#I love that there is something about Kash that is wholesome

[mishervellous]

could you write something where the boys confront Kash in the present times? like they met him by chance and maybe he gets into Ian’s head and Mickey gets to punch him like he always wanted to 🥰 the angstier, the better!!

Angsty anons my beloved. I hope I made this beautiful prompt justice, although it’s a little bit more introspective than it is wholesome.

Title: and he must swim again

Wordcount: 1342

(CW: bipolar depression, mentions of panic attacks, anxiety, dissociation and sexual assault)

Ian promised to get out of bed at some point during the week; so he did.

He’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for leaving him alone in front of this endless wall of chips and snacks and cookies, because although it feels too big and too small to be there, alone, it’s still just an aisle in a West Side supermarket.

Ed Sheeran is playing in the background from the speakers above his head, and Ian really wants to feel sad, or melancholic about it—it’s their song, their song—but he’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for the same reason why he can’t feel sad, or melancholic, or moved when the chorus fills the air, sneaks between the corridors—they were just kids when they fell in love too, in a supermarket at that—it’s because Ian can’t feel anything at all, really.

He promised he would get out of bed because his other option was being admitted into the hospital. Perhaps, there’s so many sheets Mickey can change before getting tired of him. Ian doesn’t blame him; how could he?

Eyes on the prize, he’d told him. Eyes on the prize, Gallagher. The prize being the chips he’s currently using as an emotional support, sightlessly reading their labels to will himself not to lay on the travertine and resume his sleeping, on, and on.

Mickey, and Debbie are gone for a minute, or two—or a year, he’s not sure. Everything feels too full, and too empty, and if he is to drift away in an empty supermarket while Ed Sheeran is singing about them, he’s glad the hoodie he’s shielding himself with smells like Mickey at least.

“Ian?”

The irony—the irony is oh so strong. Ian would laugh if he was still able to.

Hearing this voice reverberate through the shelves of a supermarket is so familiar he wants to throw up.

He doesn’t even turn around; just moves his eyes sideways until Kash’ figure comes into frame. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize—Mickey reminding him to breathe in, breathe out.

Kash looks good, as good as an unpleasant ghost from the past can look. He smells the same, but Mickey always smelled better. The man comes closer, he has this smile on, this smile, and Ian wants to cry.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

They really did fall in love in a supermarket, didn’t they? Two pieces of the same broken glass on aisle five, finding each other.

Ian sags against Mickey’s hand that’s so warm on his back, closing his eyes, and willing himself to just disappear. To be back home, I can’t do it. I can’t do it, just take me to the hospital. I give up. I can’t do it.

Franny clings to his jeans, Ian is seven with her; they should throw a tantrum together. Franny who can cry, and cry whenever she feels like it, for no reason, no reason at all, and nobody would ever dream of closing her in a room, and throwing away the key for three days because of it.

He realizes Franny is afraid; that, and Debbie’s arms taking her away from Ian’s legs snap him back to the present.

“There are no children for you to fucking diddle with in this supermarket, I know that’s your usual MO. Get out of here.”

“I was just shopping, I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t give a shit. Get the fuck out. Why are you back here anyway, huh?”

“You have no right to tell me what to do!”

“Fucking believe me, I’d have the right to break your neck right here, right now, you fucking piece of shit.”

“What happened to him? Why is he—”

They do this thing with crazy people, where they talk like they’re not there to listen. Fair point, though, because Ian does tune them out—willingly or not, he’s glad nonetheless. Debbie’s hand is the one on his back now, soothing. She’s talking too.

Kash says, “So you’re the well adjusted one of the two now?” and Ian laughs. Or maybe he’s crying? He’s been crying for a couple of minutes now; months, even.

The commotion in his brain translates to the brawl happening right in front of him, in front of Ian’s unseeing eyes. Things scattering on the floor, Franny’s voice, Mickey screaming. Leave him the fuck alone. You should’ve left him alone a long time ago. Should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance.

Imagine! Imagine wanting to save Mickey Milkovich, beautiful Mickey Milkovich. Imagine wanting to show him a life of peace, filled with love; imagine tricking him with the promise of normalcy, only for him to end up licking your wounds instead of his own.

“He’s always wanted to do that, huh?”

The chilly January air hits his damp cheeks. They’re outside, Franny is standing between his crouched legs. He doesn’t remember sitting down on the sidewalk.

He looks up at Debbie, and she’s smiling down at him. She looks concerned.

Ian nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with.

Bipolar is this thing, this sempiternal diagnosis; comes with sides like a plentiful dinner that never satiates. Panic, anxiety, dissociation. This time, it’s crying. Ian’s never been a crier, Ian before and Ian after, but now he’s always fucking crying.

Franny goes away. Why is uncle Ian sad? Why is uncle Ian crying?

“I got him, don’t worry. Piece of shit ran away.”

“Fuck. You think he’s gonna call the police?”

“Fucking let him. He’s the one that should be running from them.” Mickey’s here now. Caressing his cheek. “Hey. You okay?”

Debbie and Franny go back into the supermarket. The sound of their footsteps match on the concrete.

“Hey, hey.” Ian clings, claws at Mickey’s clothed arms. The sobs are his, unrecognizable. “Hey. It’s okay, I got you. It’s okay.”

That’s another thing they do so much of these days: hug. Mickey holding him, to be precise. And Ian stays there, always stays there. Clawing at the back of his sweater now, burying his face into his husband’s neck. Crying his eyes out like he’s the kid with the green apron again.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a litany, a prayer; that’s what you do in the presence of a higher power, right? You ask for forgiveness. “I’m sorry.”

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is closer, he can now see his beautiful blue eyes through the fog. And to think it’s such a clear day today. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

He sniffles once, twice. Mickey uses the sleeve of his own sweater to wipe Ian’s tears off.

“He’s right, Mick. You’re wasting away.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“With me.” Can one cry too much? Can one cry oneself to evaporation? “Why would you—why?”

“I should’ve fucking strangled that piece of fucking—,” Mickey cups his face, and he’s kneeling in front of him like he’s the one praying. “Because I love you, dumbass. I love you so fucking much, okay?”

Ian nods.

“Okay? Stop with the stupid fucking questions, Gallagher. I love you. ‘M not fucking going anywhere, yeah?”

Ian nods again. Mickey kisses him, a small peck; gives him a beautiful, beautiful smile. Beautiful Mickey Milkovich.

“I’m proud of you, Ee. So fucking proud of you.”

That’s his power. Gets him out of bed, punches the demons, and unwanted ghosts away like it’s nothing, like it’s no big deal.

One time Ian told him he was born for better things other than bathing his husband’s depression away, waiting for it to get better; Mickey retorted that, actually, he was pretty sure he was born to love him, and nothing else.

“You wanna go back in? Franny’s gonna buy that shitty unicorn ice cream if we just stay here.”

And Ian goes. Because if Mickey thought he was born to love him, the fog in Ian’s brain is not encompassing enough for him to forget that he knows, he knows that to be the only thing he’s sure of—and always will be.

[mishervellous]

I posted 998 times in 2021

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#5

258 notes • Posted 2021-08-29 00:40:39 GMT

#4

could you write something where the boys confront Kash in the present times? like they met him by chance and maybe he gets into Ian’s head and Mickey gets to punch him like he always wanted to 🥰 the angstier, the better!!

Angsty anons my beloved. I hope I made this beautiful prompt justice, although it’s a little bit more introspective than it is wholesome.

Title: and he must swim again

Wordcount: 1342

(CW: bipolar depression, mentions of panic attacks, anxiety, dissociation and sexual assault)

Ian promised to get out of bed at some point during the week; so he did.

He’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for leaving him alone in front of this endless wall of chips and snacks and cookies, because although it feels too big and too small to be there, alone, it’s still just an aisle in a West Side supermarket.

Ed Sheeran is playing in the background from the speakers above his head, and Ian really wants to feel sad, or melancholic about it—it’s their song, their song—but he’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for the same reason why he can’t feel sad, or melancholic, or moved when the chorus fills the air, sneaks between the corridors—they were just kids when they fell in love too, in a supermarket at that—it’s because Ian can’t feel anything at all, really.

He promised he would get out of bed because his other option was being admitted into the hospital. Perhaps, there’s so many sheets Mickey can change before getting tired of him. Ian doesn’t blame him; how could he?

Eyes on the prize, he’d told him. Eyes on the prize, Gallagher. The prize being the chips he’s currently using as an emotional support, sightlessly reading their labels to will himself not to lay on the travertine and resume his sleeping, on, and on.

Mickey, and Debbie are gone for a minute, or two—or a year, he’s not sure. Everything feels too full, and too empty, and if he is to drift away in an empty supermarket while Ed Sheeran is singing about them, he’s glad the hoodie he’s shielding himself with smells like Mickey at least.

“Ian?”

The irony—the irony is oh so strong. Ian would laugh if he was still able to.

Hearing this voice reverberate through the shelves of a supermarket is so familiar he wants to throw up.

He doesn’t even turn around; just moves his eyes sideways until Kash’ figure comes into frame. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize—Mickey reminding him to breathe in, breathe out.

Kash looks good, as good as an unpleasant ghost from the past can look. He smells the same, but Mickey always smelled better. The man comes closer, he has this smile on, this smile, and Ian wants to cry.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

They really did fall in love in a supermarket, didn’t they? Two pieces of the same broken glass on aisle five, finding each other.

Ian sags against Mickey’s hand that’s so warm on his back, closing his eyes, and willing himself to just disappear. To be back home, I can’t do it. I can’t do it, just take me to the hospital. I give up. I can’t do it.

Franny clings to his jeans, Ian is seven with her; they should throw a tantrum together. Franny who can cry, and cry whenever she feels like it, for no reason, no reason at all, and nobody would ever dream of closing her in a room, and throwing away the key for three days because of it.

He realizes Franny is afraid; that, and Debbie’s arms taking her away from Ian’s legs snap him back to the present.

“There are no children for you to fucking diddle with in this supermarket, I know that’s your usual MO. Get out of here.”

“I was just shopping, I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t give a shit. Get the fuck out. Why are you back here anyway, huh?”

“You have no right to tell me what to do!”

“Fucking believe me, I’d have the right to break your neck right here, right now, you fucking piece of shit.”

“What happened to him? Why is he—”

They do this thing with crazy people, where they talk like they’re not there to listen. Fair point, though, because Ian does tune them out—willingly or not, he’s glad nonetheless. Debbie’s hand is the one on his back now, soothing. She’s talking too.

Kash says, “So you’re the well adjusted one of the two now?” and Ian laughs. Or maybe he’s crying? He’s been crying for a couple of minutes now; months, even.

The commotion in his brain translates to the brawl happening right in front of him, in front of Ian’s unseeing eyes. Things scattering on the floor, Franny’s voice, Mickey screaming. Leave him the fuck alone. You should’ve left him alone a long time ago. Should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance.

Imagine! Imagine wanting to save Mickey Milkovich, beautiful Mickey Milkovich. Imagine wanting to show him a life of peace, filled with love; imagine tricking him with the promise of normalcy, only for him to end up licking your wounds instead of his own.

“He’s always wanted to do that, huh?”

The chilly January air hits his damp cheeks. They’re outside, Franny is standing between his crouched legs. He doesn’t remember sitting down on the sidewalk.

He looks up at Debbie, and she’s smiling down at him. She looks concerned.

Ian nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with.

Bipolar is this thing, this sempiternal diagnosis; comes with sides like a plentiful dinner that never satiates. Panic, anxiety, dissociation. This time, it’s crying. Ian’s never been a crier, Ian before and Ian after, but now he’s always fucking crying.

Franny goes away. Why is uncle Ian sad? Why is uncle Ian crying?

“I got him, don’t worry. Piece of shit ran away.”

“Fuck. You think he’s gonna call the police?”

“Fucking let him. He’s the one that should be running from them.” Mickey’s here now. Caressing his cheek. “Hey. You okay?”

Debbie and Franny go back into the supermarket. The sound of their footsteps match on the concrete.

“Hey, hey.” Ian clings, claws at Mickey’s clothed arms. The sobs are his, unrecognizable. “Hey. It’s okay, I got you. It’s okay.”

That’s another thing they do so much of these days: hug. Mickey holding him, to be precise. And Ian stays there, always stays there. Clawing at the back of his sweater now, burying his face into his husband’s neck. Crying his eyes out like he’s the kid with the green apron again.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a litany, a prayer; that’s what you do in the presence of a higher power, right? You ask for forgiveness. “I’m sorry.”

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is closer, he can now see his beautiful blue eyes through the fog. And to think it’s such a clear day today. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

He sniffles once, twice. Mickey uses the sleeve of his own sweater to wipe Ian’s tears off.

“He’s right, Mick. You’re wasting away.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“With me.” Can one cry too much? Can one cry oneself to evaporation? “Why would you—why?”

“I should’ve fucking strangled that piece of fucking—,” Mickey cups his face, and he’s kneeling in front of him like he’s the one praying. “Because I love you, dumbass. I love you so fucking much, okay?”

Ian nods.

“Okay? Stop with the stupid fucking questions, Gallagher. I love you. ‘M not fucking going anywhere, yeah?”

Ian nods again. Mickey kisses him, a small peck; gives him a beautiful, beautiful smile. Beautiful Mickey Milkovich.

“I’m proud of you, Ee. So fucking proud of you.”

That’s his power. Gets him out of bed, punches the demons, and unwanted ghosts away like it’s nothing, like it’s no big deal.

One time Ian told him he was born for better things other than bathing his husband’s depression away, waiting for it to get better; Mickey retorted that, actually, he was pretty sure he was born to love him, and nothing else.

“You wanna go back in? Franny’s gonna buy that shitty unicorn ice cream if we just stay here.”

And Ian goes. Because if Mickey thought he was born to love him, the fog in Ian’s brain is not encompassing enough for him to forget that he knows, he knows that to be the only thing he’s sure of—and always will be.

288 notes • Posted 2021-06-24 23:59:05 GMT

#3

Fluffy husbands texts? 👉🏻👈🏻

coming right up 😌

[one too many vodka tonics later]

312 notes • Posted 2021-09-06 01:41:22 GMT

#2

384 notes • Posted 2021-08-23 14:28:24 GMT

#1

597 notes • Posted 2021-10-26 00:42:06 GMT

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