once upon a time i said that the best part about “go home, gentrifier!” is the interactions between sandy and tami, and getting to see them bond. now, while this still stands true, @ianandmickeygallavich added a wonderful headcanon to my post: “as far as i’m concerned, they have a group chat with mickey and they regularly meet up for drinks to vent about the gallaghers and also just to hang because they are all awesome.”
i reblogged calli’s addition and half-jokingly said i’d make a social media AU using the aforementioned headcanon in the tags, so i finally caved into redownloading social dummy even though nobody told me to, and this is the result:
"Yo," Ian shouts from across the hall of he and his husband's apartment, "the shower is open if you wanna hop in." Ian stalks over to their dresser and grabs a fresh pair of navy blue boxer briefs before dropping his towel. He shimmies into them with ease, turning around once they are halfway up his thighs; all of those years of sneaking around with Mickey has made Ian lightning-fast at hiking up underwear.
Mickey shakes his head, setting his phone next to him on their bed. "Nah, there's something else I'd rather do," his eyebrows raise twice in quick succession.
"I just got out of the shower, Mick, I don't have have another round left in me—"
"Fuck, Ian, I just wanted to cuddle. My asshole is still on fuckin' fire, anyway,” Mickey scolds, smacking his lips together for dramatic effect. “It's gonna burn like hell tryin’ to take a shit in the morning.”
“Well, in that case,” Mickey pulls back the covers allowing Ian enough room to slip through, grinning wide. Once Ian is situated, Mickey grabs the hem of their quilt and tucks himself as well as Ian in, tangling their legs together beneath the sheets.
Ian props himself up on his side using an elbow to face Mickey head-on. Instinctively, Mickey reaches out a hand to brush the few loose strands of hair out of Ian's eyes. "You're not my mom," Ian chuckles.
"Damn right, I ain't your mom," Mickey rests his palm on Ian's cheek, lightly cradling his husband's face. "You are my husband, though, and we vowed to take care of each other," Leaning down, Mickey softly presses his lips against Ian's forehead letting his mouth ghost the pale skin briefly before pulling away fully.
In his previous relationships, and even with his own family members, Ian has been scared by physical affection. With Mickey, however, it comes so naturally, it's hard to be upset. This is all Ian has ever wanted, to feel loved and appreciated, like all the shit he's been through with Monica, Frank, and the rest of his fucking family doesn't make him broken. Sure, Ian still feels broken with his bipolar disorder (though, he's gotten better at controlling these thoughts after years of taking his medications), but, to Mickey, Ian is... Ian. That's it, he's Ian Gallagher, and Mickey has never expected anything more from him, nor does he now.
"Hey," Mickey's voice is smooth, like a freshly cleaned silk sheet, "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"
"Nothing, I'm okay, just thinking," Ian shakes his head.
"Bullshit."
"It's not bullshit—"
Mickey rolls his eyes, "Yes, it is. Now, tell me what's wrong."
Ian takes a deep breath in, steadying himself by shifting his weight onto his back again. He laces his fingers together and places his hands on his stomach before answering Mickey's question, or more so demand. "I love you," he declares to the ceiling.
"How's that a bad thing, Mr. Milkovich?" Mickey asks, tone teasing.
"And you love me," Ian adds.
Mickey half-heartedly laughs. "That's why we got married, idiot." He can sense the tension practically radiating off Ian's skin, and the thought of his husband being uncomfortable is Mickey's least favourite thought the bare. Consequently, he slugs an arm across Ian's torso where his hands lay, and Ian latches onto Mickey's wrist like its life or death with Mickey as his lifeline.
Ian sighs. "Nobody's ever done this for me before; tucked me in, kissed me goodnight. It's nice."
"What, you think I'm just gonna sleep next to you and not do all of that shit?" Ian scoffs; Mickey always does this during sincere conversations, or at least during conversations that are supposed to be sincere and would be sincere if he wasn't dodging every fucking sentence of raw, honest emotion pouring out of Ian's mouth.
Mickey's eyes flicker over Ian's, and a wave of guilt washes over him, like this isn't the time for his attempted tough guy shit even though Ian believes there's never a time for a Milkovich's mock macho.
"Hey, hey, hey," Mickey tightens his hold on Ian, "I don't do all of this shit because I have to, I do it because I want to; you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Gallagher." Ian grins, the corners of each mouth practically touching their respective ears. "But, if—"
"—I tell anyone you said that, you'll cut my fucking throat, I know, Mick, we've been over this plenty of times," Ian finishes. "For what it's worth, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me, too."
"I fucking love you," Mickey leans in, connecting their lips in a soft, yet passionate, kiss.
"I know," Ian smirks, turning onto his other side this time to wrap himself around Mickey to situate them both in their usual spooning position.
prompt from this list, and please note this deals with implied depression, but nothing is explicitly described
“hey, sleepyface,” mickey says tentatively, like he’s speaking to a lost child. “are you sure you don’t want to eat? i brought you a bagel from that fuckin’ hipster café across the street, it’s sittin’ on the nightstand next to you.”
when ian doesn’t respond—verbally or physically—mickey’s heart sinks to the bottom of stomach. sure, he’s dealt with this before, and ian’s depressive episodes are always significantly worse during the wintertime, but that doesn’t mean seeing the man he loves unable to complete a task as simple as going to the bathroom on his own is easy. like the first time, and the second, and the third, and every other time to come, mickey breaks into a thousand pieces. he does his best to stay put together around ian, though, because the last thing he wants is for ian to recognise he’s hurting, too.
mickey precariously sits down on the bed next to ian, making sure to give him plenty of space; invading ian’s personal bubble is practically the worst thing someone can do who’s trying to help him through a “funk,” as he likes to call it, but mickey can’t help reaching out to tuck back a loose strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his forehead. ian doesn’t make an attempt to move away or swat mickey’s hand off of him which either means he doesn’t mind the gesture or doesn’t have enough energy to tell mickey otherwise. historically speaking, however, more likely than not it’s the latter.
underneath the covers, ian shivers. it’s a crisp 12°F in chicago, and ian is still dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxers from the night prior. without giving it a second thought, mickey shrugs off his zip-up hoodie, and drapes it over ian’s shoulders who immediately cuddles into the tattered fabric. what was once navy blue now reads as grey with years of dirt, grime, and general wear and tear. mickey’s sure there’s a stain or blood or two somewhere, but he hasn’t bothered to make sure it’s free of bodily fluids.
mickey sighs, sniffing and flicking the base of his nose with the back of his pointer finger to repress his looming tears, at least as long as he’s in ian’s presence.
“put the sweater on, please,” mickey’s voice breaks, and he watches ian’s back rise sharply with a quick breath.
“help,” ian whispers. it’s so quiet mickey swears he’s hearings things, but ian’s deep exhale proves mickey incorrect.
mickey complies, of course, pulling the fitted back down to ian’s ribs allowing himself just enough room to pull his right arm out. ian rolls onto his back then, and mickey assists him in lifting up his hips to untangle himself from the hoodies other sleeve. mickey grabs onto ian’s left elbow, his touch feather light, and works on manoeuvring ian’s arm into the sleeve.
uh, of course i’m interested, and the prompt is from this list !
“yo, can we talk or whatever?” mickey asks, sniffling after his greeting. over the years, ian has pinned this as a nervous tick, his senses turned on high alert as a result.
to say ian’s tense is an understatement, and maybe he doesn’t have a right to be because he’s positive mickey is unaware of his anxious indicators, but that doesn’t mean ian will stop worrying whenever he watches mickey flick the base of his nose with the back of his pointer finger.
ian shakes his head to clear his—reasonably, he decides—racing mind. “yeah...” he draws out the last syllable as he sits down next to mickey on their faux leather couch. mickey is sitting on the far left end with the recliner up, and ian has perched in between the right and middle cushions, using his heel to prop himself up.
“wanna go back,” mickey mutters.
as much as ian wants to reply with huh, mumbles, something tells him this is a serious conversation, whatever it is, and ian wants to make sure mickey feels comfortable even if it does mean refraining from teasing his husband. plus, he understood what he said clear as day, now a pro at deciphering mickey milkovich’s murmurs.
a confused, “what?” is all ian says, the edges of his voice rough due to the growing pit in his stomach. he doesn’t mean to come off as harsh, but all mickey does is sigh at him.
“i told ya already,” mickey begins fiddling with his phone, picking at the edge of its case and examining it like he’s holding a thousand year old fossil.
this time, ian is the one sighing. he reaches out a hand and lightly grasps one of mickey’s ankles, the gesture second nature, at this point. sometimes, mickey lets ian’s fingers hold on and other times he’ll kick him away before he has a chance to graze the other man’s sock covered skin; however, mickey doesn’t so much as flinch today.
ian tries to keep his tone level and calm when he says, “that wasn’t even a sentence, mick.”
“jesus christ,” mickey scoffs, sniffling over an attempt to stifle a laugh, “i wanna go back on my fuckin’ meds, okay? asshole.” he adds, allowing his back to relax into the cushion of the couch. he keeps his eyes focused on his hands in his lap, desperately trying to avoid looking ian in the eyes.
“okay,” ian shrugs, prompting mickey to lift his neck up and meet his husband’s face. mickey is expecting to see ian’s signature scowl, maybe paired with a raised eyebrow and, if he’s lucky,’a watering eye or two. instead, he’s fucking smiling, grinning at mickey like he’s the most precious thing in the universe. which, to ian, he is.
“that’s it?” mickey asks, his eyes widening and prompting one of his eyebrows to shoot upward in response.
ian move his hand up and begins rubbing his thumb across the exposed patch of skin between mickey’s socks and the hem of his jeans. “i know your dad dying put a wrench in your plans, and i’m not going to stop you from getting help.”
a single tear rolls down mickey’s left cheek, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he got let off scot free, ian not bothering to ask him a single question, or if it’s because he’s proud of himself for finally advocating to get the assistance he needs regardless of how lame mickey feels for not having the strength to fight this battle alone. hell, it could be something else entirely, but what he does know is he made the right choice choosing to spend his life with ian gallagher.
it's late, and mickey can't sleep. normally, ian is the one out of the pair who has trouble, but the days until their wedding are winding down, fast, and all mickey wants is for it to be perfect. sure, he can say it's to piss terry off all he wants, and while there is some truth to that (anytime mickey can annoy the fuck out of his father is a win in his book), he just wants it to be perfect for ian because, if it isn't, then what's the fucking point of getting married in the first place?
mickey reaches out a tentative hand, softly stroking his fiancé's cheek with the back of his palm.
fiancé is certainly not a word mickey ever thought he'd use to describe his relationship to a gallagher—ian fucking gallagher, at that—though he supposes weirder shit has happened.
mickey has always loved ian's freckles, specifically how they glimmer underneath the nighttime light when the moon shines through his blinds at just the right angle creating dozens of miniature constellations across his forehead and nose, like his own pleiades. he caresses ian's jawline using the pad of his thumb.
one.
slowly, but surely, mickey makes his way up to ian's ear, counting each freckle as his fingernail passes over.
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
once mickey reaches ian's earlobe, he continues upwards along his hairline, still keeping track of what number he's on by mumbling as silently as he can underneath his breath.
ian yawns and turns onto his left side. mickey's eyes go wide in panic; you weren't supposed to wake up, he thinks as he watches ian's eyelids flutter open.
"mick?" ian groans, lazily slugging an arm over mickey's hip. he slides his palm back and forth over the exposed skin, a sly grin flashing across his face. "whatcha doin'?"
"nothing—" mickey quickly stutters, but he's quickly cut off by ian.
"really? because it sounded like you were counting my freckles again, mumbling number and grabbing my face." mickey's jaw drops as his eyes are already open to full capacity. "don't worry, i think it's cute."
mickey's expression softens. "you do?"
"yeah," ian tightens his grip on mickey's waist, "i find it flattering that you think i'm pretty enough to wanna stare at all night."
"shut the fuck up, i couldn't sleep, alright. i thought it'd be, like, counting sheep or whatever." mickey readjusts so he's sitting upward, his back against the wall. he starts fiddling with the hem of his boxers, a nervous habit he picked up as a child waiting for mandy to return home from whatever guy she was out fucking on any particular night.
instinctively, ian mirrors mickey's position. "something up?" he asks. for now, at least, he decides keeping his distance is his smartest choice, so he does just that.
"wedding shit," mickey replies simply.
ian sighs sympathetically." i thought you had it all under control."
"thought so, too," mickey steadies his hand and clasps them together in his lap instead, his head dropping.
"hey, mick," ian ghosts mickey's chin with his fingers, lifting up his head once more. "you—we—have it all under control. i promise it'll work itself out."
"you promise?" mickey's eyes shimmer with hope like maybe ian is right, it will all work itself out.
"i promise," ian says sternly, wrapping an arm around mickey and pulling him in for an awkward side hug.
i wish you would write a fic about how mickey and tami first exchanged numbers and started talking outside of the gallaghers 🤨
“fuck you doin’?” mickey asks, slamming the door behind him as if he owns the place. he cocks an eyebrow while watching tami furiously rummage through the refrigerator. “hello?” he sing songs, waving a hand in front of his face like she has a set of eyes on her back of her head and can see him trying to get her attention.
tami groans, tossing her head back. “where can i find a beer in this shithole?”
“finished ‘em up last night,” mickey burps. he grabs a fresh cigarette out of the pack sitting on the gallagher’s countertop and fishes a lighter out of his pocket.
instinctively, tami turns around at the clicking sound. “hey, no smoking in the house! baby on board!” she points to the floor in the living room were fred is lying on his back playing with a hanging moon. she rolls her eyes and slams the refrigerator door shut behind her.
“jesus christ,” mickey shoves the burning end of the cigarette into a nearby ashtray killing the flame almost immediately. “sorry,” he adds. the truth is, he feels remorse toward tami. well, he doesn’t feel bad that she has a kid. tami loves fred, and everyone knows it, but she shouldn’t have to raise a newborn without a goddamn can of old style. mickey wouldn’t have survived taking care of yegeny if it wasn’t for the drink’s 4% alcohol content, so tami shouldn’t have to take care of fred without it, either.
“let me buy you a drink,” he blurts out. mickey can tell tami is suspicious and rightfully so, he thinks. “ian and i made a half-decent profit this week, i can splurge a little.”
tami sighs, “i’d love to, but i’m taking fred to his grandparents’”
mickey doesn’t want to admit that he’s disappointed, but a part of him, a part buried so deep down it’s nearly invisible, can’t help being upset. truth is, he’s wanted to get closer to tami for months after constantly hearing ian chat about how good of friends they are, how much she loves him. they a lot in common, too, and normally that’d scare mickey away; however, he’s been around tami enough to know it’d bring them closer together, if anything.
“tomorrow then?” mickey proposes, gripping onto the edge of the gallagher’s kitchen counter feet away from tami.
“sure,” tami scrambles for something in her purse sitting next to mickey’s hand. eventually, she pulls out her phone with a new file pulled up in her contacts app, and hands her phone to mickey. “give me your number, and i’ll see when i’m free.” she smiles, and mickey can’t help smiling back.
mickey types in his phone number, giving himself the contact name “mick 🥂” which he assumes tami will change, but he doesn’t mind—it’s not like they’re doing anything more than grabbing a couple of beers to take the edge of being a mother for a few hours. he shrugs, and tosses tami’s phone back to her. she looks at his contact name and laughs, rolling her eyes once more, but this time in a playful manner.
I wish you would write a fic where outsiders see ian and mickey for the old married couple they truly are 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
this isn’t anything samantha hasn’t seen before as a minimum wage worker at home depot. seriously, everyday a couple of middle-aged folks on the brink of divorce come in screaming over whether they should paint their accidental child’s nursery sherwin-williams’ “honest blue” or behr’s “partly cloudy.” that being said, she has never witnessed two presumably young men going at it in front of the wood stain end cap, though she supposes there’s a first time for everything.
“jacob... whatever-the-fuck is totally the move,” a man with knuckle tattoos exclaims, waving a 2x4 in front of his husband—or fiancé, all samantha can see is a silver band on each of their left ring fingers.
his ginger counterpart rolls his eyes. “no, mick,” he picks up a sample of stained pine, “dark walnut is!”
mick aggressively plucks the piece of wood from his partner’s hand and slams it down on the display case. “there’s too many knots in it!”
“you dumbass, that’s just the piece of wood they used,” retorts the redhead.
samantha hesitates intervening, taking her precious time to decide if these two idiots are worth her time. normally, she lets one of co-workers deal with these kind of people, but they’re severely understaffed today, and samantha thinks mister FUCK U-UP will knock freckle-face out before he can say “dark walnut” again.
after smoothing out her apron and taking a deep breath, samantha makes her way towards the men. “hello, my name is samantha. how may i help you today?”
they both begin talking instantaneously, their thoughts overlapping. “sugartits here thinks we should get fuckin’ deep hazelnut to stain the dresser we stole from goodwill when jacob...ean, jacobean, is clearly the better choice—”
“my husband doesn’t want to spend the extra $2 for dark walnut because he’s a cheap ass, even though he’s the one who spent all of our wedding money.”
Ian doesn’t really know what he expected to see, but his husband dancing on top of the bar with his kind-of-sister-in-law definitely wasn’t at the top of his list.
pathing the way for tami/mickey besties maybe 👀👀👀
ian doesn’t really know what he expected to see, but his husband dancing on top of the bar with his kind-of-sister-in-law definitely wasn’t at the top of his list.
“oh, my god, ian? ian—guys! ian’s here!” tami exclaims, slurring her words together as a result of the six vodka shots she’s downed. she forces mickey off of the bar by tugging on his arm, and ian has to stand by the stool they’re using as a staircase and help them down individually.
ian scoffs at tami and redirects his attention towards mickey. “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“tam—motherfucker, stop starin’ at me—frida was actin’ like a bitch, so i told her to ditch the baby meat for awhile.”
“it’s fred, and i need you to watch our baby meat. it’s your night with micaela!”
tami lightly punches ian’s shoulder and garbles, “but we’re having fun!”
send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five
