Gallavich Fluff & Smut

Employer of the Year; or, The Further Adventures of Mickey Milkovich, Power Bott

Full Title: Employer of the Year; or, The Further Adventures of Mickey Milkovich, Power Bottom
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The Actual Title:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/2646191?view_adult=true#main
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I Didn't Write This it was Actually Written By:
http://archiveofourown.org/users/skepwith/pseuds/skepwith
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Summary:
Mickey sticks his neck out
for the rub n’ tug and discovers a new kink, which Ian is more than happy to indulge.
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Mickey grabbed Svetlana’s elbow and marched her out of earshot. “Will you let me fucking handle this?” he said.

She jerked her elbow out of his grip. “You are not handling! Free blow job is obvious answer.”

“Yeah, except he’s fucking gay, so he’s not fucking interested!”

She took another look at the cop. “Gay?”

“Yes!”

Without missing a beat, she said, “So you give him blow job.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows climb all the way up his forehead. “Excuse me?”

“What?” she sneered. “You are better than rest of us?”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Let me explain to you how this works. Me pimp, you whore. Understand?”

Svetlana looked, as always, supremely unimpressed. “So you have money for license?”

“Fuck!”
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WARNING: This is Long As Fuck (Pun Intended).
There's a lot of blowjobs and blowjob talk.
Pretty Fucking Intense.
(Cliffhanger:)It's about Mickey giving blowjobs. But to whom if not Ian.. That's all I'm saying you're going to have to read it to find out the rest.
5925 Words
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Mickey was on his way to the Alibi when his cheap piece-of-shit phone began beeping its stupid ring tone. He dug it out of the pocket of his jeans and checked the caller: Kev. Shit.

Ian had woken him earlier with a rise-and-shine hummer, which led to a thorough ass-fucking, the aftereffects of which he could still feel with every step. (Not that he was complaining.) Ian had gotten up long enough to take his meds and then rolled himself back into the blanket with a smug grin; the bastard didn’t have to be at work till evening. All of which was to say that it wasn’t Mickey’s fault he was running late.

He answered the phone with an irritated “I’m on my way, okay?”

“Shut up, that’s not why I’m calling,” said Kev. He sounded panicked. “There’s a couple of cops here asking to see a business license for the rub n’ tug. I think that asshole over at the Anchor ratted us out. He’s probably pissed because I stole all three of his regulars, which, by the way, is his own fault for playing that fucking awful music all the time.”

Mickey paused on the sidewalk and fished his lighter and smokes out of his pocket. “Just have the girls give them a freebie. I really gotta tell you this? Were you born yesterday?” He rolled his eyes as he lit up, pinning the phone against his ear with one shoulder.

“That’s the first thing I tried, genius! They said no. So I offered them fifty bucks—discreetly, you know—but they wouldn’t take that either. What the fuck is up with that?”

“Huh,” said Mickey, exhaling smoke.

“We’re fucked, man. You have any idea how much a business license costs?”

“No.”

“A fuck of a lot more than I’ve got, that’s how much! And even if we could get a license, the last thing we need is inspectors sniffing around, asking about green cards and asbestos and who the fuck knows what else!”