#*macywords

[heymacy]

Welcome, tadpoles, to CAMP BULLFROG!

It's going to be a long summer.

Camp Bullfrog is an idyllic summer retreat for children ages 7-11. Counselors Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich are immediately at odds upon entering the campground. Ian, a seasoned veteran, runs his ship like the navy, leaving little room for spontaneity. Mickey, the newest counselor on the roster, is nothing but spontaneity. After weeks of tension, an incident involving one of the campers forces them to work together in order to save their jobs. Will they make it work? Or will this be their last summer under the stars?

Read chapters 1-4 HERE! Stay tuned for chapters 5-8!

Written by me + @sickness-health-all-that-shit with art by @doshiart ✨

Thank you to @gallavich-fic-club for hosting Gallavich Summer Camp 2024!

[heymacy]

Six years is a long time.

It should have been fifteen, eight with good behavior. But a new slough of gangs provided a steady stream of new targets and unlikely allies. With overcrowding it came down to six years, one month, five days, and…

(He checks the watch on his wrist, pulled from his bag of personal effects.)

…three hours, fifty-two minutes.

If you think he’d forget the exact moment the cell doors shut, the exact positioning of the clock on the wall, well, you’d be wrong.

He counted every godforsaken second.

There’s nobody there. Of course there isn’t. Another inmate released alongside him, a skinny guy named Sam, is greeted by his wife and infant son. Mickey passes them, spits on the ground. Makes his way to the nearby L track and climbs the stairs up into the station.

He uses part of his commissary cash-out to buy a single day ticket.

The L is late. It finally pulls into the station and he steps onboard, finding a seat near a man slumped over, sleeping, a takeout container of rice and beans in his lap.

He rides to the end of the line and back again. Gets off at the stop nearest his old house, figuring he should probably find his bearings.

Exiting the station, he lands on the street, sneakers heavy against the pavement. He needs to ditch these clothes. They’re the same ones he wore when–nevermind.

The house is still there, the front door propped open. The inside is empty, seemingly vacant. He rummages through old dressers and closets until he finds a new t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans that fit just a little too loose around the hips.

Whatever. It’ll work.

As he exits the musty bedroom he spots the dining room table, littered with empty cartridges, old cans of beer, and more cigarettes than the back counter of a BP. There’s also a knife, long and shiny. He walks over and places it in his hand, lets his fingers curl around the handle.

It feels good. Solid.

He tucks it into the back of his jeans and walks out of the dilapidated house and back into the South Side streets.

He wanders, aimlessly, with no clear direction in mind. Then, in a haze akin to a blackout, his body moves him to the one place he always retreated to when he needed to think, needed quiet.

The abandoned building. The one where he and–

He stops himself.

No.

He climbs the stairs to the top floor. Broken liquor bottles, trash, the faint scent of something acidic. Graffiti on the walls, layers and layers built up over the years. On one wall someone has spray painted “STAY” in huge red letters.

His chest constricts.

That’s all he’d really wanted. Stay. Wait. But he couldn’t have that, could he? He didn’t deserve it after all.

A lump rises in his throat.

Crouching down in the corner, he inspects the wall. White paint chips, revealing black letters.

i x m

Fuck.

“It’s still there.”

Mickey’s instincts kick in, hand flying to the knife against his back. He grabs it, whips around, and points it, directionless, into the dusky air. It’s hard to see. The sun is setting.

A figure steps forward. Mickey lunges at him, not taking any chances.

The man – it’s a man’s voice – stumbles backwards against the wall. Mickey steps right up to him, knife in hand, and holds it up to his throat.

“Wait,” the man says, voice shaking.

Then,

No. There’s no way. It can’t be. How would he even…

“Ian?”

Mickey’s entire being comes to a halt.

“Hey Mick,” he says, hands up in surrender.

Mickey tries to breathe and finds his lungs have stalled, frozen. What comes out is a sharp gasp, a frantic and desperate grab for oxygen. He plays it off as a cough. Clears his throat and tries to find his bearings.

“Wanna put the knife down?”

Mickey’s hand shakes, but something else rattles through him. Anger. Years and years of pent-up rage, simmering beneath the surface, now boiling over.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says. “How’d you find me?”

Ian hesitates.

“Got a call,” he says. “From county. You can ask them to call when a prisoner’s released.”

“I know that, fuckhead,” Mickey snaps. “So what, you followed me?”

Another hesitation.

“Yeah.”

Something confusing and warm unfurls in Mickey’s chest.

“Seriously, you wanna put the knife down now?” Ian asks and this time it’s Mickey who hesitates.

“No.”

“No?”

“Fuck you,” he says. “The fuck do you want, anyway?”

“I just wanna talk.”

“Fuck talking,” Mickey snaps. “You had your chance to talk. Six fuckin’ years, Ian! Six years I was locked up in there and you never fuckin’ visited me. Never called. Never wrote. The fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

Ian swallows hard, throat bobbing. Mickey sees the knife glinting, less than an inch from his Adam’s apple. He’s not going to do anything, obviously. He’s not a fucking idiot. But still, having Ian held there, frozen in place, the opportunity to force some answers out of him, well. It’s intoxicating.

“I tried,” he says. “I really tried, Mick, but…it was hard. Seeing you through that glass. I know that doesn’t make it right but I just��I couldn’t do it.”

“You wouldn’t do it,” Mickey spits.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “Mick, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Mickey’s hand shakes. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes and he blinks them away, hard, choking back six years of emotion, swallowing it whole.

“Mick,” Ian whispers. “Put the knife down.”

Mickey stands there a moment longer.

He tosses the knife aside. It clatters onto the concrete with a metallic clang, punctuated by a wooden thud. It settles. Mickey breathes.

He looks at Ian, who’s looking back at him. The tension between them mounts, years and years of longing and waiting and hoping and aching all rushing back into their bodies at once. Mickey can see it, see all the same emotions flooding Ian’s body. The way his eyes darken, his mouth drops open ever so slightly, the way his breath quickens and his chest rises and falls in rapid succession.

“Fuck you,” Mickey grunts as he shoves Ian up against the wall. He pins him there with his arm against Ian’s collarbones; close, but not quite.

Ian lifts his hand, presses it against Mickey’s chest, right over the spot where his name is carved. Mickey’s breath stops in his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers again.

Their lips meet in a frantic clash, tongues finding their way to each other like fated souls. Mickey drops his arm and Ian’s hands find their way to the back of Mickey’s head, huge and all-encompassing. 

Mickey breaks the kiss and shoves Ian back against the wall. Ian stumbles and starts falling to the floor, hands scrabbling for purchase against the brick. It happens in slow motion but eventually he’s on the ground, knees up, feet planted.

Mickey straddles him and sinks down into his lap. He grabs Ian’s face and kisses him, fast and angry, biting at his lower lip, drawing blood.

It feels good. Getting it out. Channeling it. He yanks at Ian’s hair, which is then returned in kind. He lets Ian pull his head back, nip at the column of his throat. Ian releases him and their lips are reconnected in seconds, tongues tracing teeth. He can taste the blood in Ian’s mouth. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this alive.

Fuck talking, he thinks. Fuck it all. He can deal with the intricacies of their situation later. Right now, he knows exactly what he wants.

He reaches down and unzips Ian’s jeans.

mini moodboard story challenge [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] [ more ]

[heymacy]

Ian closes the door behind them. He turns around, plans on asking Mickey if he’d like to talk or eat something or maybe just hang out for a little bit. But before he can do any of those things, Mickey’s lips are on his in a fiery, heated exchange. Pent-up arousal, still simmering. Oh. Well. That works too.

Rating: E

Word Count: 6,605

NEW TAGS: frottage, sexting, phone sex, dates (the activity not the fruit), birthdays

READ ON AO3

[heymacy]

He hates him. But he doesn’t hate him. He has no idea how he feels. Mickey is annoying. And sexy. And Jesus fucking Christ he’s a good kisser.

Rating: E

Word Count: 6,365

NEW TAGS: smut, anal sex, anal fingering, high!blowjobs, quesadillas as a means of bonding, cookie dough as a means of coping, very brief sprinkling of angst

READ ON AO3

[heymacy]

Ian and Mickey work together at a Chicago diner. They like to push each other's buttons - all their buttons. How long until the dam finally breaks?

a (late) submission for @gallavichthings GW2023 Day Seven

Rating: M

Word Count: 5,452

TAGS: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Original Female Character, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Unresolved Sexual Tension, coworker shenanigans, playground rules apply, line cook!mickey, server!ian, no beta we die like men

READ ON AO3

[heymacy]

wip game! sky 🌤️

hi squiiiiids ily!! 🦑

"sky" does not appear in any of my WIPs so here's a little drabble!

**

The zipper slides gracelessly up and over, the door of the tent falling open with a distinctly plastic whoosh. "Hey," Mickey says, emerging slowly. "You good?" Ian lifts his head, eyes turning to his husband. Smiles. "I'm good," he says, his gaze returning to the sky. To the stars. Mickey shuffles over, mimics his position. The two men track the constellations, eyes grazing over Andromeda, Aquarius, Cassiopeia. "We’re so small,” Ian says softly. Mickey nods, hums in agreement. “S’kinda nice,” he says. “Takes the pressure off, y’know?” Ian smiles. “Yeah,” he says, finding comfort in the revelation. “It kinda does.”

[heymacy]

wip game! have "star(s)" and an apple 🍏 ... okay, you get two 🍏🌾

apples? pour moi? 🍏🍏 i accept this offer and in return offer you mickey's POV from the stargazing drabble i wrote for squids 🌟

**

Mickey stirs awake. Something is wrong. He turns over, notices the other side of the air mattress is empty. Ian’s gone. Panic overtakes him. He shuffles out of his sleeping bag, pulls on his sweats. Ignores the chill of the night air, pinpricks on his skin. As he moves to open the tent, he hears a sound. He’s not afraid. He’s not. But, prioritizing caution, he peeks out of a tiny gap in the tent’s zipper. It’s Ian. He’s lying on the ground, head propped up on a picnic blanket. Stargazing. Mickey blows out a breath and smiles. Soft motherfucker.

[heymacy]

hi macy! for the wip word ask, my word is flower 🥰

hi mick! 🥰 "flower" doesn't (currently) appear in any of my WIPs so here's a drabble! 💐

**

Ian pushes the door open, enters the shop. It smells like roses and rain. “Pickup?” the man behind the counter asks and Ian nods. “Yeah, for Franny Gallagher.” It’s Franny’s homecoming. Her first one, freshman year. The man disappears to grab the boutonnière for her date. Ian looks around the store. Daisies. Peonies. Tulips. Lilies. Blue ones. Beautiful. He smiles. Thinks of Mickey. Walks over and runs his fingers over the petals. Mickey would like these, he thinks. Not thinks, knows. He picks one from the bunch, the biggest and most vibrant, and takes it to the counter to pay.

[heymacy]

Hi sweetness, how about ‘eyes’ for the WIP challenge 👀

hello my sweetest love! "eyes" appears 16 (!!!) times in my biggest WIP, aka part two of "Order Up" - here's a little snippet!

**

Mickey looks affronted. Only not really. He’s playing it up. Ian sees behind the curtain now. “Annoying? Me?” Ian rolls his eyes. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. “You know you are.” “You know you are,” he throws back. “You’ve been grinding my fuckin’ gears since day one.” Ian scoffs. “How have I been grinding your gears?” “Fuckin uppity,” Mickey replies. “Stick up the ass and all that. I wasn’t kidding when I said that. You need to smoke more weed.” “I smoke plenty of weed,” Ian replies. “Like. A lot of it.” Mickey snorts. “Somehow I doubt that.”

[heymacy]

AU Tag Game 🥂

i was tagged by @creepkinginc, @metalheadmickey, @energievie, and @deathclassic to participate in this fun writing exercise/tag game! here we goooooo!

rules: use this au generator to assign you an au, this fan fiction trope generator to give you a trope/situation/sometimes another au, feel free to keep clicking until you get something that inspires you.

then try to come up with the title, plot, vibe, and details of a fic including whatever the generators gave you. you don’t actually have to write it, just put the concept into the world! this is basically just a thought experiment.

au generator gave me: Prohibition Era AU

fic trope generator gave me: Make one cradle the other’s face.

title: The Great Gallagher

let’s plot:

Chicago, 1929.

Mickey Milkovich is a bootlegger from the South Side. Working under his father, a terrifying man with a fearsome reputation, Mickey provides liquor to the North Side’s fanciest speakeasies and wealthiest clientele.

Ian Gallagher is a rich Northsider, self-made through a myriad of illegal, alcohol-adjacent ventures. The Chicago police are beginning to bear down on him but it doesn’t really matter – his money and connections keep him safe.

When his normal distributor is killed in a car crash and his business dissolved, Ian must find another provider to stock his cabinets for his many wild, raucous parties.

Enter Mickey.

Their first meeting is at a cafe. Completely innocuous, the two men share lunch and discuss their arrangements. I ain’t gettin’ caught doin’ some stupid shit just ‘cause you like to party / Don’t worry Mr. Milkovich, I assure you that won’t happen. They leave the cafe with a deal in hand: Mickey will provide Ian with all the alcohol his heart desires and in exchange, Ian will provide Mickey with the best connections in the business – manufacturers, chemists, speakeasy owners, and the like. The deal is good. Infallible, even.

Until it’s not.

After a few months of doing business together, mostly through Ian’s many lackeys, Mickey’s father’s house is raided and the entire family is taken in. Fortunately for him, Mickey was down at the South Shore docks, smoking and having one of his classic existential crises, when the cops came crashing through his doors.

Arriving back home to an empty house, broken windows, and obvious signs of a raid, Mickey is lost. Never before has he been without his family and, despite the relief of his abusive father’s absence, he’s terrified of what the raid means for his siblings and his future. With no friends outside of their team, all of whom are in jail, Mickey doesn’t know who to turn to.

And somehow, he ends up at Ian’s.

The guy’s got money and connections, he tells himself. He can help me figure this out. Help spring Mandy, Iggy, and Colin from the joint. The four of them can revamp the business, make it safer, quieter, more efficient than it was under his father’s rule. Ian can help with that. Of course he can.

It’s late when he arrives. Ian opens the door to a rain-soaked Mickey and invites him inside, offering him a towel, a change of clothes, and a place to sleep. Once Mickey’s dried off and fitted with one of Ian’s giant sleep shirts and too-large pajama pants, the two men sit in Ian’s study with glasses of whiskey and a strange, growing tension between the two of them. After all, Mickey had just run to Ian in the rain, turning to him in his time of need.

That has to mean something, right?

They talk. Mickey tells him everything. About the business, his father, his siblings, the raid, all of it. Ian sits, and he listens, and he takes it all in without offering up any opinions or thoughts. Just listening. Just letting Mickey speak.

When Mickey stops talking, he hates himself. Why did he share all of that with someone that’s basically a stranger? They’re business associates, not friends. He doesn’t have any friends, and that’s for good reason. The less invested you are, the easier it is to move through the world with your own best interests in mind.

I’m sorry, Ian offers, sympathetic look plastered on his face. And for some reason, that makes something inside of Mickey break. Nobody’s ever apologized to him before. Not for his circumstances, not for hurting him, not for anything. His hardened persona, egged on by his father’s abuse, has made him impervious to emotion. So why did his brain and body choose now to break down?

Mickey cries. He covers his face in his hands and he cries, exhausted from life, exhausted from running, exhausted from the stress of worrying about his siblings being locked up in a cold, damp, terrifying place. Ian sets down his drink and gets up, walking over to Mickey and kneeling before him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promises. “I’m going to help you. We’ll get them out.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just know. I’ve done this before. Sprung people. You’d be shocked how many dirty cops there are in Chicago. Hell, half the police force are regulars at my parties. I’ve seen the Captain down at Jerry’s Speakeasy on more than one occasion. It won’t be hard to convince them to let your family go.”

Mickey sighs deeply. Wipes his eyes. Looks down at Ian, who reaches up, cradling his face. He wipes a single tear away with his thumb, stroking Mickey’s cheek so softly, so gently, Mickey doesn’t know what to do.

Time ticks. The tension of the moment builds. Then suddenly, Ian surges forward in a leap of faith and kisses Mickey, hard and frantic, desperate and aching. Mickey kisses him back, lips and fingertips sparking, his body lit up by the contact.

They kiss and they touch and the next thing you know, Mickey’s shirt is being pulled over his head and Ian is shrugging out of his slacks and the two men fall together, naked, in a tangled heap on the rug.

The sex is electric. The release is explosive, like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. A new beginning, full of promise and potential.

They lie there afterwards, catching their breath, in disbelief of what just happened. But not regretful. No, not regretful.

“Wow,” Ian breathes.

“Yeah,” Mickey replies. Then it’s silent, save for their soft breathing.

Ian turns to look at Mickey, returning his own euphoric grin.

“Wanna go again?” he asks, unable to mask the hope in his voice.

Mickey’s grin turns into a smirk.

“Absolutely.”

**

not tagging anyone because i’m suuuuuuuper late to the game on this one but if you want to participate, consider yourself tagged! 💛