#nah i'm guessing with these two they just REALLY clicked. like. they were an instant match and they knew it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

arrowflier · 3 years

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I absolutely loved your last ficlet, the one inspired by Take Me to Church (well, I love EVERYTHING you write), so I'm here with a thought that maybe you can turn into something:

What if, for some reason, Mickey has to speak in Ukrainian (your pick why, maybe directions to tourists or a phone call with a distant relative) and Ian witnesses it and just goes: 😳🤯🤤🥵😍, followed by "can you do that again when we're in bed"?

Thank you anon! Disclaimer that I do not know Ukrainian, so if google led me astray I apologize.

That Foreign Tongue

They were out in the rig, on their way to a pickup, when Mickey got a call.

He fumbled in his pocket to pull out his phone, frowned at it in consternation as it blared.

“Who the fuck?” he mumbled to himself, then swiped to decline.

Ian looked over as he pulled to the curb outside their destination, curious.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Fuck if I know,” was all he got in answer. “Not a fuckin’ Chicago number, that’s for sure. Not New York, either,” he added before Ian can check. Mandy wasn’t great at staying in contact, but they knew to answer if it looked like it could be her.

Ian shrugged, and reached back to grab the cash bag from behind Mickey’s seat.

“Sure it wasn’t Mexico or something?” he prodded with a forced casualness, and Mickey rolled his eyes as he shoved open the door to get out.

He met Ian around the front of the ambulance, and promptly poked him in the chest, hard.

“What was that for?” Ian asked, wounded, and Mickey clicked his tongue.

“For still fuckin’ fishin’ about that,” he told his husband. “It’s been two fucking years, let it go already.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ian huffed. “Sorry for wanting to know more about what you did down there that has people calling in the middle of the—”

“That was one time!” Mickey exclaimed, arms going wide. “One fucking time, and I told you what it was about! Roberto needed me to check on his damn kid, it had nothing to do with—”

“Well how was I supposed to know that,” Ian interrupted loudly, “when you were speaking a whole different language?”

“Oh, for the love of…” Mickey trailed off as he stormed away from Ian down the sidewalk.

He wasn’t really mad. They did this song and dance around once a month, still, ever since one of his old contacts had found him and called him up. It stuck in Ian’s craw that Mickey had had people down there, without him, even though, as he explained to him once, he was glad about it at the same time. They both knew it didn’t really matter—sometimes it just needed to come out.

Sure enough, Ian caught up with him after only a few strides, falling in beside him naturally. His cheeks were slightly flushed, but otherwise there was no indication of their brief argument.

Mickey gave him two minutes before he tried to smooth it over.

Ian didn’t last one.

“You know,” his husband started, reaching up to scratch at his jaw. “I’m just making sure none of those foreigners come up here and take what’s mine.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah?” he prompted. “Think they’re coming for our jobs and our husbands, now?”

Ian’s lips lifted in a grin, their banter back on track the way they liked it.

“I mean,” he said, “I can’t really blame them.” He grabbed Mickey by the arm and brought them both to a stop right outside their drop, tugging him close enough for their boots to kick together on the pavement.

“A hot, red-blooded American man like yourself,” Ian murmured, getting his arms around Mickey’s waist. “You’re quite the catch, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hummed, leaning up to bring their faces closer. “That right, Mr. Milkovich?”

He was just about to follow it up with a good old-fashioned make-up kiss, when his phone blared again from his pocket.

“Damn it,” he hissed as he thumped his heels back down and dug it out again. This time, he answered it immediately.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” he shouted into it, “you’re interruptin’ something here.”

An unfamiliar voice came down the line, barely audible to Ian where he still stood close but with a clearly chastising tone, and the fight went out of Mickey in an instant.

“Prīvіt,” Mickey muttered, looking almost bashful, and Ian did a double-take. That wasn’t English, or Spanish…he had to try and listen in on a third language, now? When did Mickey even find the time to learn this shit?

Ian watched silently as Mickey listened to whoever was on the line. His husband had folded into himself, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and his elbow with the other, casting a quick glance up at Ian before turning his attention away again.

“Shcho novogo?” he asked into the phone, and then a brilliant smile crossed his face a moment later. “Dobre, dobre,” he said, then “vitayu”.

It sounded like the caller asked him a question, next, but Ian couldn’t hear what Mickey answered, his husband lowering his voice and turning his back. Ian tried not to let himself feel hurt at the sudden shut-out.

A moment later, the call was over with a quiet “do pobachenn'a”, and Mickey faced him again.

Ian wanted to ask, but he waited instead, hoping Mickey would explain. Thankfully, he did.

“So, uh,” he started off nervously. “That was my…like, my great-aunt or something?”

Ian could feel his eyebrows rising. “You have family you still talk to?” he asked, and Mickey shook his head immediately.

“Nah, not really,” he admitted. “But this one, she’s back in Ukraine still, guess she calls around sometimes to check on me and Mandy.” He looked down at the dark screen of his phone, lips twisted. “Been a couple years,” he added. “Didn’t think she had the new number, but uh. Guess one of my cousins just had a kid or somethin', so she wanted to catch up.”

Family was a touchy subject, Ian knew. So he went for the next obvious question instead.

“Ukraine? That mean you speak Ukrainian?”

Mickey just looked at him. “No, Ian,” he offered dryly, “I just thought I’d make some weird sounds and see if she could read my mind from across the fuckin’ ocean.” Ian didn’t respond, so he tacked on, “Yes, I speak Ukrainian. Sort of.” He rubbed his nose, looked away and back. “That gonna be a problem for you?”

It was a fair enough question. But this wasn’t like the Spanish, which was never really the problem anyway. It wasn’t a reminder of time they spent apart, or things he didn’t now. It was just Mickey. And Mickey's voice, and the way it rolled over those unfamiliar phrases so cleanly, so...attractively.

“Not at all,” Ian clarified quickly. Too quickly, maybe, because Mickey’s cautious look gave way to a slow smile.

“Oh, really?” Mickey said, apparently delighted. He grinned even wider when Ian felt his face flush. So his husband sounded hot in other languages, fucking sue him.

“Better watch out, man," Mickey warned. "I hear foreigners like me are out huntin’ down men like you nowadays.”

Ian cleared his throat, and closed the distance between them again. “And that’s a problem how?” he asked.

“Didn’t say it was, miy cholovik,” Mickey murmured lowly, raising a hand to grip at Ian’s hair once he was close enough. Ian’s breath caught at the soft look on his eyes that accompanied the foreign words.

“What does that mean?”

Mickey pressed their lips together once, twice, before pulling back just enough to answer.

“Nothing bad, moye sontse,” he breathed, and Ian shuddered.

“We have a job to do,” he reminded Mickey weakly, like he hadn’t been the one to start this. “You keep saying that weird shit, we’re gonna have to cancel all our pickups today.”

“You better make some calls then, miy kokhanets,” Mickey chuckled against his lips. “But first…”

He pushed Ian back into a convenient alley right next to their original destination, shoving until they hit the rough brick wall. Ian didn’t protest as Mickey started to tug at his camo jacket, getting the zipper down far enough to mouth at Ian’s neck.

“Ya tebe kokhayu, Ian” Mickey muttered against his skin, pressing tighter as Ian clutched at his back. “Let me show you how much.”

Hours later, at home, Ian asked Mickey what else his aunt had said.

"Oh, not much," Mickey answered, snuggling closer. "Wanted to see if we could catch a flight sometime, go visit the old country, that kind of thing."

"Is that something you'd want to do?" he prodded, and Mickey shrugged, shoulders moving against Ian's chest.

"I guess," he said, unconvincingly disinterested. "I'd have to teach you the language, though, none of my mom's folks speak English."

Ian's brain ground to a halt. If the day had been any indication, he wasn't sure he could survive language lessons with his husband.

But never let it be said that Ian Gallagher backed down from a challenge.

"Sure," he agreed, and he was sure of one thing when he felt Mickey smile against his neck--it was going to be the best worst decision of his life.

According to my admittedly poor research, Mickey basically says hi, what's up, good, congrats, goodbye, then calls Ian my husband, my sun, my lover and says I love you. It's most likely all horribly butchered because I only speak English and a tiny bit of German, if you know Ukrainian I would happily take correction.

#daily speedwrite #if you're ukrainian sorry for butchering your language #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #foreign languages #fanfic

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rrrawrf-writes · 7 years

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nah, I'm kidding, 1 & 33 for the drabble thing, please!

i was growing concerned

1. “That’s starting to get annoying.”

33. “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

(tw for threatening someone’s pets?)

“That’s starting to get annoying.”

“Oh, really?” Winn gave the back of Rembrandt’s seat another hard kick. “Wouldn’t’ve -” kick “- guessed -” kick “- it.”

Rembrandt leaned forward, hissing as a bit of coffee splashed out of his travel mug and onto his wrist. Weston, in the driver’s seat, shot Rembrandt a sidelong look, and then glanced up at Winn in the rearview mirror. “You should really stop.”

“Shut up, you — prick.” Winn squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his cuffed hands making an uncomfortable lump between his spine and the back of the seat. Weston had even buckled him in before they started driving. “Let me outta the bloody car.”

“Prison made him even more of a child than he used to be,” Rembrandt muttered, as Winn kicked his seat again. He considered shooting his other leg, but they were too close to the heist to jeopardize their only thief. “Maybe I’ll tell Mr. Huntington to start kicking your dogs, Yale.”

“They’d tear him apart,” Winn retorted, but he finally subsided, slouching as best as he could in his seat. “Roll down the window.”

“It’s roasting outside,” Weston said. “No.”

“Mr. Weston, get out the gear, please.” Rembrandt leaned against the side of his car, looking up at the facility they had come to rob. It was supposedly abandoned, but everyone steered clear of it anyway - no one wanted to tr and break into one of Wildcard’s lairs. They were famously riddled with traps and lethal mindgames; Rembrandt wouldn’t have even considered the possibility of sending someone in there. At least, not until Winn fell right into his lap.

Weston moved around to the trunk of the car, while Winn skulked in the back seat. His door was open, but no one had yet bothered to undo his handcuffs, or the seatbelt. Rembrant normally wouldn’t have trusted mere cuffs to keep Winn contained, but he’d made sure to force the ex-con to change clothes completely, and then for added measures, stuck a pair of mittens over Winn’s hands. It was childish, but effective.

“Do you need another look at the building plans?” Rembrandt asked.

“I’m not going in there.”

Rembrandt just sipped at his coffee, rolling his eyes when he was sure neither Winn or Weston could see such an immature expression. “Oh. I wish you had told me that earlier. I’ll pass word along to Mr. Huntington, then. I’ll make sure he gives your dogs a clean death.”

Winn’s head snapped up. Rembrandt couldn’t believe that he had to resort to threatening a man’s pets to get what he wanted, but Winn always had been easy to manipulate. The idiot didn’t seem to have anyone else dear to him.

Weston interrupted their conversation by thumping a hard-sided case down on the hood of the car. Rembrandt winced, and looked at him sternly - he hoped Weston hadn’t scratched the paint.

“All right,” he said, “let him out.”

Winn frowned at the all-too familiar backpack Weston set on the hood of the car. “That’s mine,” he said, and the instant Rembrandt undid his handcuffs, he snatched it and unzipped the top. His grappling gloves were in there, and his lockpicks - the nice set. He’d left all this behind in a storage unit he hadn’t been able to get to since getting out of prison. “Where’d you get this?”

“Gary told us where to find it.” Rembrandt smirked as he leaned against the car again, as if it were impossible for the man to stand on his own two feet. Winn’s jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the backpack’s straps. “We found your motorcycle, as well. I had Mr. Huntington drive it back to Boston. He was very impressed.”

“You let him what?” Winn looked up from his old backpack - he even had the mask in there, something ridiculous that he wanted to burn - and stared at Rembrandt. “I’m taking that back. Did he wreck it? He’s too big!”

“We’re wasting time.” Rembrandt nodded towards the case. “Hurry up, Yale. If I don’t have those codes in my hands in three hours, I’m going -”

“You’re gonna call that bastard and make him shoot my dogs,” Winn interrupted waspishly. “I know.”

He jerked the case away from Weston, the corners of it scraping against the car. Winn reveled in Rembrandt’s wince as he dug an earpiece out of the foam inside of the casing, jamming it into his ear. “I ——- hate you.”

“Here, let me,” Weston said in a quiet voice, as Winn pulled a digital watch out of the case. He set his jaw and let Weston wrap it around his wrist; the man was entirely too close, though. Before he drew away, he slipped something into Winn’s front pocket, a hard rectangle. A mobile phone. Winn opened his mouth, and Weston only shook his head, shooting a look over Winn’s shoulder, and to their erstwhile boss.

Rembrandt checked his own watch. “Thirteen minutes to one-thirty. You’d better get moving, Wings.”

Rembrandt had put a tiny camera in Winn’s new shirt, and he was more impressed than he would ever let show. Five years in prison had not done much at all to dull Winn’s skill - he navigated Wildcard’s abandoned labyrinth of traps with - well, Rembrandt wouldn’t call it ease. It wasn’t grace, either, but Winn’s panicked scrambling had a certain elegance to it. Rembrandt had never gotten to really see Winn truly in action, and now he regretted that the little bastard’s skills came with a cocky, self-absorbed arrogance and a truly bizarre moral code that prevented him from being a reliable lackey.

It was truly a pity that Rembrandt would have to kill him once he got the codes, but it would only be a matter of time before Winn betrayed him again. After this job, the man had to die.

Weston leaned over his shoulder to watch Winn’s progress on Rembrandt’s tablet. He was making good time - it had only been a little over an hour when Winn gained access to the facility’s inner sanctum.

“Could you have gone any slower?” Rembrandt asked archly. Winn let out a hoarse bark of laughter that sounded a little tinny over the earpiece.

“I’d like to see you do any of that,” he muttered, panting a little.

The room Winn had finally entered was a large, echoing space, filled with dozens upon dozens of enormous, square storage containers. Winn ignored them all, heading straight down the aisle to the center of the room. Lights clicked on after his first few steps, though more than one lightbulb fizzed and flickered.

There was a metal desk with a single computer in the middle of the room - but the computer was huge. Three large monitors angled around the desk, which was dusty from lack of use. Winn ran a hand through his scruffy hair as he circled the desk and computer, inspecting it for any last-minute traps left behind. He couldn’t find anything, though, not in this room, so after a few moments, he dropped down into the chair to catch his breath.

Despite being inactive for well over five years, the computer started up the second Winn’s thumb hovered over the POWER button. He pulled out the flash drive Rembrandt had given him, marked with Wildcard’s symbol. However the arms dealer had gotten this, Winn didn’t want to know. There was dried blood in the cracks of the flash drive.

“Just plug it in,” Rembrandt said impatiently, “it should take care of any passwords or firewalls.”

Winn rolled his eyes. He stuck the memory stick into a port and sat back. “This was way too easy,” he said, in spite of the tears and scorch marks on his clothes from a few too many brushes with death (or at least, permanent disability). “You gonna give me another challenge after this, Remy?”

He could just imagine the frustrated look on Rembrandt’s face at the old nickname. The bastard’s voice was far too smooth, though, when he answered, “Oh, certainly. You’ll have plenty of fun.”

I’m going to die after this. Winn stared gloomily up at the computer as code ran across the screens. Rembrandt was too smart to let him run loose. If Winn didn’t end up getting shot after all, he’d probably be chained up in some box, on hand for the next time Rembrandt needed a tool.

“Who are you texting?” Rembrandt asked - but Winn’s hands were laced behind his head as he waited for the codes to download.

“Nobody,” Weston said. A second later, the phone Weston had slipped into Winn’s pocket buzzed. Frowning, Winn pulled it out, and opened up a picture message.

It was Eli and Kawai. The former had his arms around two dogs - Braith was enthusiastically licking his face - and the latter stood in the background, her arms crossed as she glared down at a tied-up Huntington.

Winn stared, and then a grin crept over his face. He angled the phone so that the camera Rembrandt had stuck on his shirt could catch the picture just right.

“What were you saying about my dogs, Remy?”

Rembrandt stared at his tablet. “Where did you get that phone?” he snapped, once he found his voice again. “Who the hell are those people?”

“Friends,” Winn said, the smugness coming in loud and clear even if his voice was a little crackly.

“You don’t have friends.”

“Neither do you,” Winn pointed out. “Ha. Brilliant. Hey, look, there’s a self-destruct option in this computer.”

The camera angle shifted; Winn must have shifted his shirt to point it at the screen. A red line of code near the bottom right of the screen flashed at him. Rembrandt was no programmer, and neither was Winn, but the purpose was clear in the red COMPUTER SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE.

Rembrandt’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wanna bet?” Winn’s face appeared on the screen; he had managed to finagle the camera out of its spot. He smiled at Rembrandt, but it was cold and unnerving. The expression didn’t fit on his face. “Don’t f—— threaten my pets, Remy.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert, Winn,” Rembrandt said, trying his best to keep his composure. “I’ll just drive away now, and maybe even call up a couple capes. Do you think Starblast would be happy to hear that a known thief was trying to run away with some of Wildcard’s greatest weapons?”

“They couldn’t catch me,” Winn said, but he looked briefly uncertain.

“It’s miles and miles to the nearest speck of civilization, Winn,” Rembrandt said smoothly. “If they didn’t catch you, the heat would kill you before you got anywhere.”

“No one -”

“And,” Rembrandt said, cutting Winn off. “I may not have any friends, Winn, but I recognize yours. That woman is from Mercury Independent - do you really think they’re here to do you a favor, Winn?”

Winn narrowed his eyes. Rembrandt gave him a thin smile. “My people will easily catch up to them, Winn. Think. Are you certain that’s the decision you want to make?”

“I’m certain you’re a —— son of a —-,” Winn snapped, and Rembrandt knew that he was winning. Winn resorted to insults when he felt like things were out of control - which, granted, they usually were.

“Mr. Weston and I will be driving away in fifteen minutes, Winn,” Rembrandt said coolly. “And I’ll be calling my people in two, and Starblast and Scorchstorm in five. You might want to be out of there and in my car before then.”

“Actually,” Weston said. Rembrandt started to look up from his tablet, and froze when he felt the barrel of a gun cold against the back of his neck. Sam continued, “We’re not going anywhere.”

tagging @gingerly-writing since she just loooooOOOoOOOOoOOOooves rembrandt so much (and sam)

#tumblr games #ask games #iwrite #winn #sam #rembrandt #superpowerverse #mercury independent #mi

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