Ian pumps furiously into his hand, Mickey's pliant body beneath him too worn out and sore to go another round. Even still, his husband grips lightly at his hips where they straddle his waist, fingers squeezing and releasing in a soothing rhythm that keeps Ian feeling tethered to the bed, to the earth, when he otherwise feels liable to float away.
His blood is thrumming beneath his too hot skin, every muscle in his body burning. His teeth are clenched tight to keep his brain from rattling around inside his skull. The new meds should start to take effect soon, but until then—
Ian's eyes trail over Mickey's pecks, his strong arms, the long column of his neck. It's all so familiar and safe, but still his racing mind wants to transport him back in time, play tricks on him. His stomach churns and the panic starts to creep in, even as he continues to thrust wildly, unable to stop or even slow down.
He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the thoughts away. Different arms, different hands, grabbing, pulling, pushing, groping—
"Baby, open your eyes. It's okay, babe, just open your eyes. Look at me."
Mickey's sure voice cuts through the panic like a knife, and Ian's eyes snap open. His stomach clenches as he takes in Mickey's soft gaze, the understanding etched into the features of his face. Ian's balls draw up tight. He's so close.
Mickey brings one hand up off Ian's hip to cup his jaw, running his thumb over the apple of his cheek.
"I got you, Ian. It's okay," he says, his voice rough but his tone gentle. "I'm here, and you're here, and I got you."
Ian releases the breath he's been holding with a sob and cums on Mickey's stomach and up his chest, green eyes locked on blue.
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 is 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.
Another excuse to write about them dry humping in public? Delicious. Thanks, @dreamjupiter and @galladrabbles!
_________________________
It’s dancing only by the loosest definition of the term.
Oliver’s been transfixed by the pair for an hour now. Tattooed fingers running through bright red hair, big hands gripping rolling hips, tongues that taste and tease, lips coming together again and again.
Matching wedding rings.
He’s considered approaching, dick twitching at the thought of having them both for the night, but truthfully he can’t imagine anything being allowed to come between them.
The club lights bleed over their skin until Oliver can’t tell where one man ends and the other begins.
Does anyone else feel lowkey queerbaited by the way Shameless handled the Ian x Mickey relationship?
Yes, they're canonically gay, but like, when you get queerbaited you feel like the ship is always just out of your grasp. One more episode and you'll reach some emotional satisfaction. And you spend all this time and energy coming up with ways for the characters to get there. But it's always snatched away at the last minute/never shown on screen.
And, the more I rewatch Shameless, the more Gallavich (especially in S1-5) feels that way to me. So much of the relationship is always just out of reach. Either because the progression of the relationship happens off screen (S1 going from booty call to Mickey being there for Ian when Monica returns; S9/pre-10 the "conversations" they have in prison). Or because every seemingly "happy" moment is undercut for us as the audience (5x01 when we see cute domestic Gallavich, but are immediately shown that Ian is manic and hypersexual/cheating).
Then... they get married! Yay?
To me it's like someone came in, stole my shit. Then returned a few years later and gave me back something, but it's not my original stuff and now it's sticky-sweet and covered in glitter.
Like okay? But where's the emotional catharsis I was craving from S1-5 Ian and Mickey? Like, I'm glad they're in a good place emotionally and with their relationship... BUT (at best) the catharsis happened off screen in those "conversations", and I still don't get to experience it along with the characters. So what's the point?
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I originally put this in the tags, but I decided it needed to be in the post:
In my mind they're this amazing ship - and i love them both individually and together - but it's like the writers never truly gave us the ship. Instead they're dangling the POSSIBILITIES and POTENTIAL of them as a couple over our heads for 5 seasons. Then Mickey goes to jail, ok bye.
What is your opinion on using ChatGPT to help you write? I myself use it for moral boosters and when I'm doubting myself and ask it if something makes sense, nothing more as I'd never want a word of my novel to not be my own. But I've seen some hate online recently from writers saying that anyone who uses it at all isn't a writer? Which does make me awfully sad
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It's not hate – we're scared and frustrated. Not just for ourselves, because AI is a genuine threat to our livelihoods, but also for the next generation of writers, like you. It's going to be a lot harder to get discovered or published with AI-generated content flooding the Internet and the book market.
Earlier this year, it was revealed that Meta trained Llama 3 on a massive body of pirated work. You can read more about it here. Meta employees knew this was morally wrong, but they did it anyway, because (1) they didn't want to pay anyone for the use of copyrighted work, and (2) they knew they could get away with it, and they have. They took our stories, born of real human experiences, and used them to feed something that's designed to be able to replace us. There are other reasons writers may be anti-AI, like the impact on the environment, but hopefully that gives you some context for why writers, specifically, are reacting to this so strongly.
You've said you wouldn't use ChatGPT to write your novel, which is great to hear. If you did, I would tell you that you weren't, in my opinion, a writer – just as I would never claim to be an artist if I used ChatGPT to create images, or a musician if I used it to generate a song. But I would also gently question why you feel like you need it to give you morale boosters or tell you if something makes sense. ChatGPT is not a human reader; unless you specifically instruct it not to flatter you, it will say what you want to hear. It isn't reacting to you, or to your story, with a human gut or a human heart. To me, any praise or encouragement it offers is empty. There's nobody and nothing behind it.
As for asking it to help you work out if something makes sense: I really do understand the temptation. I'm chronically ill, so I write at a slower pace than a lot of my colleagues, and it might help me churn out books faster if I asked ChatGPT to help me unpick a knot in the narrative, or fix a plot hole. But I don't want to surrender the ability to think and problem-solve for myself, and I would caution you against doing that – not just for the sake of your writing, but for everyday life. In this era of disinformation and propaganda, our ability to think, interrogate and analyse the world around us is more important than ever.
I can't stop you from using AI. But ask yourself: what would you have done before ChatGPT? Could you have figured out for yourself if something about your story makes sense? I think you definitely could have. It might have taken a bit longer, but you would have worked it out. I would encourage you to hold on to that ability. Cherish and nurture it. Rather than relying on artificial intelligence, trust your own.
i'll defend fanfic for my whole life. like the joy it brings is genuinely transformative and indulgent in a way unique to the genre. it isn't meant for a market, it isn't meant to be sold or marketed. it is born out of such care and passion for a media that one must write and must share it, so other folks can enjoy it to. for no other reason than love and joy. do you know how special that is? especially in our current social and political climate.
Another excuse to write about them dry humping in public? Delicious. Thanks, @dreamjupiter and @galladrabbles!
_________________________
It’s dancing only by the loosest definition of the term.
Oliver’s been transfixed by the pair for an hour now. Tattooed fingers running through bright red hair, big hands gripping rolling hips, tongues that taste and tease, lips coming together again and again.
Matching wedding rings.
He’s considered approaching, dick twitching at the thought of having them both for the night, but truthfully he can’t imagine anything being allowed to come between them.
The club lights bleed over their skin until Oliver can’t tell where one man ends and the other begins.
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