cop came, probably also invited that police officer who was married to Carlos. Kermit came and dragged tommy with him, plus a few other alibi regulars. Some of Mickey's cousins who still like him, some extended Gallagher family members. I think that in season eleven they wanted gay friends, which still doesn't make sense because with 120 people SOME of them were probably gay, but hey, whatever shameless, you do you

4. Oh this is a good one. I think it is, genuinely, because he's always gonna be Mickey to Ian. Mikhailo is his past, it's what he was known as in prison, it's what his mom named him, it's what all his ukraninan extended family insist on calling him. To Ian, he's Mickey, his Mickey who's been there through the worst and came out for him. He's Mickey, and he wakes up with Ian every morning and gives him morning breath kisses and let's Ian put his freezing cold toes beneath his thighs. He's Mickey and he will defend Ian from his family, but also defend his family at the drop of a hat.hes Mickey, and he's Ian's, forever. I definetly think he used mikhailo later tho

5. Hm... I think for Ian it was important to have someone from a church marry them. Ian has a complicated relationship with religion, and so does Mickey, but Ian really didn't want one of their friends to just get ordained and do the wedding, he wanted a minister. Other than that, probably the food. The Gallaghers believe food is love and a good family meal is vital to a good life. They had family dinner when nothing else was going right for them, Ian makes sure the food at his wedding is good and tasty and there's enough for everyone.

[unbridgeabledistances]

a ✨drunk and clingy ian✨ one-shot

okay so we all know that saint patrick’s day is a very arbitrary and somewhat meaningless holiday (at least in the u.s. lol)- but we also know that the gallaghers are incredibly fucking irish, so i am using this as an excuse to write some drunk and clingy gallavich fluff (bc i think we all need it!! or at least i do!!!!)

hope y’all enjoy<3

--

Mickey and Ian came in the door from their final weed security run of a way-too-chilly and grey March afternoon, kicking the slush off of their lace-up boots in a tired but comfortable silence. Mickey had been fantasizing for a good part of the afternoon about his usual afternoon ritual of collapsing onto the couch with a cold beer in his hand, and taking a long lazy nap while shitty game shows played on the TV in the background— but unfortunately, Debbie had other plans. Or so he realized when he turned the corner and his eyes were met with a forest of green and white streamers blanketing the living room, with Debbie determinedly balancing on a kitchen chair to hang them in the doorway.

Mickey did a double-take, shooting a glance at Ian and then back at the festive room again. What the fuck? He quickly racked his brain— there was no way he’d could’ve forgotten Franny’s birthday, that was in the summer—and he was pretty sure that Liam’s birthday was in the winter sometime; so whose the fuck was it? Too many goddamn Gallaghers to keep track of. Finally, Mickey admitted his own defeat.

“Is it someone’s fuckin’ birthday or something?”

Mickey flashed another gaze to Ian in confusion as he said it, hoping that Ian would silently mouth whatever the occasion was to him, or at the very least raise his eyebrows and goad Mickey enough to jog his memory to remember whatever the fuck today was— but Ian just gave an easygoing grin as he took in the room’s decor and let out a laugh.

“Debbie, isn’t this kind of going overboard?”

Debbie looked over her shoulder from where she was now taping a crudely scribbled picture of a shamrock, most likely drawn by Franny, up onto the wall.

“What? If it’s our last Saint Patrick’s Day in the house, the least we can do is go out with a bang,” she answered nonchalantly, and continued fixating on hanging up Franny’s drawing.

Mickey inadvertently let out a scoff and rolled his eyes. Fucking Gallaghers.

“I’m sorry, fucking Saint Patrick’s Day?”

Ian’s lips formed a playful smile and he elbowed Mickey between the ribs. “Yeah, Mick, Saint Patrick’s Day— also known as the unironically most important day of the Gallagher family calendar year. I can’t believe I forgot it was today, with all the work stuff we had going on.”

At first Mickey couldn’t tell if Ian was actually being serious— but in the same second he decided that it didn’t really matter, since Ian’s eyes were bright and shining and there was this weird giddy grin he was sporting from ear to ear, like he was absolutely fucking delighted that it was Saint Patrick’s Day, instead of just a normal goddamn Wednesday. Fucking softie.

And as endearing as that was, Mickey still couldn’t let him off that easily. “There’s no way I’m celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day. It’s a fake holiday for yuppie rich kids to go bar hopping—I’m not getting involved in any of your Gallagher bullshit.”

Ian’s grin just grew, like he knew exactly what Mickey was doing. “Hey, you married into this family. If anything, this is your own fault.”

Mickey just rolled his eyes, then continued to unlace his boots and throw them by the doorway.

“The fuck do you do anyways, aside from getting trashed?”

Ian put a hand on Mickey’s upper back to steady himself as he pulled his own shoes off. “I think getting trashed pretty much sums up the festivities. Today’s practically a holy day of observance for Frank, and I’m assuming Debbie’s also just gonna use today as an excuse to get drunk on a Wednesday.”

“Hell yeah I am!” Debbie called from where she was putting the chair back in the kitchen.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “I knew Gallaghers were white trash, but I had no idea you were this bad.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t have any Ukranian white trash holidays or whatever?”

Mickey held back a bitter laugh. Yeah, they had “holidays,” in the form of days when Terry was celebratorily drunk enough to leave them the fuck alone for 24 hours, rare occasions when his looming shadow was out of the house and a festive lightness bled in in its place. They sort of celebrated Christmas, which was mostly just associated with too many painful memories of Terry ripping open the presents before he or his brothers had the chance, and too many painful stings associated with him having one too many drinks as they sat quietly inside the sagging house and pretended to be a big happy family for one night a year.

But never anything as gaudy and deliberate and ridiculous as observing a C-list, Irish-American holiday just for the hell of it, just for fun—which yes, was probably fueled by Frank’s alcoholism more than anything else, but also made something swell in Mickey’s insides that he didn’t quite know how to place.

And Mickey didn’t know how to let out that entire internal monologue to Ian while Debbie was standing within earshot. “Nah, man. Milkoviches don’t really do… holidays.”

Ian snaked a hand around Mickey’s back, giving his shoulder a squeeze, a grounding touch. He gets it.

“Well, get ready to have your mind blown, Mr. Gallavich, because we’re about to celebrate this hallowed occasion Gallagher style.”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, but let himself lean into Ian’s touch, lean his weight ever-so-slightly against Ian’s chest that was pressed behind him by the doorway. And, okay— as stupid as this was, maybe there was something sort of warm and solid about tradition, about hand-scribbled shamrocks and streamers on the wall, about having days to celebrate just because you wanted to, just because you could…

Just then Franny came hurdling into the room, wearing a baggy green t-shirt and a face-painted shamrock adorning her cheek.

Ian’s face lit up when she stopped in front of them. “Hey Franny! Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”

Franny held out two bottles of beer to Ian and Mickey from where she had been hiding them behind her back.

“Mommy said I should give these to you when you came home!”

Mickey smirked, carefully taking the bottles from Franny’s outstretched hands. “Thanks, kiddo.”

And if all celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day took was knocking down a few beers on a weekday afternoon—well, Mickey wasn’t going to complain about that.

**

Of course, hours later Mickey realized how severely he’d underestimated Debbie’s enthusiasm— after lounging around the house waiting for the stream of Gallaghers to trickle in from their various daily activities, Debbie had rounded everyone up and they migrated to the Alibi as the sun was setting, where they’d met up with Kev and V and Lip and Tami, who (thank fucking god) looked as vaguely confused and fully apathetic about this whole “Saint Patrick’s Day” situation as Mickey did.

Now it was late, and Mickey was leaning against the bartop of the Alibi sipping a thick, foamy glass of Guinness, which was as close to embracing whatever-the-fuck Irish heritage his husband had as he was possibly going to get.

All of the Gallaghers were here, swirling around the room—Debbie had put on some sort of peppy music as Kev poured everyone drinks, and a couple of other Southside neighbors had heard the bass thrumming and joined the ruckus. The room wasn’t too crowded, but it was pleasantly full of bodies and chatter— Kev had bought bunches of shiny, tacky green mardi gras beads for everyone to wear, and the air in the room was festive and bordering on sloppy in a way that felt very different from how Mickey had envisioned this evening would go.

Mickey was pacing himself, because it was a Wednesday for fuck’s sake— but his husband was an entirely different story. Between the beers at home and the various drinks Debbie had been siphoning into his hands all night, Ian was teetering on the drunkest Mickey had seen him in years—which partially made the tiniest spark of trepidation start to creep into Mickey’s bloodstream, a spark that he immediately extinguished. It was one night, the first in a long time— Ian deserved to have some fun.

And he definitely, definitely was having fun— casually dancing with Debbie and Sandy and whoever else would humor him, grinning with red-hot cheeks and bright eyes— from across the room Mickey could tell how warm his skin would be if he pressed a hand against it, how flushed. Mickey wasn’t really in the mood for dancing, or whatever the fuck stumbling around and chatting and making friends Drunk Ian was up to for the evening, and he was perfectly content to nurse his drink at the bar— which is why it surprised him when Ian pulled himself out of the crowd, slightly stumbling over his own feet, and made the way across the room to where Mickey was leaning at the bar, immediately boxing him in and putting his hands square on Mickey’s waist. Mickey almost imperceptibly let in a sharp breath.

Ian looked down at him, all smiles and shiny eyes— when he spoke the scent of sweet, hot liquor danced on Mickey’s face and all he wanted was to be closer, to breathe it in.

“Are you having fun?” Ian’s right hand traced up Mickey’s side, then back down to its hold on his hipbone.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “You and your leprechaun family don’t mess around, Gallagher.”

Ian smiled a lazy, tipsy smile, and pecked Mickey’s cheek before Mickey could be embarrassed about it.

“D’you wanna dance with me?”

Ian’s hands slid off of his hips and entangled with Mickey’s hands that had been hanging limply at his sides, walking backwards so their fingers were laced together an arm’s distance apart.

Mickey shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll leave showing the Irish pride to you and the rest of the drunken Gallaghers.”

Ian registered Mickey’s words and opened his mouth to reply, just as Debbie pulled Ian over by the arm.

“Stop sulking with Mickey and do more shots with me!”

Jesus Christ. Ian was going to be wrecked when their alarm went off for work in the morning, and Mickey was starting to debate if he was going to need to have a talking-to with Debbie about the appropriate amount of “Saint Patrick’s Day fun” they were allowed to partake in next year— but for now Ian was happy, and he could stomach one night of hardcore festivities.

Mickey stood at the bar for a while, watching Ian and Debbie get progressively more flushed as they bobbed through the crowd— and then, when Debbie had found some other victim in their mid-twenties to get even more shitfaced with, Ian made his way across the room to Mickey again, plopping onto the barstool beside him and heaving his bodyweight onto Mickey’s left side, burying his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck. Mickey wrapped a tentative arm around Ian’s waist, trying to hold him up from slouching off of the barstool.

“M’tired.” Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath dancing on his collarbone as he slurred out the words, and felt Ian’s eyelids flutter shut against the side of his neck.

Ian was always giving Mickey measured casual touches, wherever they were—but it was so exceedingly rare that Ian fully let himself go like this, let himself be drunk and happy and just crumple into Mickey, without worrying about holding anyone else up. It felt new, but it felt good— Mickey let the solid weight of his husband’s body leaning against his press him down, rooting him into the Alibi’s sticky floors, feeling the clammy skin of Ian’s forehead that was solidly lodged into the side of Mickey’s neck.

He hated to admit it, but in that moment, something in Mickey was also frozen solid— as much as Mickey had grown in the past few years, something about these situations, about PDA or whatever, still made Mickey feel like he was treading water—like he was fighting to stay afloat while everyone’s eyes were on him, and the strong current was only lifted when he and Ian were in the dark safety of their bedroom. If Mickey was drunk at a bar and sloppily leaning onto Ian, there was no doubt in Mickey’s mind that Ian would hold him, would gingerly touch him and caress him and do more to him than just prop him up— but something in Mickey still hesitated and flashed with warning signs in a crowded room full of people.

But Ian was still breathing hot on Mickey’s neck— so Mickey thought about what Ian would do, if it was Mickey who was tipsy and slumped on his shoulder. He tentatively raised his arm from where it was lying limply by his side, and started to run soothing circles onto Ian’s t-shirt, just above his hipbone where Mickey’s hand was holding Ian up by his waist.

Ian hummed in acknowledgement of the touch— and then he pressed a tender kiss to the crook of Mickey’s neck, where his face was buried. Fuck. Mickey just pulled him in closer, gently tugging Ian’s torso in by his belt loop to hold him steady.

Ian hummed again, then started to press kisses up and down Mickey’s neck. “You smell good.”

Mickey’s heart started to beat a little quicker, his blood running hotter than usual—and Ian couldn’t fucking do this now, while the rest of his family was milling around and dancing and wearing fucking mardi gras beads while flaunting their Gallagher pride.

Ian lifted his forehead off of Mickey’s shoulder, and gently bit at the underside of Mickey’s jaw—and Mickey thought he was going to combust right there, on the spot, in a room full of Gallaghers pressed against the bartop at the Alibi by his very drunk husband.

And in an act of excruciatingly inconvenient timing, Lip sidled up to the bar and sat on the barstool on Mickey’s other side, nursing what Mickey assumed (and hoped) was a diet Coke in a beer glass.

“Hey there, Mick. And, uh, Ian.”

Ian looked up from where he was very engrossed in continuing to nuzzle the opposite side of Mickey’s neck, and glared at Lip from across Mickey’s chest.

“Go away, Lip.” Ian collapsed his head back onto Mickey’s shoulder and closed his eyes again, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s neck like a fucking boa constrictor. Mickey snaked an arm up around Ian’s back, holding him steady on the wobbly barstool.

Lip held back a laugh as he sipped his drink, then took a drag of the cigarette he was holding. “Seems like Ian’s done enough drinking to make our ancestors proud.”

Mickey took a sip of his own beer with his free hand. “Debbie made sure of that.”

Lip raised his eyebrows. “Damn. Guess we’d better keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t also have the Frank gene.”

Mickey grunted in acknowledgement, then took another sip of his beer, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say. Ian’s head shifted slightly on his shoulder— and Mickey realized he probably needed to haul Ian home ASAP, before he was even more sleepy and incoherent and unable to lug down the street.

Lip noticed Ian’s movement on Mickey’s shoulder and smirked. “I’ve gotta say, I’ve never seen Ian being this clingy before. Even with other guys—no offense, Mick— he usually stayed pretty contained. And you guys aren’t usually too into the PDA department.”

Mickey shrugged, trying not to jostle the heavy weight of where Ian’s head was hanging. Lip was right—he and Ian never really were all over each other, especially not like this, outside of the context of their room, when they were very much always all over each other.

Lip kept studying them, and the corner of his mouth eventually ticked upward. “It’s good. He’s definitely not this… comfortable with anyone else. Including me, which is definitely saying something.”

It felt weird, to get something like what felt like Lip’s full blessing at a raunchy Gallagher party months after he and Ian had gotten married—but that was also exactly what it felt like was happening.

Lip’s eyes suddenly darted across the room, to where Tami was holding up his coat and gesturing to the door. Lip rose from the barstool, stubbed out his cigarette, and put out a hand to clap Mickey on the shoulder as a goodbye.

“Catch up with you later, Mick.” Lip reached out and jokingly tousled Ian’s hair. “Make sure this one doesn’t hate himself too much tomorrow morning.”

Mickey smirked. Ian was practically asleep and drooling on his shoulder, his breathing turned steady—Mickey reached a hand up to card through his hair, then gently shrugged his shoulder to get Ian’s head to rise from where it was jammed on his neck.

Ian raised his head, his eyes bleary and confused at first, then softening around the edges when he met Mickey’s gaze.

“Alright, let’s get you home, carrottop.”

[gallawitchxx]

bee ✨💛💫! how do you feel about bartender ian and bouncer mickey?

vicks! 💫⭐️🌟

i feel okay about it! i would say b/b+ depending on what else is going on in the story. there is something sexy about bouncer!mickey for sure, but i'm not sure bartender!ian does it for me? (bartender!mickey though sluuuuurp) i prefer when fics play with dancer!ian. it's angsty & complicated & hello TIPDIG 🖤

all that being said, the ukranian bouncer!mickey fic by @abundanceofnots might be happening & i am patiently awaiting that one with GLEE!