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gallawitchxx · 2 years

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ficlet friday ⛓

this sweet baby is for chrissy of @you-are-so-much-better-than-that , whose love for prison boyfs cemented our beautiful friendship & for cat of @iansfreckles , who's on a lil break, but who's also celebrating a birthday today ✨ cat's bday tropes were angst with getting back together & was a perfect match for chrissy's prompt about reunited prison boyfs talking tattoos.

this one got a bit poetic, but was written with love 🖤

- - - -

Lights out.

Ian wishes there was more light, wants to see him, knows that if they were to move to the top bunk they might be able to take advantage of the small strip of glass that teases the idea of an outside world, but it’s been years and he never thought they’d see each other again and now Mickey’s flushed with the heat of his last orgasm, pliant and smiling and pressed against Ian’s chest, and Ian knows they’re not going anywhere, not even to another bed 3 feet above them.

How could they when they’d just been reunited? When Mickey had surprised him after all this time with his presence, his protection and his fucking love?

Mickey is gorgeous, even in the dark, and Ian runs a hand down his arm, feeling his firm muscles ripple beneath his skin, taken with the hair that now covers him, coarse but fucking sexy, like in their time apart Mickey had become a man.

His body is different now, solid in places where he was once soft, a bit bulky in ways that make Ian want to grab on and throw him around before holding on tight and never letting go.

Both of them are different now. Grown. Hard. Matching jet black hair, for now. New versions to add to their unfolding story of dirty, gangly miscreants turned teenage lovers and fathers; the plot of their unyielding magnetism spanning infirmaries, incarcerations, and now Mickey’s latest role—informant.

Ian’s breath hitches and he wonders if it’s possible to be undone by limbs and hair and disbelief.

The last time they’d been together, there hadn’t been much time to explore. Nothing felt safe. Time wasn’t ever on their side, but especially not then, only making allowances for lusty fucks that made Ian’s every nerve ending surge with pure electricity and his blood sing—the cold, night air nipping at the beads of sweat that pooled in the dimples on his low back, and quickies in the car and on the harsh, desert ground, as they ran for their lives, pausing only to remind themselves of what awaited them on the other side of the border.

An imagined line in the sand that held the keys to their freedom, their togetherness, their only hope for a future.

But now.

Now.

Four walls, a steel door that locks from the outside, and a barely-there polyester bedsheet has Ian feeling like he’s staying at the fucking Ritz.

Locked up, locked down, and yet—

“What’s this say?” Ian asks, his voice small and curious, his fingers ghosting over the black of the reaper that marks lily-white skin.

“Southside Forever,” Mickey answers, his eyes still closed, relying on touch alone for understanding.

Ian hums, tracing the words, his hands light, but certain. “You miss home when you were there or somethin’?”

Mickey opens his eyes then, watching Ian’s movements, the blue of his irises barely visible in the dark. “Or somethin’.”

Freckled fingers make a move, trailing over to the peach fuzz on Mickey’s belly, making his stomach flip and his dick twinge, the tenderness foreign and long forgotten, like a memory or a dream, both buried and now unearthed.

Ian’s eyes are on him, heavy and purposeful, following the path from Mickey’s abdomen to his chest, his fingers pausing to circle the dark areola of his nipple, eliciting a gasp from Mickey's reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Ian chuckles, a breathy huff of something that’s less of a laugh and more of a distraction, a detour before arriving at his intended destination of jagged lines, of devotion etched into fragile dermis.

He slows as he approaches and Mickey flashes to another cell, almost identical to the one they occupy now, and yet another reality entirely, one he would deny if not for the proof that he carries with him.

“Can I?” Ian asks, pulling him back into the present.

Mickey exhales, his body still, but alive, and he nods before he can stop himself.

Ian’s fingers make contact with his own name and the awe on his face makes Mickey think maybe, just maybe, his whole fucked up life has been leading him inevitably to this moment, like somehow every star in the sky was actually conspiring in his favor to bring him here, to this decision, this new sentence, this Ian.

“You kept it.”

“Ink’s kinda permanent, man.”

“Coulda covered it up.”

If only Ian knew how much Mickey had tried for years to cover up his feelings for Ian. Tried and failed to cover his bases and his tracks.

A fool’s errand.

“You gonna cover those fuckin’ tits on your back?”

Ian winces, like he’d been shocked and Mickey instantly regrets his delivery. But he gets it. He’d been shocked to see them while Ian was taking a leak earlier, his yellow jumpsuit tied around his waist and his thin, white tank already stripped off and lying in a puddle on the floor.

A confusing picture and a stark reminder of time lost and choices made independently of one another had left Mickey flooded with upset, hypocrisy be damned.

“It was a miscommunication,” Ian whispers.

“You don’t say.”

“I think,” Ian admits, his hand leaving Mickey’s body to run across his face, smoothing out some of the surprise and the pain. “Hard to know really. Even if I wasn’t manic, everything just hurt so fucking bad. Dunno that it woulda turned out any different.”

“You turn straight or somethin’ since I last saw you?”

“Or somethin’,” Ian echoes sadly. “Was supposed to be a tribute. To Monica.”

Any upset that was still flowing through Mickey’s body is instantly replaced with an ache that permeates his fucking marrow, deep and intrinsic, like there is no separation between what he and Ian both feel. The heaviest anchor dropped in the deepest of oceans.

“When?”

“When we were last…“ he starts, but trails off, leaving Mickey to fill in the rest.

Mickey inches his body closer to Ian’s, as if it were even possible, hoping by some miracle to inhabit the same skin, so they could hold both hurt and comfort in the same shared container, and he presses his lips to Ian’s collarbone, bringing a hand to rest on his waist, pressing the pads of his fingers gently, but firmly into the skin above Ian’s hipbone and rubbing small and soothing circles.

“‘M sorry, Ian,” he offers and means. “Didn’t mean to—“

“It’s okay, Mickey,” Ian whispers, his eyes forgiving. “You didn’t know.”

And there it was.

The Truth.

Their truth.

There was so much they didn’t know.

They’d share, they’d learn, they’d spend hours unraveling what they both went through when they were apart, a sprawling narrative of Mexican towns and drug operations, of queer Southside teens and desperate attempts to save lives, of failed attempts to move forward and tender ironies of what it meant to help.

But tonight, their first in each other’s arms after an eternity, miraculous in ways they were both still piecing together, they allow for words to fall away, replacing them with the wet, hungry slide of lips, the steady waltz of tongues and teeth, and the feverish need to touch and taste and meld to one another.

So much lay before them, so much was still to come, but for the first time, perhaps ever, Ian and Mickey knew they had time.

#run-on sentences are the name of the game this friday!#but sheesh y'all #prison boyfriends my beloveds #chrissy ily!!!#cat ily!!!#everyone reading ily!!!#have the very best weekend!#i'm off to spend a few days in a hot tub with my wife 💘#i can't wait to return & indulge in all that you'll all inevitably create & share in my absence #just maybe don't freak over 7x10 or i'll have the WORST fomo #or do & tag the shit out of me lol #happy friday! happy weekend!#ficlet friday #shameless #shameless fanfiction #ian x mickey

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