“Oh My God, he is a sex wizard!”
Pairing: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich (Gallavich)
Fandom: Shameless US
AO3: C1, C2, C3, C4, C5, C6, C7, C8
Summary: Mickey just needs to keep his head down and stay out of trouble at his new job. Still trouble always manages to find him and when it takes the form of his red haired boss, Mickey’s not sure he can resist even if he wanted to. (Gallavich AU)
Ian Gallagher was in love. He wasn’t even allowed to be in denial over it, it was that bad and that obvious. It was crazy too, because it was the only one of Mickey’s stupid rules he had actually intended to follow. Mickey’s eyes were closed, lips parted as he slowly exhaled and lowered himself onto Ian’s cock. It allowed Ian the small luxury of looking at him in the way he knew would spook the tester straight out of his office. He stared at Mickey’s flushed face, raked his eyes down the pale column of the brunet’s throat and over his body. Mickey was still adjusting and couldn’t pick up the pace yet, so Ian continued taking full advantage of it—pulling Mickey close and kissing and licking all the exposed flesh he could reach.
He kept sniffing deeply, getting high on Mickey’s scent as the brunet slowly rode him on the couch of his office, and after a while, the blue eyes opened and looked down on him, clouded and heavy lidded. Ian was trapped, caught with that stupid moony look on his face that he thought would have Mickey reaching for his clothes and calling him stupid. Only Mickey didn’t do any of that, just dipped his head and trailed his tongue along Ian’s lower lip. Ian shivered and hugged him closer, just caught in an endless loop of falling over and over again.
Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins.
See, this seems like a game until you skip over the girl with a short skirt and hair in front of her eyes because you heard last summer that she slept with like nineteen guys. You can’t see her hands, but they’re under the table, pulling a rosary through her fingers as she tries to wash the sin off her. She’s only ever kissed three people in her whole life and they’re all girls. She turned down the wrong guy and he told everyone she’s “a whore.” The label “slut” stuck to the bottom of her shoe and swallowed her up.
But that quiet girl who is always reading probably never touched someone else’s penis, you figure, because you don’t know that she goes home and strips down and pulls on tight black leather, you don’t know she’s got a set of whips that could make any set of knees quiver, you don’t know because she’s proud of what she does but she’s not stupid enough to let anyone know about it. She’s sexy, just not here, not where people judge.
See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic - it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment - but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy.
But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten.
But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending.
Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions.
Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.
I didn’t get any cake yesterday cause apparently my dad was still working on it.
He brought it to school today and I’m just-
is all of that
wtf i think your dad just defied the law of physics and pastries
Is ur dad cake boss
Holy shit our lungs are crazy
I don’t know whether to be disgusted or amazed…
According to military training, you can blow into the esophagus and inflate cow lungs and use them as a flotation device. I have no idea why you be in a situation where you come across a dead cow right when you need to cross a large body of water, but hey, the more you know.