sloppy_soul



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  1. Public Bookmark 46

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    Ian's on his goddamn mind all the time and this isn't like bruises or near misses with cops or his dad's fucked up punishments. It doesn't matter what he does. He's not thinking of anything else.

    You've never been like this. Slow and soft and someone asleep at your back. Vulnerable. Ever. There have been very few bright spots in your life: your mother, Mandy, Ian. You try and convince yourself it's not what you want. It is. It's what you want.

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    28 Apr 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    When he thinks about it, his stomach hurts. He clenches his fingers into a fist and wishes he could punch himself in the face enough to turn it to pulp. Enough to finish the job. To give himself what he knows he deserves.
    Because somehow Gallagher had him convinced it was okay. That they had nothing to hide. That his own house wasn't an enemy fortress full of trip-wire traps and surprise ambushes. That he wasn't a pussy faggot who deserved to have his head kicked in. That the direction his heart pumped wasn't all wrong – somehow he managed to think that liking getting fucked was fine, all good, shrug it off, doesn't make you a bitch, doesn't make you anything but a guy with different tastes.
    It's like if he thinks it, his dad is gonna know. If it's there, inside him, in his head or under his skin or whatever, his dad is gonna see and he's gonna find out and then who fucking knows. He knows. Blood and vomit and tears and broken bones and stitches and maybe something worse. So he can't think it.

    You've never had anyone touch you gently before. And you don't really let him, not the way you know he wants to. Not the way you want him to. You just can't do it. It makes you feel like your spine's gonna jump out your throat.

    He can't stand thinking about Ian but he can't fucking stop and staring himself in the face in the mirror he can fucking see it all.
    He closes his eyes. He can't stand what he sees.

    The part of you that's driven by instinct wants to push up into him, thrust against his hand hard and fast and get this over with. But there's a look on his face that slows everything down, like he's got you, like it'll all be fine if you just take your time. You've never done this and kissed someone at the same time.
    And his fingers pushing inside you, one and then two, unhurried and quiet, feels good. Not the usual rough pleasure of the half-painful stretch and the adrenaline of a quick fuck. Something deeper than that, like a hook deep in your belly that he's tugging on, gently. Your legs are shaking. If you were standing, you'd have collapsed.
    No one's ever touched you like this before. And he's looking at you, staring like he can't tear his eyes away. It's too much. You have to throw your arm over your face.
    He lets you. Nothing has ever been like this before.

    No one has ever touched you like this.

    No one has ever held you like this.

    There are things you want, that you've wanted for a long time, that you've never let yourself say or even think about. Things you flinched away from. Don't look at it too hard, because if you want it and you get it, the only next step is to lose it.

    But this is new, and you think maybe you could get used to it, if you go real fucking slow. His breath is warm on your spine and you relax into it because it's okay. You're okay. Your spine stays where it should be, under his mouth. This new feeling of your body as the recipient of something other than pain, or half-pain disguised as pleasure. His fingers tighten on your hip as his body presses heavier against yours and you can't stop a sigh from falling out. The knots in your stomach untangle, for once in your life. You're sick of never letting anybody touch you. You're sick of never letting anybody see you.

    He can't afford to flinch because he knows he deserves more than what he got and if he flinches he'll fucking get it for sure. If he flinches when they talk their talk or when they stare him in the face they'll know.

  2. Public Bookmark 17

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    He's told himself this his entire life and it's always been easy. Except this time, when he needs it the most and now it's like it's the hardest thing in the world.
    Don't hope.
    Don't fucking hope.

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    27 Apr 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    You come together like magnets, easy.

    It's what Ian was always so good at. Moving on, running away, getting up and just fucking booking it when things got hard. You always lingered, you were always the one making sure to protect his back from the bullets as he ran away.

    You know what they say about hope around here. It's bullshit. Just an extra layer of pain. It puts a target over your heart and guides every bullet straight fucking through.

    You hate this. That you can be so breathtakingly in love with him, that he has so much fucking power over you. That you'll give him all the tender parts of you piece by piece and still come back to offer him your hands when he throws it all away.

    You dreamed that the house was your own island, just for the two of you. Hope will do that to a man. Turn him into someone who dreams stupid shit and then thinks it'll come true. You hate the tears that spring to your eyes and the way Ian has hit that target with such devastating aim again.

    He tells you he loves you. He's trying to give you money, like that's the important part of this running away.
    You wanted something good, for once.
    You wanted to have a life that wasn't fucked over again and again. A life with him. That's what you imagined every night in that fucking cell. It kept you going and now what.

    You jerk away from his hand because that's what you do whenever anyone else gets near you and this isn't fair because Ian wasn't supposed to be like everybody else. And he looks at you and you know he means it. All of it.
    You weren't supposed to hope.

    This is goodbye and you know it. He's got too much to lose back home while all you've got to lose is him. There's no hope here, not that he'll change his mind, not that he'll come find you in a year or two, not that you'll ever see or speak to him again. So you kiss him and hope he can taste it on you, all the things you want to say. All the things you wanted with him. You kiss him and taste sorry on his tongue and I love you. The taste of all the years between you, the fights and laughter and tears and all the times it was you and him against the world. You pull away first. It used to always be like that, until the end when you stopped wanting to pull away. Now you fucking have to or you'll fall apart.

    You don't tell him you love him. He knows it. But you can't say it. You've said it twice already. You've done all this. Giving that to him would be giving him everything. You've already given him too much.

  3. Public Bookmark 19

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    “What would you do differently, if you could start your life over from the beginning?” It's a bullshit question, posed by the bullshit “counselor” he and half the other inmates are forced to see.
    Maybe, if he hadn't taken Kash's gun, none of this would have happened.
    But then none of this would have happened.
    He doesn't regret a thing.

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    27 Apr 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Made him crave it even when his stomach burned with loathing.

    That day he stopped feeling fear and just felt shame.

    Jesus. Those words take him back. Back to a dugout, middle of the night, drunk and smoking and horny and a little scared. He wishes he didn't have to be fucked for life. He wishes he didn't dream of sunshine lighting ginger hair into fire and green eyes that bore into him like they can see straight into his goddamn soul.

    He would have told him to stay. Chased after him like the bitch Mickey knew he was, like the bitch he couldn't admit to himself. Told him Svetlana didn't matter, his father didn't fucking matter, nobody mattered except him. Only he couldn't. And he didn't.

    Then he'd still be a terrified, closeted fag, flinching at his father, at his wife, at his lover. Just as scared of himself as he was of everyone else. What you and I have makes me free, he'd said, and he'd been telling the truth. He thought he'd been telling the truth. The blood he tasted on Ian's tongue and the lightness in his chest told him he hadn't actually known what the truth was.

    Maybe if he'd tried just a little bit harder, he would have been able to handle it all.

    Only then he probably wouldn't have blurted it out. He probably wouldn't have said it, not for a long time, maybe not ever. Not because he didn't want to, but because some barrier stood between the words in his throat and their release. The terror of losing him busted that wall, even if the words came out shaking and scared.

    Maybe if he'd said I love you to his face, after he got out of the hospital, when they were drunk in the dugout. Maybe Ian never even listened to all his voicemails. Mickey had left a lot of them. But Ian was with Monica in her shithole meth dealer's trailer, being told that Mickey didn't actually love him, that Mickey wasn't right to want him stable and happy, that Mickey wouldn't give up everything in the world to make him okay again. And he was calling and calling and wasn't that enough? Wasn't I'll take care of him and I came out for you and I'm sorry I'm late and take your meds and you need to get some help and can I go in with him and fuck me for giving a shit and I love you enough? Wasn't all that enough? But Ian was with Monica and medicated or not it wouldn't have made a difference.

    What would you have done differently?
    Said it again, louder, louder, insisted. I love you, I'm not leaving. You're it. You're my ride or fucking die. I love you, and I'll sit around and wait for your next crazy shit because maybe then at least I can be there with you for your crazy shit. I'm so tired of you disappearing on me, so tired of calling and leaving desperate voicemails that you don't listen to. So tired of being the one waiting at home alone. I don't care, we can be Bonnie and fucking Clyde, Thelma and Louise, Monica and goddamn fucking Frank if that's what it takes to stay with you. If that's what it takes to stand beside your crazy ass and have you stay.
    Said it again, louder, I love you. Isn't that what you've wanted for years? I love you, and I'm not going to stop just because your head is fucked up and you keep leaving me. I love you, I hate seeing you hurting. I love you and you're it for me and I meant what I said about thick and thin, sickness and health, everything. I meant what I said and I don't know how else I can tell you how this feeling is tearing me up inside, like there's no room left for anything but the feeling of you in my head or in my chest, like every space inside me is full of the thought of you.

  4. Public Bookmark 36

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    Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't come back. Because absence apparently makes the heart grow fonder and at some point he realizes he's fallen in love with Ian Gallagher. At some point he realizes he fucking hates camouflage. At some point he realizes he wishes Ian could stay.

    In which Ian actually goes into the Marines.

    Language:
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    07 Apr 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    So he moved instead, so he surged forward and grabbed Ian's face and the kiss was the same desperation it had always been only Ian's body had hardened and filled out with training and Mickey's body was so starved for anything at all it was like he was trying to rip them both apart.

    This is tiny morsels meted out for him to worry over, and think about, and cling to. This is someone else handing him the smallest pieces so he crawls back begging for more, and he knows he will. Hearing Ian's voice makes him want to laugh. It makes him want to cry.

    Mickey clings to the scraps that he's getting, lets Ian lead, and yet he surprises himself that he wants to feel more of Ian's touch, hear his voice even more. Like all that back and forth shit in emails and letters and that one single phone call made him an addict. Like he's trying to get as much in now as he can before he's aching for it again.

    And he notices when Ian presses their shoulders together, or kisses him and then just hovers there, just a little too long, or brushes a hand against his back as he passes, and he's pretty sure Ian's doing the same thing. That they're both stocking up reserves for when they're starving. That Ian grew up hugged and loved and Mickey discovered it suddenly when someone touched him gently for the first time when he was sixteen, and now they're both touch-starved and clinging to the smallest crumbs.

    When they drop Mickey off at home, no one has anything to say. He can't even say “thanks.” Thanks for driving to the end of the world. Thanks for taking me to say goodbye to the love of my life again. Thanks for not saying anything about the way we touched each other in the airport. Thanks for not trying to talk him out of this death trap either. Thanks for helping the government take him away so I can be alone. Thanks for standing there next to me and watching him walk away. Thanks for dealing with this like I'm dealing with it, only probably better and with less drinking. Thanks for being the only one who gets it. Thanks. Yeah, right.

    Only now he looks back at it all and the fucking sunshine that apparently comes out whenever he thinks of Ian is tempered by the knowledge that it all has to go away again so fucking soon. So it comes out watery sunshine, a little grayed out, a little weak, but shit, it's more than he's ever had in his entire life so he'll take it. He'll take whatever.

    They fuck instead of sleeping, lying on their sides, Ian's chest flush with Mickey's back, Ian's nose pressed into the nape of Mickey's neck, whispering things into his skin that Mickey can barely understand even when he tugs Ian forward by his hair to kiss him. In the back of his mind, he wishes they could just crawl inside each other and never be apart.

    Mickey's always been comfortable with scraps, with taking the dregs and the leftovers and the things he could snatch up for himself and forging something with them, stretching everything as far as it could go. He's used to making do with what he has, with the smallest of crumbs. But this isn't even scraps. This is barely even an essence. This isn't anything.

  5. Public Bookmark 84

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    They're supposed to be running away together. Ian hates whatever fucking nurture-over-nature compass Fiona somehow instilled in him that means the one thing he's running back to is never the thing he wants to want. That Mickey's love makes him want to run away as fast as he can because this thing, this solid thing is so much. And he's already so much on his own.

    Mickey had two burning torches for hands but he knew what to do with them. Ian's head was on fire and all he knew was how to run and keep running. How to find a cliff and jump off. How to make Mickey chase after him, again and again. And in a cold cell in prison, Mickey catches him.

    Language:
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    31 Mar 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    And they drive and in the silence he can hear Mickey's breathing. The brush of Mickey's clothes. The thud of Mickey's heart that somehow always seemed like a fistful of gasoline, burning. A sacrifice. Ian's a jagged lodestone and Mickey is all iron. Always solid, always coming back. Mickey's looking at him in the car and smiling. Smiling at him so gentle and it's kind of stupid but Ian wants to lean over and kiss him. Wants to run away as fast as he can because this thing, this solid thing is so much. And he's already so much on his own.

    They already spent the day's drive from Jesus' house to that little bridge stop snipping out and remapping all the little fragments of the last two years of their lives. Little bits of history and self they used to know so easy when they lived in each others' pockets, when they could read every thought in a touch or the lift of an eyebrow. So they told each other stories and didn't admit that they both knew they were skipping over the big parts. The parts that might hurt.

    And Ian hates whatever bullshit genes gave him Monica's instinct to run. He hates whatever fucking nurture-over-nature compass Fiona somehow instilled in him that meant it's always one thing he's running back to. It's never the thing he wants to want.

    They're on the side of the road, next to the border. Warm, dusty. Mickey's in the car, putting on a dress, putting on makeup, putting on the pass to his new life. Hiding himself. Nervous, rambling. Ian's not listening, because the needle is thrumming loud against his blood. The urge to run. Not forward. Not south. Up. Back. Backwards maybe to easier times. Back to Mickey kissing him slow and easy in the kitchen. Backwards maybe to that warm spring before everything went so far to shit. Back to the sounds of too much life. Back to where things aren't so shit anymore, in Chicago, in the old bed he's always had and the streets he's always known. The life he left behind, like a door left open to catch an early bus. The pull of family, that tangled knot that he's forever tied to.

    Ian turns away. The failed present on the dashboard. Pulling the promise from the front seat. The needle pointing north, back again to the cold and the tangle and the life he's sure he's always wanted to have.

    [...] Mickey kissing him like he knows he can't keep him there. Mickey bleeding into his mouth. Mickey breathing him in, lips pressed so hard, burning hands so soft on his neck. A desperate goodbye. Mickey saying I love you in every language he has. A code Ian has never quite been convinced is real. Kissing him like the entire world is crumbling down around them and maybe it is. Ian opens his eyes just a little and sees the pain in Mickey's face. No, it definitely is.

    The needle points north. Points south. Spins and spins and presses against his solar plexus, pushing in.

    [...] Ian leans back against the wall. Cold. Settles the last of the burning. He never could burn like Mickey did. Constant, easy. He always burned up or burned out, one of the two.

    [...] He paces the cell, every footstep another piece of punctuation on a history that's tattooed on the soft underside of his tongue.

    There is a moment where he thinks about climbing onto his bunk and staring out the small strip of window. A moment where a thin rectangle of sky almost represents everything he could ever want. A moment where he almost forgets that Fiona has set up a magnet gimmick in his chest and Carl is living the old dream he used to have and his other siblings don't have the same sort of compass that he does and his mother is dead.

    [...] Mickey burned himself a fire to keep warm, to find some place to come back to, sacrificed his hands and all the soft and lovely things he could find inside to keep safe on his own in the house of horrors.

    But when you think you've lost everything except an identity you never wanted to have in the first place, you're bound to misread things.

    Here they are, two burned out fucking buildings sitting next to each other in the cold. Only Mickey's building is charred and gutted while Ian is nothing but dangerous, twisted metal and half-collapsed floors. Here they are, directionless and burning. Here they are, iron and lodestone, pressed shoulder to shoulder and maybe it doesn't matter that it's always the iron that moves. Maybe what matters is the staying.

    [...] Ian is taking the leap, and Mickey is there, wrapped around him, falling together. Here is the truth: it isn't about panic anymore. It isn't about the jump. They're already falling. Now it's about the land. They are holding on with their entire bodies. Warm skin, pressing, flushed, curling fingers. They kiss and keep on kissing. The entire world could crumble down around them and they wouldn't care, wouldn't ever want to stop.

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