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“tell me goodbye” while unbuckling his belt was wild

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"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the illustrious @gallawitchxx <3 This is a very verrrrrryyyy far off scene from The Stowaway, but one that I am fucking simmering in my veins to get to! Something big happens both before and after this snippet!

CW: Blood and scars

Mickey closes and locks the door behind himself as he approaches the desk. He sits on it, the wood creaking slightly beneath his weight.

Ian says nothing, just takes another drink of his rum before offering the bottle to Mickey. Mickey takes it from him, their fingers brushing for a brief moment before he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a small sip. He places the bottle on the desk and retreats to the side table to get a washcloth from the basin of water.

He brings the cloth to Ian’s bloody face only to be batted away with his hand and a firm shake of his head.

“Let me,” Mickey says, determined, as he reaches up once more.

This time, Ian doesn’t protest. He simply grunts in the back of his throat and closes his eyes.

Mickey thoroughly wipes all the fresh and drying specks of blood from Ian’s face, drawing the cloth in gentle, sweeping arcs across his brow and his nose and his jaw. He switches his grip on the cloth to a clean part of it, dragging it in barely-there strokes over Ian’s lips.

Face once again pristine, Mickey moves to start unbuttoning Ian’s bloody shirt, when a firm hand grips his own. Firmer eyes meet his. A silent but loud no.

“Let me,” Mickey whispers this time, fingers continuing to pop out one button from its hole even with the added strain of a hand holding his wrist.

Ian doesn’t stop him. Releases his hand and sighs quietly through his nose.

As Mickey slides the stained fabric over Ian’s arms, his muscular upper body is exposed.

And it’s covered in scars and tattoos. A fearsome kraken snarls on his chest, each pec home to a bulbous, glaring eye with a razor-toothed beak inked at the start of his abs. Tentacles swirl along his shoulders and arms and ribcage, snaking over to his backside. Between the tentacles, words in old English and Latin are scrawled next to nautical symbols and patterns, making his skin a veritable ode to the sea.

And marring his otherwise perfect flesh is a smattering of scars. Some short and fine, others long and jagged, the skin puffed up or sunken in and paler than his natural complexion by two or three shades.

Mickey tosses the shirt to the floor and runs his fingertips over an obvious bullet wound on Ian’s right shoulder, the skin a shredded circle devoid of ink. He locks eyes with Ian in silent question, but he merely shakes his head softly. Mickey explores each and every scar visible on Ian’s chest and arms, gingerly tracing them with the pads of his fingers.

Ian shudders on one particularly gnarly scar running from the center of his lower abdomen all the way to his obliques.

“Who did this to you?” Mickey whispers.

“It’s not important,” Ian answers just as quietly.

But it is important. Important to Mickey to know that the men who caused such obvious pain to Ian have suffered for their crimes. The fact that Ian’s still here after all of it should be testament enough, but Mickey wants to know that the other men are rotting on the seafloor, an early grave for the lot of them.

Tagging @whatthebodygraspsnot @catgrassplantdad @howlinchickhowl @deedala @heymrspatel @thisdivorce @palepinkgoat @mybrainismelted @blue-disco-lights @suzy-queued @gallapiech @spoonfulstar and anyone else! This can be for art or words!!

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wip wednesday

hehehehe i'm starting this round because i've been writing my M8TE one-shot & although i didn't finish in time for gallavich week (during which the first chapter of M8TE was posted in 2022), i am determined to get this baby out the door to you!

here's a snippet of bitchy!ian pissing off his mate... 🖤

“Oh come on, I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” Mickey insists, giving into his urges and pushing away from the table, his arms finally crossing. Ian’s pout is next level now. “Actually, I don’t know. And I certainly don’t know him.” Mickey’s brain is running on overtime now, scanning through the last couple of weeks of extra shifts, wondering who Ian could possibly mean, when it hits him—  “Are you talking about Todd?” “Who gives a fuck what his name is?” Ian rages. “I don’t know him, Mickey, and I don’t like the way he was looking at you!” “Jesus Christ, Ian.” Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s my fucking boss now.” The old guy who ran the boxing club finally kicked the bucket, and left the business to his son, Todd, who’s an absolute moron. Mickey takes back what he said about anybody being able to log onto Google. This idiot wouldn’t know his way around an expense report if it tied him up and fucked him eight ways to Sunday. Not that Mickey wants to picture anybody, or anything, fucking Todd. Ian may be up in arms about some fictional flirtation, but Todd’s as ugly as he is dumb. Mickey would rather chew his own balls off. “Great, can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives with him,” Ian says, his nose turned up in disgust.

tagging @whatthebodygraspsnot @catgrassplantdad @iansfreckles @howlinchickhowl @gardenerian @whatwouldmickeydo @wehangout @deedala @mmmichyyy @sgtmickeyslaughter @callivich @abundanceofnots @beckyharvey29 @crossmydna @thisdivorce @rereadanon @echotrees @em-harlsnow @the-rat-wins @ian-galagher @ohkate @darlingian @palepinkgoat @pillowbee @jessij1997 @jrooc @captainjowl @creepkinginc @gallavich-annise @runninonemptyy @spoonfulstar @suzy-queued @blue-disco-lights @mybrainismelted @too-schoolforcool & literally anyone who wants to play! I WANT TO READ YOUR WORDS PLEASE & THANK YOU! xx

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PEDRO PASCAL Vanity Fair

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Han turns to Princess Leia. They look sorrowfully at one another, then Han moves toward her and gives her a final, passionate kiss. // Han and Leia's eyes lock; the moment seems suspended in time. [...] Another shared look between them, as she smiles up at Han.

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Stop telling temporary people so much about you

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frank ocean pink + white minecraft parody version

@crossmydna and i have been playing a bunch of minecraft so i doodled this (ft @jrooc)

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a girl who is a noir detective man and a guy who is a femme fatale

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I don't know what happened with this one but it did so here you go 😆.

Gallavich Week Day Six: Rainbow

The Colours of Us

Red is for blood. 

Not the skinned knees of childhood. No... For you it's split lips, bloody noses, broken teeth. Grazed knuckles. 

It's fighting tooth and nail. Against each other. Against the world. Because anything worth having is worth fighting for. Because anything worth feeling is worth fighting against. 

But when you've fought against it too long you begin to realise the truth. 

Orange is for his hair.

They call it red, or ginger. But it's orange. 

Sometimes burnished and bright like fresh bronze. Catching sunlight and stealing breath. Sometimes deep and dark, almost true red, in the window light as a teenager wields a tyre iron. Sometimes bright in the sun, shining in the filtered light through the bleachers.

A constant. A draw for the eye. A realisation that this is what you want. That no matter where you go, or what you do, or who you screw, the orange of his hair will always catch your eye. Just like he caught the rest of you.

No matter what happened back then, no matter what never healed, you'll still want him and only him. 

Yellow is for faded bruises. 

Wounds so deep only the very surface is visible, like an iceberg that pierced the body. And everyone else thinks that when the yellow fades to skin it'll all be gone. 

You know different. You know the bruises are still there. Still ready to hurt when pressed the wrong way.

Green is for his eyes. 

Those eyes that catch the light, like his hair. Luminous. Penetrating. He sees everything even when you don't want him to. He sees the bruises you haven't let heal. He sees the festering wounds that sit in your heart. 

Or he should. He sees those wounds and says it's not rot. He says it's just hurt. He kisses that centre and says it'll get better. That it can be better. 

He says it so you almost believe it. 

Blue is for the sky. 

The skies you've seen together over Chicago in the summertime. Skies that faded to inky black when you whiled away hours lost in each other. Skies that shone down on you while you ran and laughed. While you kissed. 

Skies over Mexico. The skies where he was with you and the skies where he left you. The skies where you were alone but free. 

Dusted with fluffy white clouds, or threatening at the grey skies of winter. 

But in summer, when you were together, it felt like you could face anything. 

Violet. 

Violet is for the future. Because it doesn't remind you of the past. 

There's nothing rich or luxurious about your past. The closest to purple you got was the darkest bruises, and even those were more indigo. 

Now you can have flowers. Lavender and lilac and violets. Now you can have plush cushions and warm blankets. And why not have them in purple?

Purple completes the pride flag that he displays on the dashboard of the ambulance. It completes the rainbow of your life so far. So why shouldn't the future be violet?

After all, you're together. So it can only be better than the past.

And as for ultraviolet? Well... The things that light shows are between you and your husband.

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@gallavichthings

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xx

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Intro to Quantum Dating

fic by @spoonfulstar

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obsessed with this