#gallavich prompts

[angte]

Do we have a "Ian Gallagher has no chill" on ao3???

'Cause we should... why? Just because I love the trope, alright?!!

[gallavichthings]

Prompt: Mickey asks Ian what did he see in him as a teen

Oh, it's been a hot minute since someone sent me a prompt, so let's review:

1) I don't write the fics here, I mostly reblog. So it's quite possible you meant to send this to someone else?

2) The most I can do is post this and tag it accordingly, hoping someone will like it and pick it up. Sure, anyone can do that, but if you wanted to make sure it was anonymous, then yes, you did the correct thing.

3) Next time, whether you're writing to me or someone else, please include more information than just saying "prompt: xxx". I no it wasn't the intention, but this sounds a bit rude and entitled, like you're expecting someone to write something just because you asked (unless, of course, someone has recently made a post saying "send me prompts").

Hope that helped!

[beebabycastiel]

✨fic idea i am burdening y’all with!✨

Alright, so imagine. Grumpy, mechanic Mickey. He’s friendly (ish) with his coworkers, but he never joins them on lunch breaks or smoke breaks or like after work for a beer. He’s out (ish). But other than an occasional Grindr hookup, he doesn’t date. It’s not because he’s scared or ashamed (Terry died in prison, as he should). And it’s not like Mandy and Iggy don’t know. It’s just that he doesn’t want to date. He doesn’t need to. He’s not lonely. That’s for pussies and bitches and even though he likes a good pounding, he’s not like that. Basically cue the ‘I don’t need friends they disappoint me’ vine. 

So, he’s doing, y’know, machinic stuff, but he pulls a muscle and it hurts. Like really bad. Like worse than any sucker punch or kick he ever received from Terry. Like it hurts so bad he has to go to a doctor. But the doctor is practically useless (as most prompt care doctors are). He won’t give Mickey any pain killers (it’s the knuckles tats. Like he can smell the drug pusher on him maybe), but he recommends a massage. 

Mandy’s a new hippie-witchy bitch now, so she recommends the place she gets massages at and its this new age wellness place which Mickey does not want to go to, but he hurts so. He gets a massage with his blonde bitch named Karen, who plays an instrumental version of Dust in the Wind and Carry On My Wayward Son and uses coconut oil and fucking lavender oil on his ass and he’s never felt so good before in his life. 

He feels light-headed and so warm afterwards. Like the best post-fuck feeling in the world, so now he’s a grumpy mechanic who gets massages. Which is fine. It’s not like he talks to the dudes he works with or the lady down at the corner store where he buys cigarettes and Old Style about them. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Which he likes by the way.

So, he’s going in for his usual massage. He budgeted for aromatherapy this time and he’s got some fucking thoughts. Only Karen isn’t there. Instead he gets put with some dude. He’s annoyed tbh. He and Karen have an understanding y’know? She mean and sorta preppy and always remembers to massage his hands and scalp. He likes her. Knows her. But he doesn’t know shit about this dude.

All thoughts fly out the window when he sees him though. He’s tall and built with just a hint of tummy under his black top. He’s got red hair and freckles on his eyelids and a dorky smile and Mickey almost pretends he had a sudden bout of food poisoning so he can leave. He introduces himself as Ian and is leading him back before he can even pretend.

The massage is… fine. He thinks? He has no idea. Ian’s hands are huge and wide and he sweats and sports a semi through the whole thing. Afterwards, when he’s paying Ian thanks him for being so cool. Mickey, card out and itching to go home and jerk off, is understandably confused. It’s then Ian revels he’s not exactly the best masseuse. He’s trained. He’s got a license and shit, but he was just covering for Karen. His real job here is cuddle therapy and Mickey’s still pretty tense and hey, he has male clients all the time and maybe it would do him some good.

[heymrspatel]

'"What the fuck is this."

Ian pulls out half a dozen cupcakes, all different flavors, and sticks a candle in every single one. He lights them all and sings Happy Birthday to his husband in the lowlight of their kitchen, his arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist and his voice soft. Mickey’s cheeks turn pink, and Ian pretends not to notice. He makes him blow out the candles anyways.

“You have to try them all,” Ian tells him. “Have to?” “Legally required.” “I don’t remember signing a contract.” “It’s written in between the lines of our marriage license.”

Mickey snorts and picks up the first cupcake—basic, safe, plain old vanilla with vanilla frosting—and takes a huge ass bite before handing it to Ian. He gets frosting on his nose.' - i need you (like cake on my birthday) by @sam-loves-seb

my gift for the lovely @sam-loves-seb 💙✨ prompt - art based on a fic for @gallavichthings gallavich gift exchange

[pookiebearmick]

Aching for some slow dancing or touching their waist to move past them for the prompts 🙏

i just feel like ian would always be wanting to slow dance with mickey. like all the time. he'd be a little cheeseball and put on music and make mickey dance with him just because he loves him and wants to be close to his hubby <3

Mickey always lets Ian pick the music when they're cooking together, and Ian is always grateful. He loves Mickey's dad rock Spotify playlists, but after listening to them all day when they're out on the job, all Ian really wants to put on some slow, soft, indie music to help him relax.

He and Mickey jabber their way through making supper, Ian talking about some family drama happening between Lip and Tami and Mickey going on about Iggy trying to find a legal job. They keep yapping all the way through their meal, too, just enjoying hearing each other talk. Listening to the other's stories about what's going on with their respective in-laws, mostly, since they spend pretty much all day together.

Once they're done eating, Ian gets up and takes their dishes to the sink while Mickey reminds him that they need to kid-proof the apartment for Franny's stay this weekend. Ian chuckles and gives a quiet "I know, Mick, I remember" as he grabs his phone and changes the music.

He turns back to Mickey, a big grin on his face, as the strings start playing over the small speaker.

♫ At last...

My love has come along ♫

He holds out his hands for Mickey, who rolls his eyes, but still takes them and stands with a grin.

"Fuckin' sap," Mickey teases, shaking his head with a small chuckle and wrapping his arms around Ian's waist.

♫ My lonely days, are over ♫

"You know it, baby," Ian smiles, leaning in to Mickey's teasing and wrapping his arms around his husband.

♫ And life is like a song...

Oh, yeah, yeah ♫

Ian pulls Mickey close and Mickey leans his head on Ian's chest, letting him take the lead in swaying them back and forth to the music.

♫ At last

The skies above are blue ♫

They move back and forth together in their small kitchen and dining space, swaying along to the music and enjoying a soft moment made just for them.

This, Ian thinks, is the perfect way to finish a busy Tuesday.

[doshiart]

F1 AU // GALLAVICH

Ian Gallagher is a racing driver, a young star of the McLaren team. Mickey is just a car technician, who only recently joined the team as a trainee.

/long read backstory below/

Okay, I've thought about this a lot. So.. Shameless US but.. huh? living in UK?

First of all, because Formula 1 is more popular in Europe. Secondly, because I want to alter the story of Mickey's growing up. Make it a story about a little boy persevering towards his dreams. And how a simple childhood passion can grow into a potential job opportunity.

If briefly, below I talk about Mickey's developmental stages, along with his final emigration from Ukraine to the UK.

I'm not going into Ian's backstory here. But I'll mention this in more detail at the very end of the post, if you get to the end. Ha ha. Have fun reading!!

---------------

Mickey was six, just a little boy, when he first saw a F1 race on TV. And he was amazed by how quickly the cars could go and how quickly the mechanics performed at pit stops. (Are these even mechanics? Well, they turn the wheels, dad does the same thing in the garage and considers himself a mechanic).

When the next year he went to school in his first grade, then to all the teachers' questions or questionnaires with their “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he confidently answered as clearly as his childish language could, that he would definitely become a F1 mechanic. Even though he received only gentle smiles in reaction to his naivety of being a kid, the desire took root in his little head.

---

As he grew older, he continued to enjoy racing, watching every race weekend he could. And while he was a child this did not cause any particular problems. Mom encouraged him in his interests and every New Year gave him tiny branded cars of the teams he loved. But as he gets older, the more often he hears from dad that he is interested in some stupid things. And he didn't want to hear a word about racing at all. As soon as Mickey mentioned it even once, he was cut off mid-sentence.

These are not real cars.

Real mechanics work in a garage with real cars, not kids' toys for show.

Come down to earth. It’s all somewhere far away and you never even get to one of these races in your life.

---

Well, Mickey talks less about racing out loud anymore. Especially after mom's gone.

Tiny model cars disappeared into the closet's darkness.

His dad began to drag him into their garage more often so that he would get used to work and not wander around idle, lost in his stupid dreams. He had to skip live racing broadcasts as a result. It was sort of suicidal acts to turn this on in the garage on a small TV instead of some dumb music channel with hit songs. Mickey had learnt long ago to keep his mouth shut.

Just listen. Bring it. Grab it. Repair simple details. Don't go under the hood. Don't touch this, don't touch that. And especially don't break anything. Blah blah blah.

Jesus, are you even a man? Take your gentle hands away if you're not ready to get dirty.

---

Despite everything, Mickey still had a dream. One day, he hopes to watch a real-life race. Hear the noise of wheels flying over the track, the roar of engines, the screams of a supportive crowd. He prefers to never talk about his own desire to work as a car mechanic or engineer in F1.

---

Mickey was sixteen when he left after ninth grade for a vocational college to applied mechanics specialty.

Because, well, he had good reasons for leaving school two grades early. At the very least, he was already tired of going to school. He didn't even have any friends there. Yes, he communicated with classmates, but that's not it. It's forced. Just so as not to be an outcast and maintain the status of the Milkovich family by playing dirty tricks at school and bullying others. Did he like it? Absolutely not. These guys were idiots with stupid jokes and always picking on chicks.

They kept asking if he liked any of them and talking about how they looked all the time. Mickey never liked anyone. It wasn't that the girls were ugly, he just didn't find them attractive. But he pushed these thoughts away and ignored them. Left it somewhere near to the tiny race cars in the darkness.

Also, classmates called him into fights on regularly. Not that he was against kicking someone's dumb ass, but that he would prefer better reasons than just trying to prove whose class is above.

Another reason is that, in their family, working with their hands and having a real profession are more valued than going to higher education. Because this is a job for real men. Where will all these managers, lawyers, accountants, stupid psychologists be when their car breaks down? Mechanics will always have work and profit.

As well, Mickey is deeply curious about the workings of the engine and wants to fully understand its mechanisms. He will therefore be able to study this in practice with teachers, rather than with a psychotic bastard who screams at the slightest opportunity.

The only thing Mickey truly wanted to learn at school was English. Not because he loved it. This gave him at least some hope of "breaking abroad for the sake of a good life". Perhaps the main reason for his success was that he had a really great teacher who pushed and encouraged him. Sometimes he would stick around after class and stay just to talk with her. Mickey felt parental care, which he hasn't received lately.

“I believe that you can achieve a lot, Mikhailo. Just believe in yourself.” She told him and he believed her, hugging her a little longer so as not to show his wet eyes.

And well, after leaving school, these words sometimes came to mind during the saddest times, when he returned home after a long day of school combined with an exhausting shift in the family garage. Every time he spoke with his dad, he felt terribly devastated. The dream was literally slipping out from Mickey's hands. A pipe dream, is that what they say? Well, at least he'll try to do something.

---

Mickey was twenty when he graduated and by this time he was actively saving money, hiding it in different places. Also, he planned his escape from home, considered the best routes, and looked at what things he should take with him, confused about whether he would ever return home again.

As he approached his twenty-first birthday, he finally decided to do it. With only a spark of hope, he was ready to leave for nowhere. And okay, Mickey was a realist; he was aware that things might not work out at all and that he would have to return back eventually. But he'll do anything, though, to make sure that this doesn't happen, to avoid having to meet his dad's derisive gaze once more as his goal gets mocked.

After all, a dream is a dream, right? He also had skills and language abilities in his pocket. So he's really ready to do anything to attain even the tiniest success.

---

To get to UK, Mickey had to go through a long journey of transfers from bus to train, from train to plane. He's terribly tired, but here he is. He stands and watches as the new country greets him with heavy rain.

He first found it difficult to adjust to other people's smiling faces. There were a few times when he didn't feel at home because everyone was so friendly and lovely. And these people were incredibly talkative. He'll have to get used to this if he plans to stay here.

The first difficulties he encountered occurred at the department while filling out a form for migrants.

“Mik.. Mikai.. Mikaelo?”

“Mikhailo.” Mickey interrupted.

The employee's eyes stared blankly at him.

He sighed. “Ugh.. Mickey? Yeah, Mickey.”

“Okay, Mickey. Here you are.”

---

Mickey got a job as a mechanic for a small business fairly quickly thanks to his abilities. He was so easily and warmly accepted into the friendly team. Here he first felt respect while working. Mickey got assistance from the job department in extending his visa to stay in the country. His job also provided him with a tiny apartment, deducted from his paycheck.

After a while, feeling a little more self-assured, Mickey started saving money for qualifying courses that would help him in the future.

---

Mickey was almost twenty-four when he successfully obtained all the qualifications that were necessary for the job, as well as to be sure of himself and his knowledge. During this time two full racing seasons had passed. He attended only one race at Silverstone. This was his almost full year in the UK. His skin broke out in goosebumps when he saw the track in person. It wasn't quite what he expected. Mickey literally stood in one place and once in a while cars would drive by. On TV they show a larger overview, but still. He was excited. In this grand prix, a new young racer from the McLaren team took third place for the first time. His name seems to be Ian, and he likes to take risks on the track, driving the car while presenting a strong sense of confidence. And his hair perfectly matches with the team's car.

He missed the second race due to a qualifying exam. But he's not upset. Mickey is closer than ever to his dream. If everything works out, he'll see even more racing. If not, well, then he'll continue to work repairing regular cars. Perhaps he'll be able to attend grand prix events in other countries during his holidays?

But now it's the middle of the season and he's standing in the lobby of the McLaren Technology Center. He's trembling a little and his wild eyes are scanning everything in the immediate area.

Mickey can't believe the reality of what's happening. No he didn't become a mechanic. But.. it's still impressive. He was interviewed and tested to become a temporary vehicle technician for the team as an intern. He was told something about a possible career advancement and access to other things once he completed more qualifications, but he's not sure he heard everything correctly.

Later they tested him on team tests on the track. He's surprised that he was able to concentrate on his speed and did everything exactly as needed.

He actually became… exactly the one who changes the wheels and does minor repairs. He joined the technical team and will also work on pit stops during the races. And well, okay, if everything that's happening isn't a dream, he's really happy. Extremely happy. Of course, the longer he studied, the more he wanted to do engineering and development. But that's the tiny step, right? This is already more than anything he could have imagined. He saw the race in real life from the stands, and now he got the opportunity to see everything from the staff. He'll interact directly with the racing car. He might even hear how the team interacts with racers. Unbelievable.

Through the noise in his ears, Mickey hears someone standing beside him talking in a muffled voice.

“Hey! You're a new technician, right?”

The guy had already taken off his helmet when Mickey turned around. He softly smiles while stroking his fiery red hair.

Mickey stared at him. When he was brought to the track, he thought that some tester was sitting in the car, but not their young star.

“Yeah. Hope so…” He twitched his lip and scratched nose. “You're Ian, right?”

Of course this is Ian, what a stupid question. It's too embarrassing.

The redhead smile became even larger.

“Yeah…”

And just as he was about to add something else, one of the staff called Ian to go back and he hurriedly turned to Mickey and said quickly, “Oh, uh, see ya later then, gotta go.”

---------------

I'm glad I finally wrote and drew this. This idea has literally taken over my head so much that I don't have the energy to write Ian's backstory in the same way. Once again I am convinced that writing is hard work. And I want to say again about my love for writers. YOU ARE INCREDIBLE. For my brain, drawing is easier than writing. But it was fun!

!!!AND!!! THE MOST IMPORTANT THING! If someone suddenly wants to write a big multi-chap slowburn fic or little drabble or do anything, I'll be happy so much with absolutely anything!!

---------------

Let's talk about Ian now. I was actually going to write a backstory for him too. Maybe at least some minor notes, but I'm not quite sure how best to connect his bipolar with racing. Usually because racers drive go-karts from childhood, get into the junior league and generally build a racing career for years. Maybe he had a breakdown somewhere between seasons and it was quickly noticed?? I don’t know… And I think about how the team constantly checks him, which at times upsets him and forces him to prove to everyone that he is fine and able to drive the car.

Most likely, in this AU, Gallaghers are either rich, or Ian has a sponsor, if you know what I mean… From this fact, a whole lot can change in story. And the second thing seems more likely to me.

I was thinking about how Ian joined the McLaren team at the age of 21, and by the time he first met Mickey he was 22. He had been stable for a long time on medication.

So I'm also considering the possibility that somewhere between his 17-19 years he disappeared from the radar and came back when he found a sponsor who could pay for everything he needed and help him get into the F1 league. At first it was the weakest team, until his potential was noticed and he was offered to move to another team. This fact with the sponsor will probably put a lot of spokes in the wheels (ha).

Racer's body is undergoing an enormous physical strain, so they spend a lot of time in the gym. And Ian really enjoys working out with his team.

Another interesting fact: racers have a super-strong neck to be able to cope with gravitational forces during the race. Therefore, special attention is paid to neck in training. (It seems from the moment I found out this my little fixation began…)

---------------

I think there's a lot of pining here or something. They seem to be nearby, but due to different job responsibilities, at completely distinct levels. And I really want to read something like this with so slow burning.

So, I guess you can consider this as a big prompt for writing, if it inspires you.

Thanks for reading! <3

[secret-gallavich]

Thank you @callivich for this weeks @galladrabbles coincidently picking a prompt by a band that has been in my rotations lately and based on an irl conversation I’ve had.

-

Prompt: Blur

-

Blur is playing from Mickey’s shitty speakers as they make out lazily on the bed. Ian had initiated it with a sweet peck but Mickey wanted more. He always wanted more when it came to Ian.

The next song on the album plays as Mickey swings a leg over Ian’s hips, breathlessly singing along when they’re lips aren’t attached.

It’s fun but Ian thinks otherwise.

‘Why do you even like this band’ Ian mumbles as he pulls away.

Mickey furrows his eyebrows and glances over at Ians discarded ‘Gorillaz’ tee.

‘It’s the same singer as your shirt, fuckwit’

‘Wait, what?’

[mickittotheman]

Perhaps 3 (forehead kisses) for gallavich?

Most people make their most stupidass decisions when they’re drunk. Not Mickey. Mickey makes his when he’s sober, when there’s not alcohol clouding his mind and slowing his thoughts and drowning out the fucking urges he gets at the most randomass times.

Like right now.

Mickey isn’t drunk, but Ian sure as fuck is. He’d been doing some stupid fucking drinking game with Mandy. Mickey’s been listening to them giggling and shrieking like the schoolgirls they are for hours now, the music blasting from his speakers not enough to drown them out, not when he’s deliberately sitting with his back pressed up against the door of his room so he can hear them better.

He’s just keeping an ear out to make sure Ian doesn’t say anything stupid. Doesn't let anything slip about him. About them.

Ian doesn’t. Mickey isn’t sure why that pisses him off just a little bit.

He waits until a good half hour after the giggling has faded out. Creeps his way into the dimly lit hall. Pokes his head into Mandy’s doorway.

They’re both fast asleep. Mandy’s hogging all the blankets, because she’s a selfish bitch who always hogs the fucking blankets, awake or not. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. Swipes at his nose.

He snags a random quilt from the living room and heads back, careful not to step on the squeaky floorboard near the foot of Mandy’s bed. He gets her sorted first, because he’s a good fucking brother like that, no matter how vehemently his siblings and he himself would disagree if asked. 

He unclasps her necklaces so she won’t get strangled to death in her sleep. He pushes her hair out of her face so it won’t tickle her nose in that way she’s always hated. He kisses her forehead, soft, just like he has since she was nothing but a tiny little pink burrito of bundled up blankets that would scream and scream and scream her little lungs out every waking moment.

She hasn’t changed all that much since she was a baby, really. 

He deals with Ian next. Rolls him into the recovery position, because he doesn't sleep on his side like a normal fucking person, he sleeps sprawled out on his back like a fucking starfish. Ian doesn't so much as twitch as Mickey shoves and pokes and prods at him. 

He drapes the quilt over him, gets it tucked in nice and tight at the edges. Stands there for a long time after, just looking. He never gets to look, because the stupid fucker is always staring right back, and Mickey always has to either look away or risk giving away too much.

He doesn't have to look away now.

He flits his gaze over the map of spattered freckles, over ridiculously bright orange hair, over plush pink lips parted in sleep.

He tugs his own bottom lip between his teeth. Gnaws.

What the fuck ever.

He swoops in. Presses his lips to Ian's forehead. Soft, then harder. He closes his eyes. Breathes.

Ian snuffles sleepily.

Mickey jerks away like he’s been electrocuted. He’s back in his own room in a split second, door shut firmly behind him. 

He leans against it once more. Pants. Tries to catch his breath.

He rubs his fingers at his lips. Tries to scrub the phantom feeling away.

In the morning, he kicks up a fuss about the quilt being missing from the living room, blaming Mandy for stealing it when she already has half the blankets in the fucking house hoarded away. He and Ian fuck, quick and messy, while she’s busy making scrambled eggs and eggos to soak up their hangovers. He bites Ian for the first time, digs his teeth into Ian’s pec hard enough to leave little indents in the shape of his teeth.

After, he whisks the blanket and a stolen eggo back to his own room. He wraps himself up in it, in the faint remnants of Ian’s smell, and he scowls.

[sluttygallavich]

Ian spits on mickeys hole and they both enjoy it 🤝

The first time it happens, it’s out of pure necessity.

They’ve just chased each other across half of South Side and up six flights of crumbling stairs, blood pumping and hearts racing. By the time they get to the mattress they have set up behind a half-collapsed wall near Ian’s makeshift training course they’re both practically out of their minds and completely desperate for it.

“Get the shit, Gallagher.”

Mickey already has his jeans pulled down to his knees and is looking back over his shoulder at him expectantly when the crushing realization hits.

Shit.

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow at Ian’s stricken expression. “The fuck, Gallagher. You didn’t come prepared?”

And no, actually, he hadn’t come prepared for Mickey to materialize in the middle of a busy street and crash his…whatever with Ned, and he sure as fuck hadn’t been planning on letting things with Ned go any further than a couple of drinks and maybe a hurried hand job if the old guy was really insistent. So no, he is in no way prepared for the situation he finds himself in now—ass naked but for his socks and rock hard, with his sorta boyfr– with Mickey’s perfect pale cheeks just begging to be spread.

He huffs, cheeks pinkening under Mickey’s accusatory stare.

“Get on your back, I’ll blow you instead.” Ian tries not to let on how disappointed he is, even as he suggests it, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Mickey makes no move to roll over. Instead, he bites at his bottom lip, considering.

“You gonna keep sticking it in that geriatric pedo?” he asks finally, voice gruff but eyes darting around, betraying his nerves.

And Ian’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and protest at that, but, well… yeah, okay.

His second instinct is to turn the question around and ask if Mickey’s going to keep sticking it in Angie Zago or whatever other neighbourhood slut is willing, but, well…

This is Mickey sort of trying, isn’t it? This is missed ya under the bleachers, and this is helping Ian train for West Point nearly every day since he’s been back, and this the mattress that “fell off the back of a truck” after Ian complained about the concrete floor fucking up his knees. This is following him today and beating the shit out of that geriatric pedo in the middle of the street because he was jealous but couldn’t just say it.

This is Mickey staking a claim, maybe.

“No,” Ian answers, heart racing at what he thinks might be happening—what he thinks Mickey might be proposing. And he wasn’t going to ask, but as he shuffles closer on the mattress, he finds that he just needs to know. He needs to hear it too. “Are you?”

Mickey snorts, turning his head back around so Ian can no longer see his face.

“Am I gonna stick my dick in that grandpa’s wrinkly old ass? Nah man, you don’t gotta worry about that.”

Ian reaches out then, just a single hand brushing lightly at Mickey’s hip, and he realizes it’s the first time they’ve touched since rushing up here, too frantic earlier to do anything but tear at their own clothes.

“Mick…”

And he must hear something in Ian’s voice then, because when Mickey speaks again the derisiveness of a moment before is gone. He just sounds desperate again. Pleading, even.

“C’mon, Ian, just get in me.”

And it’s not exactly an answer, is it? But it’s Ian instead of Gallagher, and it’s the vulnerability he can feel rolling off Mickey in this moment, and it’s trust, really. And Ian finds that’s good enough for now.

He grips Mickey’s ass with both hands and relishes in the heavy exhale it pulls from him, almost like Mickey had been holding his breath. Like relief. And Ian feels it too. So strongly he’s almost faint with it. He spreads Mickey wide and pets at his hole with his thumb, mouth falling open as he watches it flutter and try to pull him in.

“Fuck, Mick,” he groans. He feels even more wild than he did a few minutes ago. “Still don’t have any lube though.”

Mickey’s head drops down between his shoulders as Ian presses just the tip of his thumb inside him, dry.

“Just spit on it, Gallagher, Jesus.”

And Ian feels like he’s been kicked in the back, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once.

“Are– are you sure?”

“Holy fuck, yes, yes, I’m sure,” Mickey huffs. “You need to see it in fuckin’ writing or what?”

Ian doesn’t react to that, too used to Mickey’s impatience and bluster for it to faze him anymore and still far too preoccupied with Mickey’s clenching hole and the prospect of covering it in his spit, which suddenly seems like the hottest thing he’s ever considered.

Mickey’s spit-slicked hole and Ian’s bare cock sinking into it. Fuck. He prays he lasts longer than two sad pumps.

He knees at Mickey’s legs and gets him to spread them wider, running his nails up Mickey’s back before forcing his upper body down to the mattress, leaving just Mickey’s ass sticking up in the air for Ian to do with as he pleases. He gathers as much saliva in his mouth as he can and leans closer, spreading Mickey’s cheeks again and spitting directly on his puckered rim, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet of the abandoned rubble.

“Oh fuck…” Ian whispers, immediately dragging his thumb through the warm spit and pushing into Mickey’s hole. “Oh fuck, Mick.”

Mickey just groans, pushing back against Ian’s hands, encouraging more.

Ian spits again, this time slowly pushing two fingers into Mickey’s heat, just to the first knuckles, just to see, but Mickey’s demand for more has him quickly pushing in the rest of the way, stretching and fucking him open until his hole is gaping, just a little, and fuck, what if he spit right inside of him?

He chokes off a moan at the thought and continues getting Mickey prepped, but once the idea has been raised in his mind it latches on and he can’t let it go.

Mickey’s pushing back against his fingers, three buried instead him now. “C’mon, Gallagher, while we’re still young,” he grouses, though the effect is somewhat lessened by how fucked out he sounds.

Ian reaches a hand around Mickey’s compact body and presents it palm up and slightly cupped in front of Mickey’s face.

“You too,” Ian manages to get out. “Spit.”

Mickey attempts a laugh, but now that Ian’s nailing his prostate with every other thrust of his fingers it sounds more like it’s been punched out him.

“You’re a freak, Gallagher.” But he doesn’t hesitate to do as he’s told, and now Ian’s using Mickey’s spit to slick up his own cock and shit, maybe he won’t even make it to two sad pumps.

He squeezes at the head of his cock, clear beads gathering at the tip, and Ian’s usually pretty impressive self-control immediately snaps. He pulls his fingers out of Mickey’s ass and spits directly into his empty hole. Mickey lets out a breathy “Fuck,”and it’s all somehow even hotter than Ian was just imagining.

“Ready?” he can’t help but ask, dragging his throbbing cock through the mess he’s made, his own precum only adding to the wet slick. He half expects another snarky response, and when he doesn’t get one, he knows Mickey is just as a far gone as he is.

“Yeah, ready, yes,” Mickey babbles. “Fuck yes…”

Ian keeps a steady grip on Mickey’s hip, his other hand slowly guiding himself inside, and shit it’s tight. And hot. It’s hot and tight and so, so much that Ian swears his vision darkens at the edges a little bit. He remembers then to breathe at the same time that Mickey moans—moans! Mickey never moans!—and tries to press back against him. There’s more resistance than Ian’s used to, but the feeling of being inside Mickey with nothing between them more than makes up for the lack of lube.

Ian can’t look away from where they’re connected, skin to skin. He’s practically panting like a dog, his tongue feeling parched and dry, but he gathers as much saliva as he can and spits one last time, watching it pool around where his shaft disappears into the tight ring of Mickey’s hole before pressing the rest of the way in.

“Shit, Gallagher, need you to move.”

Ian’s let himself slump forward across Mickey’s back, his forehead pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Need…a minute,” he breathes into Mickey’s skin, eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus Mick, you feel so fucking tight. Not gonna last.”

Never one to be kept waiting, Mickey starts up a slow roll of his hips. “Don’t worry, Firecrotch,” he says, rocking back and forth on Ian’s cock. “Ain’t gonna last either. Better make the next thirty seconds count.”

Ian huffs out a laugh and pushes himself up off Mickey’s back so he can piston into the older boy the way he knows he likes. His belly swoops at the way his bare cock looks drilling into Mickey, and truthfully, it’s not much more than a minute or two later when he feels that familiar tingling in his balls that lets him know he’s about to bust. And shit, he hasn’t really thought this far ahead. Should he pull out? Is Mickey going to let him—

“Oh fuck. Mick, I’m gonna– Shit, I’m–“ He’s the one babbling now. He feels panicked, knowing the clock is quickly running down. Finally, he manages a complete thought. “Mickey, where should I come?”

Mickey is working his own cock furiously in his fist, his breathing labored around his moans. Ian’s never heard him be this vocal. His balls are drawing up at the sound of Mickey’s pleasure, but still Mickey hasn’t given him an answer.

“Mick, please…oh god, oh fuck…where should I–“

“Come inside me.”

“Oh god…”

Ian only hears a ringing in his ears after that. Without thinking he wraps his arms around Mickey’s torso and hauls him up so that his back is pressed firm against Ian’s chest. He holds him tight and buries his face in Mickey’s neck as his release crashes through him, lighting up every inch of his skin that’s connected to Mickey’s, that’s in Mickey.

Dimly he’s aware of Mickey crying out and shuddering around him, his head tipping back to rest against Ian’s, and he’s struck, suddenly, by the intimacy of it all—they’ve never been closer, he thinks—before they’re both pitching forward and collapsing together, Ian slipping from Mickey’s body as they come to settle next to each other on their sides.

They’re both quiet, save for their ragged breathing, as they slowly come down from their highs. Mickey’s shirt is still on, but Ian watches his back rise and fall, admires the faint freckles on his exposed shoulder, follows a bead of sweat meandering down Mickey’s neck from his hairline and has to restrain himself from licking the rivulet it leaves in its wake.

Eventually his gaze drifts lower, and despite coming harder than he ever has in his life less than two minutes ago, he’s hit with an intense wave of emotion—arousal, definitely, but something else too—that has his dick twitching and his pulse kicking right back up. It’s a mess of cum and sweat and spit, and it should be gross, maybe, but all Ian can think is that it’s them. He closes his eyes and smiles.

The first time it happens, it’s the start of something new.

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

#17 or #89 :)

this one was more fun than i thought it would be, I wanted Ian to cuss her out real housewives style, but i think he's learning to take the highroad

89. You’re not interested, are you? X 17. Good thing I didn’t ask for you opinion

Ian kept meeting up with Jill after they met for the first time at the pool, even though it seemed like her husband was steering clear of them after Mickey’s chair situation.

That was a couple weeks ago now, Mickey had chilled out slightly. After deciding that they would stay in the apartment he’d pulled out the wedding notebook, much to Ian’s horror, and switched the wedding magazines out for interior decoration. He was upstairs painting one of their bedroom walls as they sat out by the pool and Ian decompressed from the experience of picking paint with him. 

If Ian was being entirely honest, Jill bugged the shit out of him. After getting his number, she was texting him to hang out all the time, and Ian didn’t know how to tell her no, even as it became clear they had nothing in common. The surest way he’d figured out to get her to fuck off was to say that Mickey would be coming, which usually got their plans canceled in about five minutes flat. 

“What do you think of him?” Jill asked conspiratorially from her pool lounger.

“Who?” Ian asked, lifting his head up.

“Trey?” Jill said, like it was obvious. 

Ian followed her gaze and finally saw the blonde guy from earlier getting out go the pool. It only took about 30 seconds of talking to him at the gym to realize he was a fucking asshole. 

Still, Ian wasn’t going to tell her that. “He’s fine,” he responded noncommittally.

“You mean he’s fine” she laughed suggestively. “He just broke up with his ex-boyfriend Kris before you moved in, I could introduce you two properly if you want.”

“Thanks, but we’ve actually already met.”

“And you’re not interested, are you?” Jill asked disappointedly.

“I’m married,” Ian said confusedly. “You remember my husband, Mickey? He’s kind of hard to forget.”

“Obviously I remember your husband” Jill huffed out. “It’s just that- Ian, can I be frank with you?”

“Be my guest,” Ian responded, rolling his eyes. 

“Just because we fall in love with someone while we’re stuck in” Jill held her breath as she searched for the right words, explaining to Ian like he was a child “a less than ideal place in life, doesn’t mean we need to stay with them forever. Your husband - Mickey, clearly doesn’t belong here and you do! Sorry but that’s just my opinion.”

“Well, Jill, it’s a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion” Ian said sarcastically. “In my opinion it’s weird that you want to spend every day with your new gay best friend and check out guys at the pool instead of hanging out with your husband, which is what I would rather be doing, by the way.”

Ian stood up and put his shirt back on, “and, if I belong here, then Mickey belongs here. Because I belong wherever the hell he is, and if you bothered to try to find someone you feel that way about instead of eyeing anyone who’s only personality is their six pack you might realize that love is all about finding someone you love at every place in life.”

He fumed all the way up to their apartment until he burst into their bedroom, where Mickey was shirtless, blasting music and methodically painting the wall a rich, royal blue. All the fight left Ian’s body as he appreciated the way the blue complimented the cool tones in Mickey’s hair and skin. 

Instead of whipping him around and working all his anger out right there on the bedroom floor he slowly made his way over to the window and opened it, letting out some of the paint fumes. Mickey was working hard to make sure their bedroom was nice, so Ian could at least let him finish before they addressed his pent up energy. He lowered the music and collapsed on their air matress in the middle of the room, grabbing his book from the floor. 

“What are you doing back so early?” Mickey said, in lieu of greeting. “I thought Miss Priss was stealing you away all afternoon.”

“Fuck her” Ian said with a grin, knowing Mickey would be thrilled to hear him say it. “I wanted to come up here and watch you instead, so get to work.”

hope you liked it!

Prompt game fun!

[mickeym4ndy]

thanks @twinklyylights for this weeks @galladrabbles prompt “thank you”

“He can hear you, y’know,” the hospice nurse tells Ian as he watches Mickey’s sleeping form.

“Talk to him,” she says, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Assure him you’ll be okay without him.”

He won’t be, Ian knows this. He wants to beg Mickey to fight, to hold on, to stay with him.

But Mickey’s tired, in pain. He’s already suffered through months of treatment and illness. Ian doesn’t want him to suffer anymore.

He presses his forehead against Mickey’s.

“It’s okay, Mick. You can let go, I’ll understand” he gets out through his tears. “Thank you. For everything.”

.

[angte]

Gallavich Prompts

Hey, does anyone take prompts? I have an idea for something that could be fun, but don’t have the habit to write...

[jessij1997]

"Thank you" @twinklyylights for the weekly prompt on @galladrabbles 😎

"What's about other dinosaurs?" Mickey questioned.

"No. T-Rex eats them AAALL!" Amy replied.

"Oh okay. Got it." Mickey smiled. "So little T-Rex show me your teeth then."

Amy opened her mouth and makes a dangerous sound. Mickey brushed her teeth and then he puts her into bed.

"Is daddy getting better tomorrow?" Amy asked seriously.

"I don't know." He kissed her forehead.

"Give daddy my Rex, pops"

Mickey takes the plushy T-Rex from his daughter and left the room.

He went to the bedroom, layed next to a light depressed Ian. "It's from Amy."

"Thank you" Ian cuddled the purple Rex.

[mmmichyyy]

hi hi! for the writing prompts, #89 <3

#89: "you're not interested, are you?"

"you wanna get out of here?"

"...huh?"

"come on, you've been staring at me all night. i can take a hint."

"look man, i think you've got the wrong idea. i'm waiting for my husband."

"i don't see a ring on your finger."

"it's right here–oh shit, mick's going to kill me."

"dude if you're not down to hook up, just tell me."

"who the hell is this, gallagher?"

"oh, uh..."

"i'm scott, and i just want to let you know your husband has been eyeing me all night."

"hm. has he now."

"mick..."

"you want to fuck this guy, gallagher?"

"no, of course not! i was waiting for you and he just came onto me out of nowhere!"

"i told you to wear your glasses tonight, you dork. now you gave steven blue balls."

"my name is sco–"

"well if you weren't half an hour late, i wouldn't be looking around for you!"

"well sor-ry, i was getting the fancy lube you liked before the drugstore closed."

"i told you, i'm fine with whatever–"

"so just to confirm, you're both not interested, right?"

"you're still here?"

"bye sam."

"damn gallagher you need to stop being so hot, you're a married man now."

"i'm only hot for you, mick."

"wait, where's your ring?!"

"...ah fuck."

[pookiebearmick]

Laughing/smiling into kisses; pulling away and looking at each other with softened smiles !

this one is so cute!!! i'm doing a little bday moment for ian <3

The last thing Ian expected to wake up to on his birthday was an empty bed. He rolled over to find that his husband was gone, which was definitely out of the ordinary because Ian always had to coax Mickey out of bed after their multiple alarms let them know it was time to get up and ready for work.

Ian checked the time, 7:52AM, earlier than their usual 8AM alarm. This made it even stranger that Mickey wasn't in bed with him. He listened closely to see if he could hear anything to signal that Mickey was moving around somewhere in their small apartment. Strangely, he felt like he could hear a pin drop.

"Mick?" he called out to what seemed to be an empty apartment.

No reply. He rolled back to his other side and reached out for his phone, pulling up his messages to shoot Mickey a quick "where tf r u" text. It was Thursday, after all. They needed to be ready to leave their apartment by 9:30 to get to the growhouse for their first pickup of the day, and Ian was really hoping to have some lazy birthday sex before hopping in the shower.

He gave himself a couple more minutes in bed, scrolling on Instagram and responding to some "Happy Birthday Ian!!" text messages from his siblings, before he decided that it was time for him to get up and start some coffee. Fiona had sent him a french press and some coffee grounds from her favorite local shop in Florida for his birthday, and Ian was enjoying his fancy new kitchen gadget.

Mickey still hadn't responded to his text, so Ian started calling him as he measured out the grounds. He listened to the line ring two or three times before hearing jingling of keys and the unlocking of their apartment door.

"Where'd you go off to before 8 in the morning?" Ian asked, glancing over at the door as it opened before ending his phone call and grabbing the kettle to fill up with water.

"Well," Mickey started, shuffling out of his boots and moving into the kitchen, "I was hoping to surprise you with some breakfast from that café you're always talking about, but it seems the cat's outta the bag on that one."

Ian chuckled softly, setting the kettle on the burner and cranking it to high heat. "I told you you didn't have to do anything for my birthday, Mick. Getting together with the family for dinner and cake feels like a celebration enough for me."

He turned to face his husband, who was standing next to their small table with a soft smile and eyebrows raised. Mickey had just set down two styrofoam boxes of take out on the table, but still had a small bouquet of blue flowers in his hand.

"Wanted to," he said quickly to Ian, stepping forward and closing the gap between them.

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey's waist and leaned down to kiss him, pulling Mickey in closer as he slotted their lips together.

He pulled back and looked at the flowers in Mickey's hand. "Sap," he teased with a small giggle, before leaning in and kissing Mickey again.

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey grumbled. "Your birthday's so close to Mother's Day that all the shops had flowers on sale. Couldn't fuckin' get out of there without someone putting flowers in my face." Despite the grumbling, Mickey was smiling softly up at Ian.

Ian absolutely loved that his husband was sweet and loving with him like this, getting up early to get him flowers and a special breakfast for his birthday. "Sure, Mick," he said sweetly, smiling back at Mickey. He leaned down and kissed Mickey once more through a big smile.

"Happy Birthday, lover," Mickey spoke softly, smiling sweetly back at Ian and meeting his gaze.

[wehangout]

5 for the physical affection but smutty prompts pretty pretty please 🙏 😶

Send me a number prompt and I’ll make it smutty

5. crying into their neck/shoulder

Mickey's pupils are blown, only a tiny ring of blue visible as he stares up at you through wet, hooded eyes. Hands restrained against the headboard and mouth stuffed with his favourite gag, you've never seen a more beautiful sight.

"Good?" you ask, voice a whisper in the dim-lit room.

He nods, the slightest of movements, and you reach down, caress his jaw. His eyes close at the contact and you smile.

"Yeah, you've been so good for me."

He preens and presses himself into your hand. You allow it, know he needs it. His entire body is flushed, sweaty, fucking gorgeous, and you can't help yourself.

"Think you've got one more in ya?" you ask, sitting between his legs, fingers back at his hole, brushing, tracing.

You hear the hitch in his breathing, see the way his chest begins to heave a little, and he shakes his head wildly and then nods slowly. You smirk, and three fingers slip back inside of him with zero resistance. You watch in awe as his eyes get that little bit hazier, his breaths get that little bit shorter. Fuck. You love this. Love him.

You press, knowing that, despite his nod, he doesn't have much more in him. He's ready for it, and you're ready to give it to him, ready to watch him fall apart. So you press and rub and stare into his eyes as he moans and pushes into you, press and rub and stare into his eyes as his dick leaks against his stomach and his ass clenches around you.

"Close?"

He nods. Gasps. Makes that tiny little noise you know means it's about to happen.

You slip your fingers out.

He groans. Something that sounds like a muffled, ragged fuck pushing through the gag. Tears spill from his eyes and you want to lick his face clean, mouth at his entire body, suck his dick until he comes in your mouth.

"Shit, Mick, look at you." You're so fucking proud of him, but you're kinda proud of yourself for keeping it together this long, too. He stares at you, desperate and needy, and you smile. "You wanna come?"

He nods, body trembling.

"Gonna come just from my fingers?" You wanna suck his dick, but you want him to come untouched even more. "Think you can do that, baby?"

He nods again, eager to please.

You slide your fingers back in and press, push your thumb against his perineum, attach your free hand to your own aching cock. Mickey pants as best he can through his gag, his eyes flicking from your eyes, down to where you're touching yourself, and back again.

"Eyes on me," you whisper, and he nods jerkily as you press harder, rub in unrelenting circles, jerk yourself in time with the strokes you give his prostate.

And he grunts, fucking whines, waiting for you, waiting for you to give him the permission he so desperately craves.

You nod. "Yeah, Mick, come."

He comes, his back arching and body shuddering, nonsense sounds emitting from his mouth and it's beautiful, gorgeous, enough to make you follow with a tingle in your spine and heat in your stomach. You come, aim it all over his cock and balls, and feel your body heat at the way it makes him moan.

You want to bask in the afterglow, but you want to be with him more. You let go of your dick, pull your fingers out of his ass, lean your body over his and brush your lips against his forehead.

"Okay?"

He nods.

"Gonna get this shit off you."

He nods again.

You release his hands first, rubbing at his shoulders as his arms ease to his sides, and then remove the gag, wiping at the spit slicked over his lips. And then you hug him. Because that's his aftercare. He wants to be held, wants the weight of you on top of him, and you want to give him everything he wants.

"Did so good, baby. So fuckin' hot."

He huffs against you. "Fuck, Ian."

"Got you, Mick. Always got you."

He nods, just slightly, and presses his face into your neck. His breathing evens out, and, eventually, his arms raise to hug you back, but every now and then you feel a little more wetness against your shoulder and you hold him that little bit tighter.