stocious
we’re doing a murder thing here
breaking things, breaking hearts • kaka, 33, she/her • ao3: commonthugs • ↑⁂
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for the kiss list!! i'd love to see u write #20 (...on a scar)
Send me a number and I’ll write a gallavich kiss 👄
20. - - on a scar (watch me turn this into multiple kisses on multiple scars while ian worships mickey's body)
There's a scar on Mickey's pinky toe. He told you it was from Iggy dropping a knife in the kitchen when they were kids and it landing on Mickey's toe. But then he nudged you in the ribs with his toes and asked why the fuck you were staring at his feet, fuckin' weirdo.
You think he's fucking lucky he's still got all his damn toes.
And you weren't staring.
But sometimes you do.
Sometimes when you're going slow and making Mickey fucking wait for it, you subtly inspect all of his scars, paying extra attention to the ones you can guess came about violently. And when he lets you, when he's so blissed out that he either doesn't realise or doesn't mind, you pay reverence to them with your lips and your tongue and your teeth and your hands. You treat them - and him - the way he should have always been treated.
Like the one on his ribs that was an almost-stab wound his first time in prison. That story fucking broke you, and every time you get the chance to pepper tiny kisses over it without him complaining about you being a sap, or wriggling because it's ticklish, you fucking do it. You kiss, gentle and loving, because you weren't there and it's all you can do now.
There's another on the back of his thigh. He still hasn't told you how that one came about, but you like to press your thumb into it when you fuck, while you're holding him open, hands spread over his thighs. You don't think he notices.
And then there's the other one on his other thigh. It still causes his issues when it's really cold out, but you've found that your hot mouth sucking at it is a surefire way to get him to moan like he's fucking gagging for it,
The faint scars on his ass from his other gunshot get attention, too. Sometimes little pecks or nips before you eat him out, sometimes you watch them go from white to red to white again when you grasp his cheeks in your hands and spread him wide.
There's a tiny one on his cheekbone and one hidden in his eyebrow that you know both came from Terry, from the night Mickey came out. Sometimes - when you're fucking real slow, basking in that in-out drag of being inside Mickey, inhaling every breath that comes out of his mouth and holding his gaze; when your forearm rests next to his head and your hand holds his leg at your waist, his own fingers digging into your back as he tries to pull you closer; when he stares into your eyes and lets out the smallest of sighs, sighs that you breath in and never want to release - sometimes you kiss those scars. Brushes of your lips that are so barely there, but mean everything because you're still so fucking proud of him.
But then there are the others. A faded cigarette burn on his knee. A dent in his shoulder from a belt buckle. That one just behind his hairline that breaks your heart to this day.
Those ones you mostly avoid.
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Karagan Red Foxes (Vulpes vulpes karagan) in Kazakhstan
Photos by Askar Isabekov || CC BY-NC 4.0
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Gallagher family - Missed Ya Gallacrafts
So I'm a week late, but still want to share with you guys @gallacrafts
Like others I fell in love with Shameless when we met the Gallagher family. The character I immediately fell in love was Fiona, I related to her so much. I'm also the the eldest daughter of a large Irish (part) catholic family growing up in the industrial midwest. I had a responsibility and expectations upon me. If my life would have been a little different I could have been a lot like Fiona, taking care of the younger kids a lot more.
To me an apron symbolizes the kitchen chaos, the caring of each other, the strings that hold things together, and shows the wear, tear, and stains of the life that has been lived.
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Adding another to the Polaroid series ! Hope yall enjoy
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hey bud 💚 how about 18 "it's so hot when you talk like that" if you're feeling it?
"It's so hot when you talk like that."
additional tags: hypothetical pregnancy discussion, hypothetical breeding kink, ian's been reading a lot of ABO on the DL
"Can't believe that motherfucker Allen."
Ian closes their apartment door behind them, sealing them away from yet another neighbor interaction. "Makin' Jill carry all those bags when she's - what, thirty weeks pregnant?" He's nosy - don't worry about it.
"Thirty one," Mickey corrects, because he's even nosier. "What a piece of shit."
"Well...least we were there," says Ian, finally able to worm the handle of their plastic CVS bag back down to his hand now that it's not occupied with another family's groceries. "Think they'll make us godparents?"
At the counter, Mickey grimaces. "Ugh. Don't even fuckin' joke about that."
It gets a laugh from Ian - the striking contrast between Jill's produce bags and their CVS bag of lube, condoms, and beef jerky not lost on him in the slightest.
"Better not pull any of that shit on me."
Ian looks up from their spoils. Tries to imagine a world where he'd pull an Allen on his husband. "Never," he says. "I'm a gentleman after all."
"Uh huh..." He can hear Mickey's grin as it trails off into the refrigerator, his head and shoulders blocked by the open door. "Course, for that you'd haveta put a baby in me first."
And oh, the way Ian's sensors go off in his brain... How a little pop of interest licks up his belly... Well that was a thing to fucking say! "Ha ha..." play it cool... "Yeah..."
It's just a stupid, passing comment. They make it to each other sometimes, comfortable in the silliness of it. But that doesn't mean Ian's brain hasn't taken it and molded it into perfect, sexy little shapes for himself.
"You expect me to carry around your pups like that, I expect your ass to cater to me day 'n night..."
Okay...
Ian takes a slow breath in, his nostrils flaring.
He sets the lube down.
Goes with his gut and approaches Mickey from behind, just as he's closing the refrigerator door. Because if he's gonna keep talking about this shit, then Ian's got no choice but to follow his animal instincts, right?
"Oh," he feels Mickey grin as he swoops in to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close against his chest. "That right, big guy?"
And fuck, Ian's just gonna go for it. Just gonna indulge a little, the fantasy of all those stories he's been sneaking in at night playing out right in front of him on this beautiful Sunday afternoon. "It's so hot when you talk like that..."
He murmurs it into Mickey's ear. Finds comfort in being able to hide his face from him, because he's definitely blushing a deep red when Mickey feeds into it - "What...talkin' 'bout you knockin' me up...?" - because of course he does.
And all Ian can do is hum in affirmation, his hold around his husband tightening as he drags his lips down the side of his warm neck, looking for his pulse point. "Mhm..."
Because that's hot...right? Ian laying Mickey out and pumping a nice big load into him? Getting him pregnant? Taking care of him while Mickey carries his child? Yeah, he knows it's not realistic and yeah, he knows it's a little fucked up, but come on... All those stories are kinda onto something.
In the kitchen's golden afternoon light, Mickey presses his ass back into his lap, teasing at the very obvious bulge in Ian's jeans. "Ya know, stud...we could make a baby right now..."
It's got heat and pleasure spreading through Ian's lap - up through his chest. Holy fuck. "Yeah...?" He fucking loves this man. "Want me to getchya pregnant, baby?"
"Mhm... Want ya to stick this big ol' cock in me and knot me up..."
And Ian is so blindly horny that it almost slips past him. He's so ready to haul Mickey into their bedroom and crack open the new lube but then he-... Wait a minute... He just said-...
Ian grows still behind him, embarrassment waiting in the wings as he carefully asks it. "How do you know that word...?"
"What... Knot...?" He can't see Mickey's face, but god damn he can hear the smirk on his lips. "Same reason I know your phone password..."
And oh... Ohhh boy, should Ian be having a crisis?
No. No, he doesn't think so. Because even with his search history fresh in mind, Mickey's playing along - feeding right into it, with another press of his ass into his lap and then a teasing brow raise as he starts for their bedroom.
"C'mon you alpha freak - come put a baby in me."
Ian stands for a second, at a loss for words in the middle of their kitchen.
But then they kick right in again - his animal instincts - and he's hot on Mickey's tail.
Fuck, he loves this man. He'll carry a thousand fucking grocery bags for him.
[ send me a smutty one-liner ]
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this week's @galladrabbles prompt has been provided by the most magical @callivich / @ianandmickeygallavich1 [sorry, i get confused at which to tag] in the form of: blur.
read from the start here or on ao3.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Terry's words felt like silver coating Mickey's skin.
Memories passed his inner eye in a blur. Summers spent picking berries with Mandy. Hunting with Kolya and Iggy. Forging his first mirror.
His own eyes looking back at him. So alive. So full of love.
He could feel Laura's presence now. In the wind brushing through the grass. In the warmth of Ian's palm.
"Mick." There, too. In the singsang of his voice.
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
She was there, too, in the beating of his heart.
"I'm not afraid of you anymore."
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I did a short literary equine series a while ago, but I don’t think I ever posted this little lady. This is Skata from The Scorpio Races. She likes to drag people to their watery doom when they try and tame her, and you know what? Same.
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kiss prompt: Gallavich and 36 :)
Send me a number and I’ll write a gallavich kiss 👄
36. - - to give up control (you know what episode could have had some really beautiful ian and mickey moments and didn't because fuck the writers? this one)
It plays on your mind while Lip and Debbie bitch about selling the house, while Debbie makes shitty assumptions about gay guys, while you stand with a cup of coffee in each hand because Mickey's upstairs crying over his shitty, dead dad.
And it's really fucking hard. It's hard to sympathise and it's hard to actually give a fuck, because it's Terry. It's fucking Terry, and you don't know why Mickey's crying or why he gives a shit, and you genuinely believe him when he says he doesn't know either.
So you pour him a cup of coffee and head back upstairs.
He's dressed, shoving things into his pockets before sitting down and grabbing his boots.
"Got you a coffee."
He doesn't look up. "Thanks."
You place it on the nightstand and watch him do up his boots, hands and fingers moving quickly. "Goin' somewhere?"
"Next door."
You know the face you make is mixture of confused, disgusted, and outright exasperated. "Why?"
"Someone's gotta sort out that shit," he says, not looking at you. "No one else is gonna do it."
"Doesn't mean you have to."
"Kinda does." He sits up straight and rubs his hands over his thighs. "No one else gives a shit. Not sure I do, either, but ..."
"But?"
"Dunno." He glances at you out of the corner of his eye and then says it again. "Don't fuckin' know."
He stands and moves to go, and you stupidly let him get all the way to the door before stopping him.
"Wait a minute. I'll come."
"Ain't got time for your bullshit right now, Gallagher."
And it's his tone and his words and the way he won't meet your gaze that makes you realise ... well, everything.
"I'm sorry," you say. He shrugs, and you push on. "No, I am. If there's one thing the mandated therapy in prison taught me it's that my feelings are valid, and so are yours."
He snorts. "Yeah, okay, Dr. Phil."
You place your own coffee cup down and walk towards him. "I don't get it, okay? Terry was a piece of shit who fucked us up too many times to count, who hurt you in ... in a lot of ways."
His jaw clenches at your words that say everything all while saying nothing, but you soldier on. You reach out and tangle your fingers with his.
"I don't understand why you're upset about him being dead, but I do know what it's like to be the only one who gives a shit." You tug this hand until he looks up, meets your gaze. "Someone died and you have a lot of fucked-up feelings that no one else feels and ... I get that. Okay? I understand that."
He tongues at his cheek, and then, "Monica?"
You shrug and nod, but don't say anything else about it. This isn't about Monica and it's not about you. It's about Mickey, and you don't need to understand what he's feeling or why he's feeling it. You just need to be there for him.
He sniffs. "I gotta head next door."
"Let me come."
"You don't have to, man -"
"I want to." You squeeze his hand. "I want to help you. Let me help you."
"Ian -"
"You don't have to do this alone, Mick."
He looks at you and nods, just once, real quick. "Okay."
"Okay."
He searches your eyes for a moment, then leans up and gives you a quick kiss. "Thanks."
You smile. Kiss his forehead. Let him lead the way.
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