Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/743755.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Ian_Gallagher, Mickey_Milkovich, Svetlana_Milkovich
  Additional Tags:
      Recreational_Drug_Use, Shotgunning
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-01 Words: 2523
****** you can be a sweet dream (or a beautiful nightmare) ******
by grinandsin
Summary
     Mickey's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a
     frown. If Ian were there, maybe he’d roll over and touch the tips of
     his fingers to Mickey's face: pinky against the curve of his jaw,
     index and middle fingers barely tracing the side of his cheek, and
     his thumb grazing just under Mickey’s right eye.
     But—Ian’s not there so Mickey continues to struggle with his dream
     until it eventually changes completely (where it was just angry words
     and hard punches, it’s now soft whispers and lustful looks).
     (In which I write happy dream fic because 3.11 crushed my soul).
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
                                       +
Mickey's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. If
Ian were there, maybe he’d roll over and touch the tips of his fingers to
Mickey's face: pinky against the curve of his jaw, index and middle fingers
barely tracing the side of his cheek, and his thumb grazing just under Mickey’s
right eye.
But—Ian’s not there so Mickey continues to struggle with his dream until it
eventually changes completely (where it was just angry words and hard punches,
it’s now soft whispers and lustful looks).
In his dream, they’re sitting side by side on the steps of Ian’s house and it’s
quiet, which is an unusually rare sound at the Gallagher home, Mickey’s well
aware of that from all the stories Gallagher tells him.
It's late and the air is heavy and thick, while the night sky is a midnight
blue above their heads. So, it’s the perfect setting for them to just rest
quietly against one another, elbows touching and legs knocking gently back and
forth. It’s the closest thing to peaceful either of their lives seems to get
these days.
Ian sighs contentedly and gestures for the joint Mickey's been hogging for the
past five minutes. Before he hands it over, Mickey takes another drag, long and
slow, lethargic with half-closed eyes and a content noise.
“Here shithead,” he says as he passes it.
Ian takes it gleefully, holding the joint pinched between his thumb and
forefinger, eying the damp spot of saliva soaked at the tip of the end. Mickey
figures he’s probably thinking about how Mickey never fucking bothers to tuck
his lips in to keep the joint dry—because he doesn’t and he ain’t gonna start
just for Gallagher’s sake, but he’s smiling fondly at him so Mickey figures
it’s probably alright anyway.
“So, you really don’t think you’ll head back to school anytime soon?”
"Hell no,” Mickey replies, and his voice is the hardest it’s been all night.
It’s not that he’s pissed or anything, he just fucking wishes Ian would stop
trying to get him to further his education or whatever stupid shit this is.
And yeah, on some level buried so deep that it’d be too hard to even find it,
he knows he wouldn’t mind making something of himself, could probably even get
away from this side of the town if he had it in him to try. But on the ground
level of it all—he realizes wishing for something better is hopeless so he just
doesn’t.
This right here, sharing a joint on the steps of Ian’s damn house in the quiet
peace of the night, this is the closest he will ever get to a white picket
fence life and he’s okay with that.
“Look,” he says, turning to face Gallagher directly, “I get that you want all
of that and that’s cool as hell, but that shit just ain’t for me, alright?”
Ian nods and takes another hit before saying, “I get it, it was just a thought,
there wasn’t any hidden ulterior motives behind it, chill.”
“Well thinkin' so damn hard isn’t a good idea, Firecrotch," Mickey says as he
grabs the joint out of the redhead’s hands. "Screws with the mood."
"There's a mood?"
"Of course, it’s called fuckin’ mellow, man." Mickey tilts his head, looks at
Ian out of the corner of his eye, sees his stupid little lopsided grin and
knows that yeah, they’re okay.
“Hey, you wanna shotgun that?” Ian asks, head nodding in the direction of the
joint in Mickey’s hand. There’s not much of it left, but there’s still probably
enough to shotgun it once or twice so he shrugs and hands it over.
Leaning his head to the side, Ian brings the joint to his lips and takes a long
drag. He holds it in, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. He closes the
distance between them, touches their lips together gentle enough that the ghost
of his lips is sure to linger when he pulls away, and exhales.
Smoke floods from one mouth to the other, and Mickey feels the warm, unnatural
surge of the smoke invading his lungs. It’s not unpleasant and it hits him
where he needs it—brushes off the last traces of worry he had over Ian’s
comment about school. The smoke slithers over his tongue, drifting around his
mouth until it finally finds escape, sneaking past his lips to touch Ian's
again and then float away.
“Want another hit?” Ian asks, voice a little more hoarse than it was moments
ago, and Mickey says sure with the shrug of one shoulder and why not with the
short nibble of his own lip. For two guys shotgunning a little bit of weed,
everything feels weirdly intense between the two of them.
Ian scoots up closer in his space, crowds him like he fucking belongs there or
some shit, and feeds the smoke into his lungs like he’s afraid they’ll only be
a story in the morning and he has to find a way to make them feel alive by
then, make them a legend by morning.
This time when Ian attempts to move away Mickey gets a hand around the back of
his neck and pulls him in, kisses him properly because fuck it, he wants it
(and he can worry about it in the morning, when he’s more or less sober). He
licks into Ian’s mouth, which tastes a little bit like alcohol and smoke, while
Ian shoves a hand down the front of his jeans.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” he murmurs. “Want you.”
"Shit, want you too, just not here," Mickey pants. His hands run up Ian’s
sides, down again. "Somebody’ll see."
“My room?” Ian offers.
“Won’t Lip be there?” he asks, because yeah, he’s horny as fuck, has been half
hard since they were drinking on the fields two hours earlier, but he’s not
horny enough to wanna get caught in the act by Ian’s brother. He’d rather save
that awkward shitstorm for another day.
“No, he’s out,” Ian says simply as he starts to stand, pulling on Mickey’s arm
as he does. Mickey lets him, just this once, and he doesn’t really care if that
makes him a bitch because for tonight, Ian’s his.
“Okay,” he says as way of response and lets Ian drag him inside the house,
being careful to close the door gently before they carry on.
The front room of the Gallagher home is dark and he can see the shadows of toys
piled here and there across the room so he makes sure to step over in fear of
making too much noise. The house looks the same in the middle of the night as
it does in the day, but the intensity that he felt earlier hasn’t wore off yet
(maybe because they’ve never done this really, never snuck the other into their
room in the middle of the night for sex) so it all feels different and new.
“C’mon Mick,” Ian urges and then they’re stumbling through the house and to his
room.
Once they get in and close the door, Mickey takes a moment to appreciate the
look of the room—the walls are littered with shitty teenage boy stuff like
posters and album covers and there’s clothes piled in a small basket behind the
door. But before he can even comment on it, how fucking traditional it is
despite the fact that there isn’t anything traditional about the Gallaghers,
Ian’s pushing him towards the small bed tucked into the corner of the room.
“Excited much, Gallagher?” he says, but falls back on the bed anyway.
Within an instant, Ian’s on him, straddling his lap and pushing at the collar
of his Mickey’s shirt until he can get at the hollow of his throat. He mouths
against it, chases down the pulse in Mickey’s throat as he bites at it. He nips
at the skin, sucks at it as Mickey’s breath hitches a bit, his own hands
shoving Ian’s shirt over his head.
And okay, so apparently weed makes Ian hornier than usual. He can work with
that.
Once they get both of their clothes off and they’re just flesh against flesh,
Ian leans down, tangling their hands together and aligning their cocks so that
Mickey maybe sort of forgets to breathe for a second at the contact.
Mickey still has the buzz from that little batch of weed running in his system.
There’s not enough left to make him as recklessly stupid as he’s been
lately—not even enough to justify half of the noises he’s making while Ian
fucking slides against him—but enough to make him daring. Enough for him to
say, “Damn, I really need—”
(to kiss you again, you to suck me off, maybe even to suck you off, this to
work, you)
“—you to fuck me. Now. And then maybe again later if you don’t need to recharge
or whatever the hell after we’re done.”
Ian snorts as he stops moving against Mickey’s chest, and looks up at him, eyes
dark and dilated. “Christ, you’re so fuckin’ bossy.”
“Don’t act like you don’t get off on it,” Mickey responds softly (because he
has to be quiet, not because they’re having a moment or some shit, hell no),
but he’s sort of smiling again so he’ll blame it on the weed if Ian asks.
But it does the trick anyway because Ian’s leaning over him to grab some lube
and condoms off his dresser, and within a moment he’s back and preparing
himself. Mickey spreads his legs more, tries to get used to the cool feel of
the lube near his ass. Once Ian must assume he’s good enough to go, he leans in
and lines himself up against Mickey.
“You good?”
Instead of speaking, he just nods and arches his back, shuddering ripple of
spine and flex of muscle beneath freckled skin, lower lip trembling, and Ian
bends to catch it, sinks his teeth into its softness and growls. Shoves with
his hips, hard, to meet Mickey’s own thrust and breathes in the gasp Mickey
makes when Ian pumps into him and starts fucking. Mickey's grip tightens on his
hand, probably tight enough to be painful, but Ian doesn’t let go either.
“Gallagher, I swear if you don’t fucking go harder, I’m going to explode,” he
says, and it’s a breathy sort of threat, hindered by the way he spreads his
legs a little more. He chokes off a moan as he tries to pretend that Ian isn’t
already wrecking and reshaping him, tearing him down to his foundation only to
fucking build him right back up again.
And shit, that was actually kind of loud.
“Shh, Mick, Fiona’ll hear,” Ian whispers back, grinning up at him, and then he
starts fucking giggling, as if the possibility of getting caught by his older
sister with his dick in Mickey’s ass is hilarious.
Once he composes himself, Ian shifts again, lowers his hips and starts moving
again and God. It’s good. The dampness of Ian's sweaty hair, the solid bone of
his hips, the warmth of his skin, the soft dip and curve of muscle. Mickey’s
aware of it all, but mostly, mostly there's exhilaration as Ian starts up a
lazy thrusting that hits him right where he needs it, and it's so fucking good
that he wants to die.
“Fuckin’ just let go already, asshole,” Ian says after a few minutes. “I got
you.”
And it’s almost as if Mickey was just waiting for Ian to speak because he just
sort of does let go after that.
He gasps and shudders as he comes, coating Ian's stomach. He breathes Ian's
name and lets him kiss him, messy and hard, even as he's still trembling
through his orgasm, and when he bites Ian's lip it's enough to send Ian over
the edge.
They cling together, rocking through the aftershocks, trading touches that
start off hard enough to bruise, but fade into something that Mickey’ll think
over again in the morning. Eventually, Ian pulls out, tosses the condom into
the trash, and collapses down next to Mickey to bask in the afterglow.
“Fuck, that was good,” Mickey says several minutes later, once he’s finally
regained his power to speak properly (not like he’ll tell Ian he fucking lost
that ability, but still).
“Yeah,” Ian says and his voice is still completely wrecked. “Real good.”

                                       -
And then Mickey is forced awake, heart pounding in his chest a little harder
than usual, and boxers tight and constricting around his dick.
At the same moment he moves his hand to hit whoever the fuck that’s sitting
above him, because he was so damn close in his dream and they just fucked it
all up, he realizes it’s her.
The Russian bitch.
His goddamn wife.
She’s sitting above him, her tiny hands shaking his shoulders and setting a
fire ablaze on his skin where they’re touching. He swats her hands away and is
instantly hit with the feeling to push her off the damn bed and get her as far
away from him as possible, but he forces the disgust farther down the back of
his throat.
She’s drops her hands from his shoulders as soon as she sees he’s awake.
“Your father,” she whispers, then points towards their—his—bedroom door and he
finally realizes what she’s freaking the hell out about. “Sounds angry,” she
offers, but he ignores that comment because yeah, there’s never been a day in
his life that his father didn’t sound angry. It’s the bastard’s default
setting.
“Shit,” he says before rushing to get up and out the fucking door. “Stay here,”
he calls back over his shoulder, as if she had any other plans in the first
place.
Once out in the hallway and face-to-face with his father, he loses whatever
bravado he just possessed because all he can do is stand there. Usually, this
would be the time when he begs and pleads for his dad to give him the chance to
explain before he starts throwing punches, but if Mickey’s completely honest
with himself (which he tries not to be), he doesn’t feel like apologizing to
his father for shit anymore.
He married the Russian—he cleaned up that mess and made himself a new one.
He fucked Ian up pretty badly this time, maybe even once and for all, and if a
beating is the only thing he gets as retribution for it then he’ll be
appreciative. So, he stands and awaits whatever hell he’s in for this time.
But Terry just grimaces at him and pats him on the shoulder in what he probably
assumes is a gentle and comforting touch, but really ends up burning Mickey as
much as the Russian’s touch did. “Good job today son,” he says.
“Thanks,” Mickey says slowly, waiting for the other shoe to fall, and if he
goes back in his room and cries while his stupid bitch of a wife watches then
that’s his damn fucking business and no one else’s.
End Notes
     a/n: hi, this is just a friendly reminder that whatever you do, you
     should not blame Svetlana (Mickey's wife) for what transpired in
     3x11. Because contrary to some of the fandom's belief, she is just as
     much of a victim as Mickey is. Her consent was taken from her
     (through Terry forcing her at gunpoint, essentially), similarly to
     that of Mickey's. Please do not blame the victims.
     if you're going to blame anyone, let it be Terry Milkovich, for he
     initiated the course of action that resulted in the rape of both
     mickey and (indirectly) Svetlana.
     anyway, thanks for reading!
     xx
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