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mood

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What's that about anyway? It's a long story. Ends in all-you-can-eat tamales. Come here.

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Anybody else just tired and bored with themself or is it just me and Bruce Springsteen

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hi beeee!! i hope you're doing okay 💖💖💖

ooohohohoho okay for the kiss thingy: god knows why cuz it sounds potentially very painful but i feel so compelled to request 28 🙏

sweet deanna! i'm hanging in, thanks love! 💖 so you & @lingy910y both requested #28 & i want to fill both of your prompts. but because you were (rightfully) afraid of pain, i gave you one that's a bit strange, but has a promisingly happy ending? you can be the judge! xx

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send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

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#28: ...as a lie ps. this is inspired by this post about dealer!mickey & insomniac!ian, who have now rotted my brain.

Ian hasn’t slept in days.

It’s happened before—endless energy is one of his tried-and-true symptoms of mania—but this isn’t that. He’s taking his meds, his skin isn’t crawling and his mind is fairly quiet. Quiet enough to frustrate him as he tosses and turns and wonders what the fuck’s going on.

His schedule has been all over the place lately; his normal routine lost to the endless cycles of employment and Gallagher family responsibilities. He’d been hoping to add school to the mix this semester so that he could have other, less hectic options than a rig-riding EMT, but he’d pushed it off. A pity, now that all-nighters are apparently his thing.

Night two, he googles a few things, which is a huge mistake. Who can fall asleep after reading about how even just twenty-four hours without sleep can begin to derail your bodily systems? Sleep deprivation can cause or worsen conditions like Type 2 diabetes, High blood pressure, Stroke, Heart attack—his pulse leaps as his phone clatters to the ground.

Night three, he takes to the streets, running around the Southside until his lungs burn and his knees wobble. As he passes the clinic that gave his seventeen-year-old self a lifetime prescription for antipsychotics, he knows that if this lasts much longer, he should call his doctor. Tell them his nighttime meds aren’t putting him to sleep anymore. Nip this insomnia thing in the bud before it can overthrow the delicate balance he’s worked so hard to maintain.

Night four, desperate and a bit delusion, he pulls up a number he hasn’t used in years, saved under a contact labeled, DO NOT TEXT.

He breaks his own rule: Hey. Still making house calls?

The response is almost immediate: the fuck u care for?

Ian rolls his bloodshot eyes, typing: It’s an emergency.

Three little dots herald a response that makes him laugh: a weed emergency?

He stays strong: Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.

The next text makes his chest clench: u ok?

He decides to keep it vague—I can’t sleep, but it’s not what you think.—and hopes he doesn’t have to explain further and is relieved to read: u want ur usual?

Another clench: Indica

Two texts arrive in rapid succession: what else do u want? can i give u head while u smoke or no?

There it is: the reason Ian doesn’t use this number anymore.

Maybe in another life it would be a blessing to have a weed dealer to lovers arc with your childhood crush, but in this one, it was a curse. A curse that lasted almost a whole year, bringing with it an endless bouquet of blissful fucks and free weed, and a million moments of tenderness Ian knew nobody else was getting out of the guy. A curse that eventually came to collect payment in the form of bloodied knuckles, broken hearts and ego wounds. A curse that still clings to Ian’s psyche, filling his dreams with gentle, tattooed fingers and bright blue eyes and a sweet and savory scent that can only be described as Mickey.

Mickey, now DO NOT TEXT.

On second thought, maybe he should never sleep again.

The knock at the door makes him hard—a Pavlovian response that irks him more than the three sleepless nights he’s suffered so far. Three raps, one right after the other. The last one no more than a brush of his hand.

Ian adjusts himself and answers the door.

Fuck, one look at that smug asshole and he’s immediately right back in it. Lust and like and maybe even a little bit of reckless fucking love fill his body, rising to the surface like sweet cream. A layer of fat on the roof of one’s mouth; a treat to lick later, a reminder that they didn’t end things because they weren’t insanely hot for one another and potentially soulmates. They were just idiots. Stubborn, petty dicks.

Oh Pride, the great slayer of men.

Jesus, he needs to sleep.

“First one’s on the house,” Mickey says as he crosses the threshold, a joint held tightly between C and K.

Hours slip by. They laugh, they smoke. It feels like old times. Ian’s body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in years. It feels good. Like maybe-he-could-sleep-tonight good. And as he melts further into the couch, he starts to get a little horny too. Because Mickey’s yapping on and on about some asshole that frequents the bar he works at, and Ian’s listening, he swears he’s listening, but he’s also staring at Mickey’s mouth like he wants to take Mickey up on that text message and shut him the fuck up with his dick.

Like he wants to taste the stale smoke of his tongue.

Wants him to stay the night.

Forever, maybe.

Mickey finishes his story. His eyes go soft and he drums his fingers against his knee. “Should get outta your hair, Gallagher,” he says. “Letcha sleep.”

That’s the last thing Ian wants.

“Not tired,” he fibs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not? ’S been days, man. This shit’s gotta be hittin’ ya by now.”

It’s true. It has been days and this shit is hitting him. Or maybe he’s having a sleep-deprivation-induced stroke. He just knows Mickey can’t go.

“Can’t go to sleep without a goodnight kiss.”

Mickey’s already leaning in when he asks, “Then you promise you’ll hit the hay?”

Ian nods as Mickey presses a kiss to his lying lips.

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My Neighbor Totoro (1988)

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Being silly together is my favorite type of intimacy.

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anyway. onto better things

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Galladrabbles: blur

This week's @galladrabbles is based on the prompt "blur" from the lovely @callivich. <3

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“You ever make someone cry before?”

He doesn’t know what made him say it. An attempt to be cocky, he guesses. To hide his discomfort and how desperately he’s not into getting his ass fucked by fake silicon dick. Now, hours later, alone in his room, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He’d brushed away the wetness gathering around Mickey’s eyes as he'd moved gently inside him, his own vision blurring with tears.

“I’m so proud of you,” he’d whispered, lips pressing softly against Mickey’s skin, bruised and broken.

It wasn’t about ecstasy that night.

It was about being free.

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He wants to be with me.

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diagnosis: "are they mad at me" disorder

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‘stop eating your weight in fruit loops, go get dressed!’

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Mickey Milkovich | 11.01

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💚🩵

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Mickey Milkovich, Shameless 3×02

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warm orange windows and blue night in the background save me. save me warm orange windows and blue night

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"A little biting never hurt nobody." pwease & ty 🖤

"A little biting never hurt nobody."

Lip and Tammi are staying in their guest room for a few days while something gets figured out at their new place. Something gas-related. Ian doesn't get it fully, but he doesn't need to. All he knows is he's not about to let his brother blow money they could be using on that on a hotel or AirBnB.

After only a minimal amount of coercion, Mickey agrees to host them. And now that they're well on their way to their fifth day of cohabitation, he's more than comfortable with having those two around again. It's like old days, but better. Because this time it's his and Mickey's own home, and this time they'll eventually be getting out of their hair.

So Mickey's adjusted. Very well. Maybe a little too well.

While Lip and Tami are going over something at the dining room table a few feet away, they're stretched out on the couch, good and cozy with something flickering on the TV.

Mickey's practically in his lap he's so comfortable - a normal position for him when they're alone, and finally making its appearance again now that Mickey's adjusted to people being in his space. Fuck, he's so at ease from that wine at dinner that he's even got a little nibble going on, soothing himself with a soft, mindless graze of his teeth over Ian's knuckle. They do this sometimes, his big hand rests against the bottom half of his mouth. Almost like he's a step away from covering it.

It's not all that crazy. Ian almost doesn't say anything. But a brief moment of awareness has him second-guessing. In protection mode of Mickey's peace, as always.

"Hey..." he says very quietly down to him, "...you care that you're doin' that...? Around them...?"

What he's doing seems to register in Mickey's brain then too, his teeth relaxing from a gentle bite. He pulls his head away to look up at him, expression easy. "There somethin' wrong with it...?"

And, "No," Ian insists, "course not..." It is routine for them, after all. He just knows how Mickey is. Doesn't want him to feel weird, is all - if a certain brother of his noticed and decided to make a stupid comment about it.

"Little bitin' never hurt nobody," Mickey murmurs then. And it's all Ian needs to hear to soothe his concern, a lazy smile working to his lips to match his husband's.

At the dining room table, the discussion is starting to heat up a bit.

But on the couch, Mickey slips right back into business. Grabs Ian's wrist and helps his hand back into place over his mouth so he can nibble on the knuckle of his pointer finger for good measure.

It's calming for him. Ian knows that. But what really surprised him over the years is how calming it is for himself too. The warmth of Mickey's mouth. The light touch of his tongue every once in a while. The easy pressure, his fears of getting his finger bit off subsiding long ago, even when he needs to bite a little harder.

He likes it. And Mickey likes it. They both like it. And they're in their own house on their own couch, so of course they're gonna do it! Mickey is so right.

The episode ends. Another begins, blasting them right away with a raunchy scene of sweaty, grinding bodies.

And it's not like they haven't been having sex while Lip and Tammi are here. They've definitely been having sex while Lip and Tammi are here. It's just that they haven't been able to honor their full potential - haven't had the space to just go apeshit - another one of their routines, but this one filled from top to bottom with creaking furniture and loud, nasty moaning.

It's their house, but that shit is just for them. So they're refraining. For now. Which means when the guy on the screen lets out a throaty moan, the camera panning over his sweaty back, Ian feels that shit right in his dick.

He's not the only one. He can feel Mickey's tongue dart out along his finger down there, tracing along it just a touch too purposefully for it to be considered mindless and soothing.

Ian lets it go. Lets him do it. Lets the moment play out on the TV, the scene feeling like it's reached the ten minute mark holy fuck, Netflix just kinda lets anything fly these days, huh?

When the camera breaks away into a different location - different people - the relief that should come with it never lands. Because they may have entered a different scene, but Mickey's settled into this new vibe and seems good and comfortable in it, his lips parting to suck lightly into the side of Ian's finger - warm and wet and pleasant.

"Mick..." he says, quiet enough that it's just for them again.

But he doesn't really know what he's saying, to be honest.

Because now that they're here - now that those lips are dragging heavily over his finger until reaching the tip, and then wrapping around and taking the whole thing into his mouth - fuck, it feels good. He maybe doesn't need it to stop, actually. This is okay.

It's their house and their couch and if his husband wants to suck on his fingers, of course he's going to! Mickey is so right.

So Ian lets him, enjoying the little thrills that uncurl in his belly as Mickey's licks between two of them and then lets them sit heavily in his mouth.

It's not a new sensation by any means, but Ian's always taken away by how fucking good it feels. Mickey's tongue is so soft... So warm... So wet and welcoming as it gently laps over the pads of his fingers, just like it does when his mouth is a little lower.

Another swirl of interest, working down through his belly and between his legs this time...

Fuck...

Okay, maybe they should stop actually. Before Ian hauls him off to bed for one of those extra loud and nasty fucks they've been keeping under wraps.

But Mickey looks so hot when he tilts his head to look up at him, his eyes pretty and heavy-lidded while he quietly sucks to the tip of Ian's fingers, and then flattens his tongue and drags it purposefully up the underside of them, spreading tingles in Ian's hand and Ian's lap.

"Jesus..."

Mickey arches a lazy eyebrow at him. Smirks as he presses his lips to Ian's wet, glistening fingers. 'You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?' without a single word.

And yeah. They're definitely on the same page, the couch groaning beneath them as they both get to their feet, trying their best to act natural.

Or - well, Ian is at least. Mickey doesn't give a fuck.

"We're uh..." Ian motions toward the back of the house, not even pulling his brother's attention, "We're just-"

"They don't give a fuck," Mickey insists, and then starts directing Ian into the hallway with helpful shoves. "Come on."

Once their bedroom door closes, the biting gets a little harder.

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