Chapter Text
~Prologue~
“Hey, y’know the guy you beat the shit out of at that club?” Ian doesn’t wait for a response, because of course Mickey remembers. “He wants me to sneak into his mansion, take all his crap.”
“Really?” Mickey deadpans around his cigarette, raising the gun to take another shot. “Hi-larious.”
“He can’t get it himself. Divorce.” He drops to the ground with his fake rifle, army-crawling under the maze he and Mickey had set up. “Said I could take whatever I want. He’s loaded.”
Mickey fires several shots, a little too close for comfort, near Ian’s head. “Jesus!” He exclaims, jumping to his feet again. “Use blanks, maybe?”
Mickey doesn’t respond, and Ian just rolls his eyes. It’s not like the other boy is really going to shoot him or anything. Ian’s fairly confident about that. After another few minutes of running the course, Mickey seems to get agitated. “So?”
“So?” Ian repeats, out of breath and trying to focus on his footwork.
“Are you gonna do it? Rob the old bastard?”
Ian pauses for a second, considers Mickey’s question and the trepidation in his tone that the other boy can’t quite hide. He’d been planning on saying yes – why shouldn’t he, after all? Ned had seemed nonchalant enough about the whole thing, he’d get some free expensive shit out of the deal, and he’s pretty sure it would be easy to convince Mickey to be his accomplice – but now that the moment is here, something stops him.
Mickey hadn’t gotten out of juvie all that long ago, and if this goes sideways – which, since he’s a Gallagher and bad luck tends to stalk the lot of them, there’s a good chance that it will – Mickey will be the one to take most of the heat. Ian feels a surge of protectiveness for the older boy, and a warmth in his gut as he remembers the way Mickey had looked the other day standing in the street, waiting for him and Ned.
“Nah,” he hears himself saying. “Too risky.” He elaborates when Mickey gives him a look like he’s fucking crazy. “I like the guy, but I’m not going to jail so he can get his Armani suits and some expensive ass bottle of liquor back, y’know?”
Mickey nods and then shrugs, like he doesn’t care at all. He brings his gun-wielding hand to his face and runs his thumb along his bottom lip. “Your call, Gallagher.” Ian walks closer to where Mickey is sitting above him, deciding it’s time for a break. “I don’t know what you see in that geriatric Viagroid, anyway.”
“He buys me stuff. Orders me room service.” Ian shrugs, not at all unaware of how his words are affecting Mickey. Hell, if he’d known that jealousy was the key to getting the older boy to confront his feelings, Ian would have started hooking up with other guys ages ago.
Mickey shoots his gun twice more, glancing over his shoulder for a second and then back at Ian, like he’s afraid to look away for too long, and Ian bites back a smirk and goes for broke. “He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”
Mickey doesn’t respond to that, but Ian can see the cracks in his armor getting a little bit wider.
--I—
Your Call, Gallagher
***
“Yo, if we ain’t robbin’ anybody, whaddya doin’ the rest of the day?” Mickey asks casually, once Ian declares his training session complete and the two of them are making their way out of the abandoned building they’d long ago claimed as their own.
Ian shrugs, taking a minute to actually think about it. “Mandy and Lip are being fucking weird. Don’t really feel like going home.”
Mickey hums. “You know if your fuck-face of a brother hurts my sister I’m gonna have to kill him, right?”
It’s supposed to be a threat, but Ian just grins. “Lip can hold his own.”
Mickey’s torn between picking a fight about that and just letting it go, Ian can tell, and considers it progress on the older boy’s part when he chooses the latter. “It’s fucking weird that our little sister is living with you guys, by the way.”
“Fucking weird is pretty par for the course at my house.” Ian laughs, and then suddenly remembers the most recent incident that had taken place there. “Shit, did I tell you that Ned accidentally tried to fuck Lip?”
“Wait, what?” Mickey stutters around his amusement. “Don’t tell me your brother’s a homo now, too? Man, it ain’t supposed to be contagious.”
Ian laughs out loud. Mickey’s always been good at making him laugh. “Nah, he was looking for me. Crawled into the wrong bed. Lip almost broke his neck trying to get away from him. Woke us all up screaming about the full chub poking him in the back.”
Ian knows he’s walking a fine line, trying to tell a funny story about the guy Mickey is jealous of, but he likes making Mickey laugh, too, and it’s not like he and Ned had actually fucked that night. But apparently, he’d misjudged his ability to keep it lighthearted, because Mickey stops walking suddenly, forcing Ian to turn around and face him fully. “What?” He asks, when he sees how serious the older boy looks.
“What the fuck was that old ass fag doing at your fucking house?” Mickey asks, voice so low that it almost sounds like a growl. “He fucking stalking you or something?”
Ian’s heart stutters a little at the look of absolutely murderous rage on his not-boyfriend’s face. A part of him wants to play it out for a minute, see how protective Mickey would really get over him. But as soon as he has that thought, he dismisses it. He’s seen the extreme lengths Mickey will go to in order to protect people, especially his family, and while Ian’s dying to know whether or not Mickey considers him important enough to commit a felony over, he also doesn’t want to lose the other boy in the process.
“No, no, man,” he says, trying to sound casual and comforting at the same time. “Ned was just crashing on our couch because his wife kicked him out.”
Mickey huffs his exaggeration when Ian doesn’t expand. “And why the fuck was he doing that?” He demands. “Your family knows you’re fucking some seventy-year-old rich prick and they’re just fucking cool with that?”
“No.” Ian says, then backpedals. “I mean, yeah. Well, they know now. They’re not exactly cool with it.” He scratches at the back of his neck, realizing belatedly that he’d never explained the situation with Ned to Mickey in detail. It’s too fucking complicated to fit into their routine three minutes of post-sex small talk, and it hadn’t exactly come up at work. Mickey had been pretty adamant about not wanting to hear about the other guys Ian had fucked while he’d been in juvie, actually. “Ned is Jimmy’s dad. Which I didn’t know when we started fucking.”
“Who the fuck’s Jimmy?” Mickey asks, no less on edge at Ian’s shit attempt at an explanation.
“Fiona’s boyfriend.” Ian answers, a little annoyed that Mickey doesn’t remember this, because he’s pretty sure he’s mentioned the love of sister’s life several times, at least in passing. “He lives with us.”
“I thought his name was Steve.”
Then again, maybe Mickey does listen to him when he rambles on about his family. It’s not like it’s his fault everything in the Gallagher’s lives is complicated as fuck. “Yeah, it is.” Ian leans his head back, glancing at the clear blue sky like maybe it could offer him a simpler existence. “Or it was.” He glances back at Mickey. “I mean, it never was, technically, but it’s the name he went by when Fiona first met him. Now we call him Jimmy/Steve to piss him off.”
Mickey shakes his head at little, openly annoyed and still confused, but at least he doesn’t look like he wants to kill someone anymore. “Your fucking family, man.”
Ian grins at him, nudging his shoulder a little until he gets Mickey to start walking again. They amble down the sidewalk with no real destination at hand, but Ian doesn’t want to separate yet. He likes spending time with Mickey, and has started to notice, more and more lately, that the other boy doesn’t pretend to hate it as much as he used to.
“Did Mandy tell you that your half-sister is actually a boy?” Ian asks. “Because that’s a little fucked up.”
Mickey snorts. “Yeah, she mentioned that.”
Ian falls quiet again, happy to let the silence spread between them, because it doesn’t feel awkward like it used to. He doesn’t feel the need to talk just to fill the void, isn’t afraid that Mickey will take off suddenly if Ian isn’t doing anything to keep him around. Honestly, Mickey has no qualms about leaving in the middle of a conversation. He does what he wants, no matter what, and while that used to piss Ian off – hurt him, if he’s being honest – he’s grown to appreciate it over the years. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Mickey never does anything he doesn’t want to do, so if stays with Ian – even if it’s just walking aimlessly around the streets of Chicago – it’s because that’s where he wants to be.
“So, is he a criminal?” Mickey asks a few blocks later, kicking an empty pop can into the street idly. “Or was it, like, witness protection or some shit?”
Ian, caught up in his own musings, doesn’t understand the question at first. “What?”
“Jimmy/Steve.” Mickey elaborates. “Why the fake name?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ian picks back up with their conversation, a little surprised that Mickey cares enough to ask. “He was a car thief.”
“Huh.” Mickey actually looks impressed. “A good one?”
“Yeah.” Ian says. “He doesn’t do it anymore, but when he did, it was always high-end shit. Beamers and Lexus’s, crap like that. He made good money doin’ it, too, but he stopped when he moved in with us. Chose being with Fiona, I guess.”
Mickey hums and, much to Ian’s shock, doesn’t make a comment about Jimmy being pussy-whipped. “Must be rough,” he mutters instead, “givin’ up a life like that.”
“I guess.” Ian agrees halfheartedly. “I dunno. I’ve never talked to him about it or anything, but he seems happier now than he did before.”
Mickey makes a nondescript noise in the back of his throat and Ian fights back a grin when he looks over and sees the contemplative look on the other boy’s face. He’s not naïve enough to think that Mickey’s considering changing the entire course of his life over some offhand comment Ian had made about true love, but it means something that he hadn’t dismissed the notion entirely.
Ian wants more for Mickey than the type of lives the other Milkovich’s have. He wants more for Mandy, too, but with Mickey it’s an almost visceral thing, protective in a way that feels primal, and he tries not to spend too much time thinking about that. He already knows that he’s in love with Mickey, and he’s pretty sure the other boy feels something for him, too – maybe not love, but something close enough that he’s sure it terrifies him.
They’re about five blocks away from The Alibi before Mickey speaks again. “My dad took my brothers on a run outta town.” He shares out of nowhere. “And Mandy’s still playing house with your brother.” Mickey rubs his nose, trying for casual and almost managing to pull it off.
Ian can’t fully bite back his smile. “Are you suggesting something?”
“Fuck off is what I’m suggesting,” Mickey retorts automatically when he sees Ian’s smugness. His faux-aggression fades almost as quick as it had come. “My place is empty.” He elaborates, “if you feel like making the most of that. Your call, Gallagher.”
Ian doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin this time. He even throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, saying, “Lead the way,” with a bounce in his step. Mickey pushes his arm away in less than ten seconds flat, but he doesn’t stop Ian from occasionally bumping against him as they make their way back to the blessedly-empty Milkovich house.
***
Ian had thought they’d start fucking immediately – they usually do whenever they’re alone together, so Mickey can keep up the pretense that sex is all he sticks around for – but the darker-haired boy hesitates once they kick off their shoes and double-check that the house is indeed empty. It’s that moment of clear indecision that gives Ian enough confidence to flop down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.
“I’m fucking starving, man.” He declares, grabbing the remote and switching on some mindless talk show. “I think I burned, like, three meals worth of calories on that obstacle course. You got any food here?”
“What the fuck do you think this is, a goddamn bed and breakfast?” Mickey snaps at him, but Ian can read the want and fear in his expression too easily. Like, he’s craving this infusion of domesticity into their relationship almost as much as Ian is, but knows that indulging in it will cross some invisible, self-imposed barrier.
“I’m weak,” Ian protests, keeping his tone light and petulant, playing it like a joke, like he’s doing it just to annoy Mickey. “I can’t fuck you if I don’t have any energy.” He drops his head onto the back of the couch, reaches an arm out, and makes a childlike grabby motion. “Food…” he whines.
“Fine,” Mickey snaps, rolling his eyes. “Fuck, you’re a needy bastard.”
“Huh,” Ian says with mock consideration as Mickey makes his way towards the kitchen. “If we were already having sex right now, that’s what I’d be calling you.”
Ian looks over his shoulder just in time to see Mickey flip him the bird. He laughs loudly. “Pizza, if you have it.” He calls, looking back at the TV and surfing through the channels, trying to find something worth watching. “You got any movies?” He asks after a few minutes, when he can’t find anything good. “Midafternoon TV sucks.”
“Look to your right, dumbass.” Mickey half-shouts from the other room, tone exaggeratedly annoyed.
Ian does, and sees a large case filled with dozens of DVDs.
He knows better than to call this a date, at least out loud, but as the sound of Mickey sticking something in the oven and setting a timer rings out from the kitchen, Ian can’t help but take a moment and consider that maybe, someday, this could be the norm for them. Not roses and chocolate and reading fucking love poems to each other, but something exactly like this – hanging out like friends and then fucking like animals. Depending on each other, not fucking other people, and just being; knowing that Mickey will always be there with him.
He knows he’s probably fooling himself, thinking that his life – and especially a life with Mickey Milkovich – could ever be anything remotely resembling calm or permanent, but it’s a nice fantasy. And today has been good enough so far that he doesn’t think his wandering idealist thoughts will bring about anything cataclysmic.
***
They bicker back and forth about Seagal and Van Damme as they eat pizza rolls on the couch and steal glances at each other. They both notice the other looking, but Ian doesn’t say anything, keeps his expression carefully neutral, and Mickey keeps doing it, seemingly unafraid of Ian realizing that he maybe, kinda likes this, too.
They make it halfway through a second movie before the want gets to be too much, and Ian moves his hand to Mickey’s knee. He leans closer to the other boy, until their sides are pressed together completely, and delights at the way Mickey’s breath hitches as Ian’s fingers trail up the inside of his thigh.
Mickey’s never shy about initiating sex, but something about the warm, lazy, pseudo-domestic atmosphere of the two of them together like this seems to have loosened Mickey’s inhibitions enough that he’s comfortable letting Ian see this needier, almost submissive side of him.
Ian had already known it was there – Mickey’s not shy about what he likes in bed, either – but it’s usually farther into their activities before it comes out, and not always even then. The shift makes Ian’s breath stutter and his cock hard in record time.
“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, letting his legs fall open as wide as they’ll go as Ian’s hand finally closes around the bulge in his jeans.
“Yeah,” Ian says, not sure exactly what he’s agreeing with, but knowing that he does in fact agree, as wholeheartedly as humanly possible. “Want you.” He applies pressure to Mickey’s dick, and delights in it when the other boy gasps lightly.
“You got me, firecrotch,” he nearly whispers, “whatchya gonna do about it?”
The smug look on Mickey’s face lights a fire under Ian’s skin, and before either of them even knows what’s happening, Ian’s hands are deftly undoing Mickey’s pants. He uses all his upper body strength to shift Mickey’s weight until the offending item is off of him completely, without the older boy ever moving from his spot on the couch.
Mickey’s breath hitches at the rough handling, and Ian smirks knowingly when Mickey’s dick twitches tellingly. “You like that?” He asks, throaty and low, definitely not playing around anymore. He leans over until his arm is braced on the other side of the couch, bracketing himself right in front of Mickey.
He raises an eyebrow when Mickey doesn’t respond right away. “Huh? Asked you a question.”
Mickey’s hips roll a little, probably of their own accord, and he groans at the lack of pressure anywhere near where he desperately wants it. Still, his arms stay slack at his sides. He knows the rules by now, as unspoken as they are; and they both know how much he loves it when Ian gets like this. “Fuck, yeah.” He admits, and doesn’t sound the least bit ashamed of it. “Ian.”
And goddamn does hearing Mickey say his name like that do things to him.
“Good,” he breathes, staying calm despite the whirlwind picking up speed in his gut and groin. “That’s good.”
One day he’s going to say good boy. He’s going to praise Mickey openly and fully, because fuck does the other boy get off on it. Even now, those simple words are affecting him. He grips the couch cushions so tight his knuckles turn white, and he bites back something that might have been a whine or a groan, but Ian can tell just by watching him that it would have definitely come out sounding needy as fuck.
One day he’s going to get Mickey to do that, too – stop hiding how badly he needs this.
He uses one hand to grip the side of Mickey’s neck, forcing the other boy’s gaze to meet his. He wants to kiss Mickey so badly then, and he doesn’t try to hide it. Mickey’s eyes go soft, and he starts to lean forward, almost like he forgets for a second, that he doesn’t let them do stuff like that.
When he remembers he pulls back. Not away from Ian bodily, just so their faces aren’t as close anymore. Ian swallows around his disappointment, and Mickey scrunches his nose. “Ya gonna just sit there and stare at me or are you gonna fucking do something?” He snaps, trying and failing to hide his own cascading emotions. “We don’t got all day, Gallagher.”
Ian tightens his grip on Mickey’s neck, forcing the older boy to bend backwards slightly. Ian presses a tender kiss against Mickey’s Adam’s apple, and pushes his thumb sharply into the curve of his jaw when he makes a noise like he wants to protest. “Actually, we do.”
Mickey won’t meet his eyes again, but Ian feels his whole body start to tremble. It makes Ian’s cock pulse even harder, and after that he can’t stop himself. He lets go of Mickey’s face and moves to settle himself between the other boy’s splayed legs.
Mickey gasps and then groans, as soon as Ian’s mouth wraps around his dick. “Goddamn.” He hisses around the pressure, fingers twitching where they’re still gripping at the couch. “If I knew Van Damme got you all hot and bothered like this I’d’a sprung for a DVD - fuck, right there - long time ago.”
Ian would have smiled if not for the dick in his mouth.
He goes at Mickey like that for a while longer, employing every trick and skill he’s acquired to get the other boy as close to the edge as possible. When he feels Mickey’s balls start to draw up, he pulls back, licking obscenely at the slit of his dick before removing himself from it entirely.
He expects Mickey to curse at him, but all he sees when he looks up is blatant desperation. “Ian,” Mickey’s voice sounds choked and frantic.
It’s not a small thing, that Mickey’s letting him see this, and Ian discards his plans to tease the other boy entirely. “What do you want?” He asks softly, loosely fisting Mickey’s cock in his hand – not enough to get him off, but maintaining the warmth to help keep him grounded. “Wanna come in my mouth or with my dick in your ass?”
It’s an honest question, and he lets Mickey see that in his eyes, that his genuine interest right now is doing whatever Mickey wants. He looks almost distraught for a few moments, though, and Ian realizes that maybe he’d miscalculated. Maybe what Mickey had wanted most was to be told what to do, not asked.
But now that the question is out there, Ian knows he can’t take it back. That wouldn’t be fair, at best, and at worst Mickey would read it like Ian coddling him, and nothing good ever comes of that. Eventually, Mickey catches his breath and gathers his bearings enough to gasp, “Both.” He looks away almost immediately, leaning his head back until his eyes are on the ceiling, but Ian gets it.
Ian knows exactly what he wants.
He doesn’t say anything, just hums and reaches for the lube that they’d, thank fucking god, had the presence of mind to bring out earlier. He slicks up two fingers and goes back to sucking Mickey’s cock with renewed determination.
Mickey arches into the pressure of Ian’s fingers at his hole. By his own calculation, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since the last time they’d done this, and while in theory that’s actually plenty of time for Mickey to tighten up, Ian swears he still feels loose.
He slackens his throat until Mickey’s cock hits the back of it at the same time he crooks his fingers up and nudges against the older boy’s sweet spot. Mickey cries out at the stimulation.
Ian pulls off him again, just long enough to whisper, “You can put your hands on my head if you want,” before going back to his task with renewed vigor.
Mickey doesn’t waste a second as soon as Ian says he can, curling his fingers around Ian’s skull, trying desperately to pull at hair that is, in reality, too short to get a decent grip on. Ian decides that maybe he should give up on the crop-cut for a while, go back to the longer locks he’d been sporting when he and Mickey had first started hooking up. Mickey had always seemed rather appreciative of having something to hold onto in moments like these.
Sometimes, when he gets like this, Mickey won’t do certain things until Ian tells him that he can. He knows it’s all tied together – the waiting for permission, being told he’s good, not wanting to choose what he wants. Ian knows all of these things are pieces of the same bigger picture, but he doesn’t let himself think about what that picture looks like, what it means, because he knows that as soon as he does he’ll never be able to stop. And Mickey’s not ready for that yet.
What he is ready for, what he needs, is for Ian to make him come. And once his hands are in Ian’s hair and his hips are rolling in tune with Ian’s mouth and fingers, it doesn’t take long at all for him to get there.
“Fuck,” he groans, as Ian uses his free hand to fondle his balls while simultaneously applying steady pressure to his prostate and sucking hard at his leaking dick. “Fucking Christ, Ian. Ian.”
And then he’s coming, hot and hard, right down Ian’s throat.
The redhead swallows everything he’s given with ease, and only pulls back when Mickey starts pawing at his shoulder, trying to shove him away from his oversensitive cock.
Hearing Mickey shout his name like that does something to him. Mickey in general does so many things to him that it’s hard to keep track most of the time, but this. This is easy.
“Flip over.” He demands, barely allowing the older boy a moment of reprieve before undoing his pants in a desperate need to get his own dick free. This, after all, is exactly what Mickey had asked him for.
Mickey’s eyes are still clouded with lust, and if it were possible for him to get hard again this fast, Ian’s sure that he would.
His movements are stilted and slow, still shaky after his orgasm, but Ian doesn’t allow him time to find his footing. He flips Mickey himself, smirking knowingly when the force of the movement makes the other boy groan loud and long. “Fuck, Gallagher, you trying to kill me?” The snarky words are belittled by the pure need in his tone.
“Nope,” Ian’s impressed with how steady he manages to keep his own voice, “just fuck you.” He kicks Mickey’s legs open a little wider, and Mickey goes with it, bending his body forward until his arms are crossed on the back of the couch and he’s got his head resting on them. His spine is bowed upwards, pushing his ass out like an offering.
Someday, he’s going to rim Mickey. Rimming is absolutely, one hundred percent on his list.
For now, he just slicks his cock with lube and lines up with Mickey’s hole. He almost asks the other boy if he needs more prep – another finger, more stretching – but he remembers the pleading, almost panicked looked from earlier. Sometimes Mickey really doesn’t like making decisions, and while Ian’s always been a little nervous about that, about what taking control entirely will do to Mickey once the high of sex endorphins wears off, he’s feeling bold today.
He pushes into his partner without any farther ado, and nearly loses all his control when Mickey’s ass tightens around him. The older boy gasps so loud it’s almost a shout, and is clawing at the back of the couch by the time Ian’s fully sheathed inside of him. His movements are desperate, feel almost pained, and Ian really can’t help it when he croaks, “You okay?” Because he has to know. Even if Mickey doesn’t want him to ask, likes it better when Ian just takes, he refuses to hurt. And this is a lot. Getting fucked so fast right after an orgasm, it’s so much.
“Yeah,” Mickey’s voice is shaky, and not nearly as annoyed as Ian had expected. He sounds gone. So fucking gone. “Fuck, yeah. Please. Shit. C’mon.”
It’s more than enough for Ian, who trusts Mickey to tell him if it is too much, and knows at the same time that nothing he does probably ever will be. Mickey can take a lot. Wants even more than that. It’s so hot Ian can barely breathe around the force of it sometimes.
“Fuck, Mick,” he’s the one gasping now, because no matter how many times he fucks Mickey, it never stops feeling like the earth is shattering around them. “Fuck, you feel so good. Take it so fucking good. Think I can fuck you until you’re hard again?” He pulls out a little, and then slams back in roughly.
Mickey cries out, too gone in the sensation to respond at all.
“Yeah, fuck,” he breathes, maybe answering his own question, maybe just needing to verbalize his pleasure. Either way, he can’t stop. “I’m gonna come in you.” He starts a steady, brutal pace; pulling almost all the way out every time, and then thrusting back to the hilt so hard that the couch moves with the force of it. “Gonna shoot my load in your ass and watch it drip out again.” He pants; both of them are slick with sweat, their skin nearly steaming from the heat. “Wish I had something to shove up there, keep it all inside you as long as I want.”
Mickey huffs at that, not quite a laugh, and Ian can sense his affection for the dirty talk. They don’t discuss the gritty details of their sex life outside of the moments in which they’re actually having sex, but Ian knows Mickey likes it when he gets like this: dominating, possessive, controlling. It mixes up with everything else Ian knows about Mickey and the way he likes to get fucked, the things he wants but can’t ask for.
After a while, Mickey regains his bearings enough to start pushing back against Ian, meeting him thrust for thrust and tilting his hips almost needily. Ian takes the hint. He aims for Mickey’s prostate – which he’d been avoiding at first, knowing he’d be too sensitive for the direct stimulation – and reaching around them to palm at Mickey’s dick. He’s hard again, under Ian’s hand, and the redhead wonders if he’d lost track of how long they’ve been at it, or if Mickey really is just that much of a slut for him.
Either way, it makes Ian’s thrusts falter with a sudden need to claim the boy under him.
“Shit, I’m gonna come,” he grunts, not long after that.
Mickey whines, the neediest sound Ian’s ever heard him make, as his own hand flies suddenly to where Ian’s is, still around his cock, and wraps his fingers around the ones already there, encouraging him, pleading with him, to grip harder, move faster. Ian complies because he wants Mickey to feel good. He always wants Mickey to feel good, but in moments like this it becomes more important than anything else, even his own pleasure; a need akin to breathing. And listening to the way Mickey sighs in relief, watching as his body gives in to the motion of Ian’s entirely, is like coming up for air after a lifetime under water.
They both come within the next minute. Ian shouts his release at the ceiling, his whole body extending outwards as he shoots hard in Mickey’s ass.
Since this is his second in such a short time span, Mickey’s orgasm is less impressive, but his reaction to it still makes Ian’s heart flutter. Making Mickey feel good like this wrecks him, absolutely fucking destroys him in the best way possible.
Someday he’ll tell Mickey that.
Someday he’ll do a lot of things.
Ian can’t wait for someday.
***
Ian helps Mickey flip back around while they’re both still panting wildly. Somehow, in the mess of heavy limbs and fucked out exhaustion, they wind up with Ian pressed into one corner of the couch, slouched against the back, and Mickey sprawled out horizontally with his head in Ian’s lap.
It’s probably the most intimate position they’ve ever been in, including all the numerous times their bodies parts have been inside of each other, and the implications of that are making Ian downright giddy.
He wants to comment on it, but is terrified that doing so will make Mickey bolt. So, instead, he just reaches for a pack of cigarettes he sees sitting on the table next to the couch, and lights one, the way they always do right after sex. He takes two drags and then passes it to Mickey, who has no trouble smoking without sitting up.
Ian starts carding one of his hands through Mickey’s hair, and while the other boy pauses briefly at the sensation, Ian just keeps doing it. He reaches for the cigarette without stopping his motions, and eventually Mickey must decide it’s not worth it to put up a fuss, because he doesn’t say a word.
They stay like that, content and almost cuddling, until they’re ready for round two.
***
Three hours and two fucks later, Ian reluctantly sits up straight. “I should probably get home.” He says, running a hand over his head, which is still a little damp from sweat.
“What’s the rush?” Mickey asks lazily from the other side of the couch, playfully poking Ian’s thigh with his foot.
Who would of thought that all it takes to get Mickey Milkovich in a good, almost sweet, mood is a marathon fuck session?
Actually, in retrospect, Ian probably should have figured that out years ago.
He shakes his head a little bit and grins at the older boy. “I promised Fiona I’d help her try to find the body buried in our backyard.”
Mickey’s eyebrows rise at that, clearly intrigued. Ian just shrugs and looks around the room, trying to deduce where his shirt might have wound up.
“Fuck, man, I can’t even tell if you’re screwing with me or not.”
Ian smiles. “Gotta keep some of the mystery alive, right?” He knows Mandy will probably tell him, later, all about Aunt Ginger and the latest debacle at the Gallagher house. Until then, teasing Mickey is fun.
“You’re a dick.” Mickey tells him flatly, but then he stands up and starts doing a sweep of the living room, one by one piling all of Ian’s previously discarded items of clothing in his lap. It takes a lot longer than it should. “How’d your sock wind up in the fucking kitchen?” Mickey muses at one point, not really expecting an answer.
Ian’s fully dressed from the waist down, and is just pulling on his shirt when suddenly Mickey’s hands are there, tugging at the hem like he’s trying to help.
He hadn’t been expecting that – Mickey’s always been more of a get dressed and get the fuck out type – but then again, nothing about today has been ordinary. Ian can’t help it when the uncharacteristic display makes him smile; and he knows he looks dopey, probably all wide-eyed and in love, but Mickey doesn’t recoil from it. Quite the opposite, actually. He gets this look about him, kind of like the one he’d had when they’d first gotten here today – wanting and afraid.
Ian doesn’t press him, just keeps smiling and waiting, willing Mickey to make the next move.
The older boy eventually takes a breath – shallow and stuttering – and reaches his hand up to grip the side of Ian’s neck.
The redhead swears he stops breathing for a second, so sure that Mickey’s about to kiss him. The moment seems suspended forever, neither of them moving save Ian leaning slightly into Mickey’s unexpected touch. Eventually, though, time gets through to them, and Mickey pulls his hand away.
Ian’s disappointed for a second, but then Mickey doesn’t actually take a step back. Instead, he raises both his hands and rubs them over Ian’s head, a move that would have ruffled his hair if he’d had any there to play with, and the redhead huffs a fond laugh at the tenderness of the gesture.
“You look like you just spent the past two hours fucking.” Mickey tells him, affection only mildly guarded.
“We spent four hours fucking,” Ian reminds him, giddy and almost high at being allowed to see this side of Mickey.
“Mhm,” he agrees simply. “It could be worse.”
Ian laughs out loud, and Mickey’s eyes downright fucking sparkle.
“Does he get that look in his eye when he’s with you?” Mandy’s knowing question echoes in his memory.
Oh, he thinks dumbly, watching Mickey watch him. That look.
He swallows thickly, overwhelmed all of a sudden. And maybe Mickey sees it, or senses it – the turn their relationship is about to take – because he steps back then, pressing lightly at Ian’s shoulders. “Get outta here,” Mickey says firmly, though not unkindly. “Go unbury a body, or whatever you and your fucked-up family do for fun.”
Ian smiles, not as bright as a moment ago, but still real. He reminds himself that he can’t expect too much too soon, not from a closeted Southside guy who had grown up in the Milkovich house. But, Ian doesn’t mind, not really. Mickey is worth waiting for.
He finishes getting dressed and is in the process of leaving, half a step outside the front door, when a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. He turns to see Mickey standing there with a completely unreadable expression on his face.
Ian doesn’t even get a chance to open his mouth to ask what’s up before the older boy is surging forward and pressing their lips together.
It’s chaste, and doesn’t last more than a heartbeat, but it leaves Ian stunned stupid all the same.
Mickey doesn’t say anything, just steps back with blasé expression, raises his middle finger matter-of-factly, and then closes the door in Ian’s face.
The expression falling in love is a straight up lie, Ian decides then and there, standing dumbstruck on the Milkovich porch, still able to feel the faint press of Mickey’s lips on his.
Falling in love implies a single action, something that happens once and is then done. You can’t, after all, ever fall without hitting some kind of bottom eventually. But Ian loves Mickey already, and that doesn’t seem to stop him from continuing to fall.
***
***
Mickey’s not a complete idiot, no matter what his former teachers and current PO might think. He knows he cares about Ian fucking Gallagher. He doesn’t know when it had started, exactly, just that at some point the thought of not being around the obnoxious redheaded giant became harder and harder – and he’s not just talking about his dick, though that’s certainly a factor.
At first, he really had thought it was just the fucking. Of all the closeted Southside shitheads he’s banged over the years – and really, it hasn’t been that many; he’s gotten laid more in juvie than he ever has in town – Ian was the first one worth a damn at nailing him. Hell, he’s man enough to admit that Gallagher has more than a lot going for him in that department, and Mickey can’t really blame himself for going back to him more than once.
Ian’s not afraid of him; Mickey thinks that’s probably the key factor in all of it. Before, when he let other guys fuck him, there was always an element of fear. Hell, most of the time, the faggot ass bitches didn’t even want to top him; Mickey had to tell them, outright, to get on him, and something about spelling it out like that lessened the pleasure considerably.
With Ian, from day one, it hadn’t even been a question. Those first few months, before that pussy-whipped towelhead had shot him and he’d gone to juvie for the first time, Ian had even been smaller than them – not his dick, that’s always been obnoxiously (beautifully) large – but in height and muscle mass, Mickey had trounced him. Or at least they’d been pretty close to the same size. But even back then, Ian hadn’t hesitated in turning him over and pounding the ever-living shit out of him. No fear whatsoever. Mickey had come embarrassingly fast that first time. Then, so had Ian.
Kash probably hadn’t been a good lay. Ian won’t tell him for sure, even now, but Mickey’s pretty damn sure the bastard had been the roll-over-and-take-it-and-then-probably-cry type. Ian had been in dire need of something a little more fun, and little more dangerous. Mickey had fit that bill in spades.
He still remembers seeing Mandy outside the gates that first time he’d gotten out of juvie and wondering, briefly, who the fuck she’d brought with her. Because he hadn’t recognized Ian post-growth spurt at first. Once he had, he’d known that any thought he’d had of not fucking the other boy again was out the window in a big way.
Mickey’s never allowed himself much time to think about what his type is, in terms of sexual partner preferences. He barely thinks about being gay at all, in fact. But, if he had to piece something together, some physical body type that he’d choose if given a chance, the vague image he always formed in his head was tall, broad, and bigger than him. All of a sudden, and out of fucking nowhere, Ian Gallagher had fit that bill to a mother fucking tee.
Maybe it was that first fuck in the baseball dugout that had done him in. Ian had grown up, more than just physically, and Mickey had started wanting.
That seems to be where he’s stuck, now: wanting Ian. Wanting Ian enough that he’d kissed the fucker yesterday, actually fucking kissed him, just because that shithead rich asshole had done it first. Mickey doesn’t like it when people take what’s his, and that’s exactly what that prick was trying to do. So, Mickey had given the redhead what he’d wanted. He can’t help hoping that it’s enough to make him stick around, for at least a while longer.
He doesn’t know when he’d started caring about Ian fucking Gallagher, but he’s well and truly fucked by the time he figures it out.
Maybe he is a dumb as everyone thinks he is, after all. Because Ian’s been looking at him knowingly almost since day one, but Mickey hadn’t seen this coming at all.
___________________________________________________
Next Time:
“Oh,” Lip adds, halfway out the door, turning around so his back’s pressed into it, “and you should take your bodyguard with you,” he nods towards Mickey, who makes a pissed-off face in Lip’s direction at the comment but actually doesn’t mind the title too much, especially given the current circumstances.
___________________________________________________